Gun White Gun Issue #2

The Aso residence was swarming with news reporters and aggrieved family members of the deceased speaker, it was said that the forensic teams could not find the bullet but it was definitely a single shot to the cranium that ended Hon. Imeji; a professional one at that.

Assari switched off the TV and packed his school bag. Among its contents were a pack of Gold Bond rizzlas, a little of bag hemp, some textbooks, his laptop and most importantly the Eraser Anti-magnum Assault pistol or EAMP: his favorite weapon of choice. The black gun had a blood red handle and three power gauges located beneath the safety lock. He didn’t go anywhere without his bag which wasn’t surprising seeing as it contained his favorite things.
He climbed down the stairs of the apartment building he lived in and crossed over to the other side of the road to await a cab.
“Atkinson University” he said as the green cab with two white horizontal stripes grinded to a halt in front of him. In a matter of minutes he was at the school gate, he got out of the cab and paid the fare of N200 naira.
He strolled in casually, noting its cleanliness as was expected at the start of a new semester, and the incoming students were too easily identified as though the word “freshman” was written their innocently ignorant faces. He noticed a few of the older students, some had enrolled the same time as he did and were acting as tour guides. The girls were most likely looking for a new glamorous and rich addition to their crew, the boy guides were looking for the next naïve girl to screw.
“Asssssarriii!!!!!!!! My love” screamed the dark haired girl. It was so clear that it was a weave, Brazilian weave as they called it.
“I’ve missed you hun, how was your break?” she said with a coy smile as she reached out with arms outstretched to hug and kiss him.
“Your breasts have gotten bigger, that’s a good thing”
“You perv! Assari, you will never change, still love you though”
He pushed her away from him and switched directions towards the shady grove of trees located near the back of the hostel dorms, he would talk to Chidinma or chi-chi as she was fondly known later. He had the whole of this year to do so, but for now he just didn’t have her time.
The smoke curled up towards the sky from the joint on his lips as he sat under his favorite tree. It was his choice spot for music meditation or musicotherapy as he liked to call it. He played his favorite songs in peace, no disturbance. The song Mary Jean by Boy CuDDer ended as he finished his joint and got up to go to class.
Assari was a tall kid, 6 ft in height with narrow, fierce brown eyes that gave the impression of staring into the eyes of a tiger. He had a slender yet athletic and masculine build. His skin had a natural tan as a result of the sun’s rays continuously dyeing it a darker shade from its previously fair color. His wardrobe was bizarrely simple with a lot of blue and black.
One look at this laid-back gentleman puts you in mind of a crazed lunatic. If the thin twin streaks of blue running horizontally across the side of his hair didn’t give him away, then his fluctuating moods surely did. One moment he was moody and anti social, the next moment he was friendly and inspirational, it was as though his emotions had an on and off switch; he was unpredictable and that was what kept people on their toes when they were around him.
It was the latter part of his sophomore year in college and he had turned nineteen two months ago.

On My Moon

On my moon it is zero gravity always.
On my moon, it is dark with the just the light of the moon and the countless stars, each representing a unique idea, a unique thought a unique possibility.
You see the stars and you hear the music, it’s your invisible pair of wings as you soar through the melodious space.
Here on my moon, it’s just you and the music, no one to invade and you don’t give a fuck about anyone’s existence. The stars have varying degrees of luminosity, signifying their uniqueness.
You are the coolest and you are the creative spark, nobody’s shitty thoughts are heard, all you hear are yours and they are beautiful. You know this as you move effortlessly through the space and to the music.
The moon is your biggest inspiration, mankind steps on everything, not on my moon, theres no American or Russian flag here, it’s your flag, and your flag is dope, you don’t give a fuck. You only let who you want in on your moon
Come join me let’s listen to the music, lets soar weightless, no holds barred, let’s explore our mind’s wizardry on my moon.

Gun White Gun

Chapter 1

“Do not shoot until the Honorable speaker walks into the kitchen, Remember we want this as professional as possible, no shoddy jobs this time” barked Maleke.

This stern looking man had round, aged eyes that had seen everything. His rough, uncombed, jet black hair reminded you of bad roads that had plagued the country since its inception. There were patches of hair; some here, some there not like he cared. He had a hulkish build with skin that was the color of the **Agbalumo** seed. His wide forehead and nearly-nonexistent eyebrows evoked a sense of fear at anyone not already used to such facial features. His black singlet illuminated each of the greenish veins threatening to burst out of his rippling arm and chest muscles.

