Joke

Dating a short girl is cute.....until u take her to church Nd d ursher drag her to children section😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

Story: Two Realms ( Romance Thriller)-Season 1

Episode 5
The previous week’s purchase chart showed a huge declination of ten percent. Richard studied it, praying it was one of those mistakes associated with balancing purchases. It occurred to him it was no mistake the moment Jide entered his office wailing of how Cherlet Bans had come to change things. Two weeks of operation and they were already cutting down Erneto’s purchases. Ten percent was not a joke.
Richard tried placing everything on a plane sheet if there was anything that could give consolation. There was. Cherlet wouldn’t be able to continue with their fancy modus operandi of selling cement bags at almost same price as cost price. That surely wouldn’t last. Nonetheless, the issue would be properly addressed at the board meeting.
The door squeaked; this time, without a knock.
That seldom happened, didn’t happen. It opened and the white girl entered, topped with a bobble hat. Richard stopped being surprised not to have heard a knock.
“Always knock before entering an office,” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t. I forgot. Forgive me, I’m not that mannerless.” She closed the door, and walked away from it in that her loosed manner, and still Jide nearly smiled at her.
“I reached your office. Your sec told me you were at the CEO’s,” she told Jide when he asked the reason for her coming.
In such a situation, the right thing to do was to wait in the secretary’s office. That was one of its purposes. Bad thing Canada didn’t teach her that. Her dad had an office; she should behave as such. He watched her lips for her next set of gall words.
“I’m sorry for not knocking if that’s still making you pissed,” she said to Richard, not smiling.
Her effort in staidness was enough to grant her a seat. She sat on the chair beside Jide and rested hands on her laps. “My name came out in the list of admitted students. I thought of telling you.”
“You plan on schooling here?” Richard blurted.
“Yes. My dad now works here. I want to be with him.”
“And her mum is in Switzerland. She says she prefers Africa to that place.” Jide shook his head.
“It’s Newfield University. All its schools, whether in Africa or America, maintain good standards.” She pushed back the forelock that covered her eyes. It fell again and covered the eyes. She pushed a second time, and when it fell again, she gave up. The air conditioner’s hum then amplified as though angered by her decision to school in the country. Schooling in Canada was better and people that appreciated education went for better. She wasn’t one of those people.
Getting admitted wasn’t all she came to tell Jide. She needed him to tour her round the university. Jide budged and told her the right thing every girl in her shoes ought to do—go meet daddy. Her dad was there to tour her round any place she’d want. She should go ask him.
“My dad is busy twenty-four hours. His company is new.”
Silly excuse, thought Richard, the silliest a child could ever give. She continued with her silly excuses of how busy her dad was, how she had asked him and he refused, and she had no one else to run to but Jide.
“This is your country,” she told Jide. “I’m the foreigner. In Canada, we are nice to visitors.”
“Don’t try to trap me with that,” Jide said.
“My dad wants me to wait till he has less work on his hands. Only God knows when that happens.”
“I will try,” Jide said, and caused her to beam. “Next week. But no promises. I’m not promising anything.”
Her beam widened, showing a stretch of her organized teeth, even with the promise of “no promises,” and she began talking of the good things she had read online about Newfield.
#
Power went off and the fan gradually stopped spinning. Only then did Ivie realize how silent the room was.
Richard repositioned his chair to the window’s side and stole all of the air Ivie and he were supposed to share. He sagged his tie to chest level and unfastened the first button. He adjusted a bit away from the window. And still, blocked most of the air, but she could manage the little that grazed her until the generator’s power came. The air was of more good to him. The beads of sweat hung at his brow needed to dry up. She nudged to a position of fair air.
