Hey…it’s been a long time…been recording, poppin my face once on TV (just once for now o…and I dashed outta office 2 do that..fortunately d Street wasn’t watching..lol)

I have also been recording, trying to get some stuff off my chest and going back to deal with perceived imperfections in the recording..

I just thought good to break the silence by letting you all into another world of mine..

here’s an excerpt from the Novel I’m working on…the 4th, should be, but the first that I sincerely hope to finish…

so let me have your reviews if it’s a “Rush it” or “Flush it” scenario..then on my part, I just might let you in on a good part of it in installments…

did someone say deal?..lol..read on pls

My name is Colonel Laurent Hadjo; Retired. I am sixteen years old.

A good part of my existence has been eventful, but I must admit my early childhood is shrouded in mystery, some myths, and outright distortion of truth.

I was born in a village North of Nigeria.

I still recall with vague memories when we were just children without a care in the world, the worst prank we ever pulled being climbing a grumpy old farmer’s mango tree.

I still smile each time I recall the expression on the man’s face.

That was long ago, or was it? I have seen so much in the past eight years that my mind has transmogrified into that of a wizened old man.

All because of an incident. I still recall heavy footfalls one Friday night. A group of soldiers came to our village requesting to speak to the men alone.

We suspected nothing. Not even the fact that they were fully armed aroused any sense of foreboding on our part.

Then we heard gunshots, and more gunshots, and then mother was screaming.

Women collapsed and self-revived because there was no adult male spared of the soldiers’ bullets.

We were later informed the soldiers were ‘retaliating’ the killing of some of their men by the men in our village.

The details may never be known, at least not on this side of the planet, all that confronted us was the reality that every child became fatherless that night.

The only survivor was Rabiu, the village invalid. I learnt he died barely a month after.

All our mothers became widows that night. That part of my childhood, I will never forget in a hurry.

I remember the months dragging by, and then children started disappearing from the village; some in twos, some in groups.

No one explained. All we knew was that a stranger kept coming to visit our village.

Soon we observed that that for any house he visited by day, a kid or two disappeared that night.

I remember my friends disappearing. Then one fateful day, the stranger visited our house…

To be continued.. Copyright Jeffrey Jaiyeola Plumbline

Categories: WORDUP.

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