Assari watched with boredom as the big headed ant crawled slowly along the barrel of his Razor Edge Annihilator Sniper Rifle. Just yesterday, he had returned from Isakaba with the gun only to have it stained by the muddy floor upon which they lay in wait. All he wanted to do was go to school tomorrow and resume his monotonous life that gave him a sense of normalcy.

“What is so Honorable about that walking pile of shit and dirty money?”
“Look at him, all he knows how to do is eat, eat food, eat money that’s’ not his.”
“Enjoy your last supper” he said dryly with a smirk on his face as he moved the gauge located near the butt of the gun from 0 to level 1 also known as the cold shot.
Speaker Kolawole Imeji moved to the table to pick the green note with a black stripe in the middle. On the other side, it read boldly, “UPSILON HAS BEEN WATCHING, YOU HAVE BEEN JUDGED” those were the last words he saw as he faintly heard the sound of shattered glass, his blood trickling down his face in lines of 3 as his vision faded into blackness rapidly.
It was the 8th of June 2094, and all of the major TV stations in Nigeria were buzzing with the news of the speaker’s death the previous night …. (to be continued if reviews are favorable or a major publishing deal comes through :) )

Drug of Choice

A good woman can beat your favorite drug of choice. As I lay there facing withdrawal symptoms of the highest order, I kept lying to myself that I could keep up; that I could ignore both ladies and still remain functional.
Amber and I parted ways almost a year ago, about the same time Mary-Jean and I did the same. I was maintaining a weird relationship with the two in the sense that I used one to get my mind off the other. When Amber was fronting for me, I went to the ever accessible, ever welcoming Mary Jean.
Mary-Jean always had time for me and took me places id never had access to within my subconscious, she was dangerous, deadly to me, but an ever constant companion whenever I needed her the most. She’d make me forget all about Amber and for the short while it lasted I always felt good. But like all good things which must finally come to an end, our sessions together were always short, our burning passion was always interrupted by time and may be the wind, and when she‘d leave, she’d tuck me in bed before she went.
Amber helped me repress my carnal urges, it was unlike what I had with Mary-Jean, soft, yielding, accepting movements ensued between us and sparks went off wildly in my brain. She was my tangible drug; one I could see feel, touch and hold. She however was not available on demand. I had to resort to all sorts of trickery and devilry to lure her to me and the reward was usually worth the hassle.
A year later and I’ve parted ways with both women, both with bountiful substitutes around me but nothing beats the real thing. I could get to Mary Jean but I had grown tired of her wear-and-tear-then- disappear-after-a-good-time tactics. The result was a gradual degradation of my mind.
But through it all I persevere, whoever said rehabilitation was easy? What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger in a way I believe. I shall emerge from the dust of battle as a victor wrapped in a god-like aura, a sentient being that reproduces through mitosis only and is immune to emotional bullshit. Cheers :)

The Darkness of Madness

The madness, it’s all encompassing, the only field of vision is what stands before your mind’s eye, the third eye. Vague meaningless images and words move past in a flurry and when it’s not them then it’s the pure unfiltered darkness.
Out of this darkness come the voices. These voices I like to call the spirits or my spirit friends. They guide me through the dark forest of shadows, whispering, giggling, calming me down, telling me that the other side of sanity is not that different from here, “it’s all cosmetic” they say.
Occasionally there’s a moon in what I can only assume is a black sky. I stare up at it as I’m being whisked away by hands I do not see. In their grasp, I am hypnotized, all I see is varying shades of black, I ask what exactly we are doing here and all they do is laugh so I join in the laughter and we laugh out hearts out. At least I do.
I hear music in the distance, my favorite genres of music. There is also bickering coupled with laughter and I strain my eye, the mind’s eye to see through this darkness, all to no avail.
My friends are not corporeal but they are identifiable by their unique voices and I’m not afraid, they give me no reason to be when all we do is laugh at each other pointlessly and when were done laughing they just abandon me like that to the light. The light at the end of my tunnel vision, the light of my laptop upon which I see that it has been 3 hrs since I lay on this bed looking at the dark ceiling.