“Any improvements?” he asked.
That wasn’t hers to determine, but the doctor’s. “I don’t know.”
“You ought to be conscious of your improvement. Have you been picking items so far?” He said the exact words of the doctor, converting the room to the doctor’s rounded office. She was supposed to be free of those questions inside the room.
She hadn’t been picking items. There was barely anything in the hospital to pick.
“You’re feeling any urge now?”
“No.” The devil was yet asleep and it should please remain asleep.
“I talked with the therapist, and he envisaged much improvement. He assured by the time they’re done, you’d be recovered.”
No doctor would say there had been no improvements.
The fans began spinning with a deafening whir, blowing the edges of the cornrows that escaped her hairnet. She shifted from the fan, but her hair continued flying.
His mobile phone vibrated against his briefcase. Before a ring could come through, he answered the call and told the caller he was at the psychiatric hospital and would be somewhere soon.
“That was the man with me on my visit to your previous hospital,” he said.
The man’s facial appearance had faded from her head, but his height had not. He was much taller than Richard. “He’s a friend?”
“Yes. And a colleague at work.”
“I remember his height.”
Richard smirked. “He acquired that in his secondary school days. We were together until after secondary school. I furthered to a defence academy. Him, a university.”
“You served in the defence?” Not much army qualities lived in him, except his square shoulders that nearly burst through his blazers, and maybe the way he walked. The few times she had seen him walk, his steps were mainly sharp and brisk like every minute counted.
“Once a lieutenant. Now a full time businessman. I prefer business to shooting.” He simpered and looked at her as if expecting a laugh.
She managed smirking, as it would be rude to make no remark to an attempted joke.
Lieutenants were probably those who stayed in the office. He did not seem the type that would hold a gun and point it to the enemy. Neither did he seem like someone that had gone through the beatings people say their superiors gave them in training.
“Was it NDA?”
“Yes. It’s almost like the university, minus the exercise,” he said, “judging from what my friend told me about the university. Did you attend a University?”
“Yes.”
“What was your study?”
“Horticulture.”
He laced his fingers, same fingers that must have held and cracked a gun. “Does anyone know you’re here? Say your parents?”
Did he expect her to go bragging that she was on therapy for an evil disorder? “No one knows. My parents live up north.”
“You didn’t call to inform them you are in a hospital?”
Without using her mouth, she wished there were other ways to tell him to stop the questions. She could handle things on her own.
“I’m not a therapist, but I think one’s parents need to know their child is undergoing therapy. Would you want to be ignorant that your child is in a hospital receiving therapy?” He spoke as though she was a child who needed the warmth of her parents all day.
“I don’t have a child.”
“I don’t think any parent wants to be ignorant of his child’s health.”
He could be a priest or one of those church people who practiced celibacy. That would explain his help and philanthropic nature. Many stories have been told of soldiers who retired and joined priesthood. “You’re a priest?” she asked and caused him an unintended chuckle.
“What prompted you to think of me being a priest?”
“Your help, concern, and all. You don’t even know me. From my knowledge, only a priest does that. It’s not as though I’m not thankful. I am. I just wanted to ask questions.”
“No sin in asking. There’s no way I’d have left you on the road.” He paused. “If you hadn’t met me that day, no accident would have happened.”
“But it’s my fault.”
“No it isn’t. It’s the illness.”
“Did you know that before you helped, before you paid the hospital bills?” She fixed her gaze at him and prayed ungratefulness was not written in her words. The twitch of his nose gave the answer.
“I simply helped because it was right to do so.”
“What about my disorder? You have nothing to do with it. Why get involved?”
“I help people. It’s one of the things Christianity teaches us.”

