2025-06-14 00:32:46
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The Man in the SUV
The early morning sun painted the sky with strokes of pink and orange, stretching across the sleepy village like a soft veil. Birds chirped lazily on the trees lining the narrow, dusty road that wound through the heart of the village. Life was just beginning to stir.Mama Ogechi had barely finished setting up her wooden stall when the sound of tires crunching against gravel pierced the calm. Heads turned. The village had heard the rare motorcycle engine or delivery truck, but this was different. A low, purring hum echoed like something out of a television drama. Within seconds, a sleek black SUV emerged from the bend, its windows tinted, its body shimmering like polished obsidian.Children who had been kicking a worn-out football stopped mid-game. Traders paused their chatter. Even Papa Ebuka, known for his deafness, looked up from where he was tending to his stubborn goat.The SUV came to a gentle stop right in front of Mama Ogechi’s shop. No music blared. No dust cloud billowed dram
The Ink Of Memory
The morning was unusually quiet. A soft breeze rustled through the trees outside Mark’s window as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his arm. The dragon tattoo curled around his bicep, its ink still as dark and vivid as the day he’d gotten it. For weeks, he had avoided looking at it, choosing instead to wear long sleeves or bandages. But today, something made him roll up his sleeve and face it.He traced the outline slowly with his fingers. The dragon’s wings were spread wide, its eyes fierce and determined. It was more than just a design—it was a memory. A link to who he used to be. And as he stared at it, the dam he had kept tightly sealed began to crack open.His mind drifted backward, past the years of betrayal and prison, to a time when he was just a boy.—He was nine. Sitting on a worn-out mat in the small living room of his uncle’s house. The air smelled of pepper soup and dust. His uncle, a lean, sharp-eyed man, sat across from him, sharpening a knife slowly.“Come her
New Tools, New Fire
The sun rose softly over the hills, casting golden light through the mist that draped the village like a fragile curtain. Mark sat on the bamboo bench behind Ikenna’s house, his hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm pap. The events of the past few days still echoed in his head—saving the child, the startled gasps from villagers who once whispered behind his back, and the quiet nods of respect he had begun to receive. It felt foreign. It felt dangerous. It felt like the start of something he hadn't dared hope for in a long time.The villagers, in their own quiet way, had begun showing appreciation. Some left a few plantains at his doorstep. One elderly woman dropped a small pouch filled with coins and said, "For the hand that saves, may you be preserved."With a careful count of his savings, including the few gifts he’d received, Mark realized he had just enough. Enough to buy a second-hand laptop. Not for entertainment. Not for emails. For something more serious. Something rooted in
The Turning Point
It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind of day when the sun lazed gently over the red dust of Amachara and the village buzzed softly with weekend life. A light breeze played through the mango trees, rustling dry leaves and making old roofs groan.Mark sat beneath the shed outside Mama Ogechi's compound, slicing open yams for drying. The knife moved slowly in his hand, steady and practiced. He kept his head down, still mindful of the way people stared or whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening. It had been weeks since he'd arrived, and though he kept out of trouble, the villagers still hadn’t made peace with his presence.They called him "the man from nowhere." Some believed he was a spy. Others said he was hiding from the law. A few even whispered that he carried a curse.He had learned to live with the distance, to keep to himself. But even solitude had a price. The quiet, the silence, the eyes—they pressed on his back like weight.So when the sound of shouting cut through the pe
The Whispering Eyes
The dream lingered long after he woke.Mark sat on the edge of his creaky bed, sweat clinging to his bare chest despite the coolness of the morning. The echoes of the courtroom still rang in his ears—Richard's smug laughter, the judge's gavel slamming down, and the cold betrayal in the eyes of the lawyer he'd trusted. He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to scrape away the bitterness of the nightmare. But the weight of it stayed, clinging like wet clothes to his skin.He splashed water on his face from the blue plastic bowl near the door and stepped outside. The sun hadn't fully risen, but Amachara village was already stirring to life. Women were sweeping their compounds. Roosters crowed lazily. But as Mark walked toward the narrow footpath that led to Ikenna's mechanic shed, he noticed it.The change.The way the old woman who sold akara at the corner paused her sweeping when she saw him. The way her eyes followed him, wary and uncertain, as if expecting him to sprout horns.Two boys chas
The Trial That Never Was
The wind outside howled through the thin cracks in the window. It was one of those eerie nights in Amachara when the moon vanished behind thick clouds, and the crickets kept unusually silent. Mark had spent the day pushing a wheelbarrow full of cement under the blazing sun, his body aching from the work, his hands raw. When he finally lay on the thin mattress in his cramped room, exhaustion pulled him under like a tide.Sleep came swiftly. Too swiftly.In the dream, it began like any other morning. He stepped out of Mama Ogechi’s compound with the usual nod to the neighbor who sold akara by the roadside. The sun shone differently that morning—a reddish hue stretched across the sky like bruised skin.He was on his way to Ikenna's workshop when he heard a sharp whistle. Then another. Before he could turn, hands grabbed him. Firm, cold hands. The uniforms came into view—police."Mark Obi, you are under arrest."The voice was loud, amplified by a megaphone. People turned to stare. The aka
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