Story: Two Realms ( Romance Thriller)-Season 1

Episode 4
The microphone did not pick properly. Richard strained ears to hear the words of the man on the podium, the CEO of Cherlet Bans. The man spoke on how the establishment of his quarry industry was a blessing to Nigeria and he would do anything to attain the zenith. The assembly listened as he spoke, offering him their smiling faces. Richard sipped some of his Vino Rosso and looked back to the man. He sipped a second when the man left the podium. Jide refilled his wineglass and began tapping his fingers on the table.
A young, white girl ambled towards them, blonde to the hair, walking as though the floor was the catwalk in those fashion shows Ezinne sometimes watched. The girl most likely was the daughter of the COO of Cherlet Bans, the only white man present. She stopped at their table and stretched her red lips into a smile, smelling of expensive perfume. Richard didn’t smile back.
“Hi.” She lengthened her smile, showing a set of well-arranged teeth. What would make a white teen stop at them? Jide gave her a polite smile.
“You’re the daughter of Mr Brett?” Richard asked. It would be bad manners to keep mute to a foreigner.
“Yes.”
She leaned on the table and pinned it with her hands, her blonde hair almost dropping down her face. No child leaned on the table of two adults. At least, no well-trained child.
“I believe you’re the Chief Operating Officer of Erneto,” she said to Jide with a bold American accent, slow and nasal, the r in every word showing forth itself, and announcing that she was from one of those North America countries. “We met earlier, remember? You met my dad and I at the onset of the ceremony.”
“Of course, I remember. White people aren’t that easy to forget”
“Obviously. Especially when you are the only white in the midst of blacks.” She did a faint chuckle and removed her hands from the table, straightening herself. “First, I apologize for intruding on you two. The crowd is too much. I might not see you any other time. I only came to ask a simple question.” She angled her head to Jide. “Are COOs in Nigeria’s quarry companies workaholics? I just thought you’d know that since you’re a COO.”
What concerned her and the operating officers being workaholics? Richard mused.
A long fold arched Jide’s forehead. “What makes you ask that?”
“My dad was too much a workaholic in Canada. I want to know what to expect here.”
“It depends on what you define as workaholism, and it’s something contingent on the individual.”
“Are you one?”
“I wouldn’t say I am.”
“What’s the name?” Richard asked in a bid to end her gall questions.
“Lauren Jones.”
“I’m Richa—”
“Richard, Jide-o-for. CEO and COO of Erneto Aives. You two were introduced.”
“It’s Jideofor,” Jide corrected. “Jide should be simpler.”
“Better. Jide.”
“You love openings?” Richard asked, as teens did not attend openings. Then say white teens.
“If openings had a haters list, I would rank in first. My dad insisted I come with him.”
“Hope you’re a bit entertained.”
She chuckled and folded her hands. Something resembling a bangle or a wristwatch clasped her left wrist. It was so tiny like a bangle, and yet, had the shine of an expensive wristwatch that had its watch hidden in the tucked side of her wrist. “You call this entertained? I’d lend you a dictionary to find another word.” Lifting the wine bottle from the table, she eyed its label. “Vino Rosso. Spanish. Can I have a taste?” Her hands were already held out for Jide’s wineglass, and that confirmed she wore a wristwatch, one with a very tiny watch Richard wondered how she read the time.
“You’re of age?” Richard held the glass and drew it away from her.
“Almost. A year remaining.”
“Then you shouldn’t.”
“I only want to try a taste.”
“You’re underage.”
She rolled eyes to Jide as though asking him to intervene, and then returned them to Richard on Jide’s uncooperativeness. “I’m sorry. I never knew people here still waited till eighteen.” She set down the bottle with faded smiles. Her faded smile was better than the former.
Richard turned his head to the white man sitting at an edge of the rotunda. He had many resemblances with his daughter: same blonde hair, small curved nose, and tiny lips for their ages.
Slow music started. Couples rose and began dancing. They moved slowly with the music. Richard’s feet itched. He would have doubled his efforts in persuading Ezinne to come to the opening.
“You two didn’t bring dates?” Lauren asked with a tilted head.
“We came alone,” Jide said.
She stretched her hands to them. “Can I steal one of you for a dance? If that’s the only entertainment I get. I mean, look, everyone here is old enough for me to call dad. I don’t want to just sit alone and watch the daddies and mommies dance.”
Richard gave a look at her dad. He wasn’t dancing, only talking with another suited colleague. Why couldn’t she go dance with him instead of wanting to pick from men she just met and knew nothing about? Canada needed to give her teens some education.
“Would you receive my hand?” she asked Jide.
Jide did a weak chuckle. “If that will keep you entertained.” He stood and held her hand.
“I’ve never danced with a black man.”
“Me, white.”
“So we’re even.”
Richard sipped and watched them follow the music’s pace. A dancing Jide had always been worth admiring, from the onset of secondary school. The girl did okay except dancing with Jide didn’t fit her. A school boy less tall would have fitted. Her head settled below Jide’s chest, her multi-coloured necklace shimmering under the chandelier light.
Soon they began talking. The music changed and laughs joined their talks.
“Ezinne, which tie fits?” Richard asked, holding two ties. A ruby and a green.
“The green,” Ezinne said from her corner of the bed, where she was seated, pressing the toothpaste’s tube against her toothbrush so that the paste slid out onto the bristles.
He hung the ruby in his wardrobe, took the green over his neck and began knotting.
“Why the hurry? It’s six,” Ezinne said and looked up to the wall clock which read some minutes after six.
“I have three tasks. I’ll start by going to the filling station to refill, a hospital, and then the office. Thirty minutes back would have been the right time to leave.”
“That girl hasn’t been discharged?” Ezinne asked, her tone rising. She dropped her toothbrush on the bedstead.
“She’s recovered from the accident. It happened that she is suffering from kleptomania. I admitted her into a psychiatric hospital for psychotherapy.” He knotted his tie to a near perfect V and pushed the knot higher to achieve a perfect V.
Her cheeks slackened and she stayed quiet for a moment.
“Surprised she is a kleptomaniac? I was, too. I thought Nigerians were immune to those kinds of illnesses. I felt for her and figured sending her to a psychiatric hospital wouldn’t be too bad. I should finish what I’ve started. It won’t be good if she goes stealing from others the way she did me. No one would want another accident.”
“Doesn’t she have a family?” She budged from the bed’s edge, causing the steel cup on the bedstead to fall to the floor and its water spilled on the lower of her nightgown. The fabric glued to her legs. She ignored.
“If she does, it is evident they don’t care.”
“When did you do this?”
He sprayed perfume on his suit’s shoulders and huffed out the little that went into his nose. “The week’s beginning.”
“And you’re just saying it.”
“You’ve never really paid attention to her.
What’s the need bothering you?”
“We still should have discussed it before you had her transferred. Don’t you think catering for someone’s medications is something you should not keep from me?”
“There was no time for a discussion. It wasn’t premeditated.”
“Why didn’t you tell me after?”
“You didn’t place any interest in her. I didn’t see it as a priority.”
She set gaze at the hem of her nightgown which was now wet with water.
“Okay, I might have come home tired and probably forgot,” he tried a reduced voice and prayed it removed her ashen face.
“We talk about everything, Rick, to the slightest of things.”
He ambled to her, looped an arm round her waist and drew her closer. “I’m sorry. We should have talked about it.” Her toothbrush on the bedstead had fallen to its side, its colourful paste glued to the wooden frame.
“Next time anything like this happens, please we sit and talk.” She wrung the lower of her nightgown, expelling water to the floor. Before picking his car key, he made sure her dropped cheeks were livened. He picked her toothbrush and pressed the toothpaste against it, aligning the paste in the straight form she always did.
He arrived at the hospital and marched to room forty-four. On the bed, a lady sat by Ivie and the two women muttered to themselves. He settled on the chair by the door, far from the window which did little to better the poor work of the ceiling fan. Soon, he began rocking. His wristwatch said he was thirty minutes late, and a drive back to Erneto Aives might take another twenty if he’s lucky to escape traffic jam.
The lady with Ivie finished and waved to him. She opened the door and stepped out, her shoes leaving brown spots on the rug.
“Sorry for the wait,” Ivie said, almost a mutter. “She’s my counsellor.”
A sachet of medicines lay on the desk. They were antidepressants. It was boldly written on the sachet. He reached for it and read the written words. “Does this kill the urge?”
She didn’t reply, and that gave him his answer. She walked to the window and slid it open. The early ginger rays brightened the room.
“Have the urges reduced so far?”
“It comes and goes.”
The best he could do was to believe that was an improvement. He brought out a book from his briefcase and tossed it to the bed. “I stopped by the therapist office. He told me to give you this. It’s a book on your issue. It will help.”
She thanked him without looking at the book, without a glance. “But—” Her cheeks flattened as she held the book and sat on the mattress. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“You have a problem with reading books?”
“Books on therapy.”
Instead of leafing through with shifting eyes, eager to read every page, every line, she did nothing but held the book and stared at its front cover. Trained psychotherapists recommended it, as her therapist had said. It contained others’ experiences that might help fight her urges.
“Everyone has a distinct way of handling disorders. I have to find mine. Following others may worsen my case.”
The best her pessimism would do was to worsen her case. The doctor had to drive out that spirit from her. “Where did you get that notion from?”
“I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived with this illness for as I can remember. Do you think I haven’t tried all odds?”
“No you haven’t, ’cause this is the first time you’re trying a hospital when it ought to be your foremost action.”
She opened the title page of the book. “That’s because the first time I openly admitted to being a kleptomaniac was in this hospital. The most difficult task is admitting it to the next person.
Going to a psychiatric hospital is as though admitting it to the world.”
“What’s your own experience? What kills your urge?”
“I don’t know.”
He tried placing all faith in the therapist since none could be placed in her, not when she didn’t place any in herself. “The therapist will help you find that.”
“He won’t,” she said immediately.
“You don’t know. You haven’t tried a hospital.”
She closed the book and la!d it on the bed. “My mum did. Her situation worsened. Everyone grew tired of her. Even my dad sometimes grew weary of the situation. That’s how it goes, that’s how it all ends. It’s something you have to learn to live with.” She looked straight at him. “Most people who try helping disordered patients grow tired.”
“Don’t talk that.”
“Aren’t you going to your place of work? It’s almost nine.”
He glanced at his wristwatch and rose. “We’ll continue this talk another day.” The talk had to continue. She lacked faith in herself and the doctor. How then would she be cured? She needed to put faith in something. If not the therapist, then herself.
“Please, you shouldn’t worry about me. I don’t want to make anyone disappointed,” she said.
Being disappointed was highly unlikely. Admitting her illness was part of the healing process. She was healing but simply didn’t realize it. A little more self-belief would hasten the process.
“Drive safe,” she said.
He began opening the door when she hailed to him.
“Back then at the department store when I took your perfume, I would have sought a way to return it.”
He walked past the door. It helped to know he was not treating a woman who stole from him in the right mind, but a parish member who only happened to be ill-fated.

Story: Two Realms ( Romance Thriller)-Season 1

Episode 3
At the middle of the highway, he sought for space to reverse, twisting his head and glancing at the side mirror. With the nearest car a few distance away, he managed to swerve before the others began honking. The speed that followed almost jerked her off the chair, a speed similar to what caused her accident.
And now, she was dwelling in another accident, one she let happen, one which ridded her of the strength to say or do anything but ride with a stranger, a victim of the devil inside her. If only she knew how to talk to someone she stole from, object to someone she stole from and tell him to go about his business and stop being good. She stole from him; he was supposed to frown at her and demand for payback as that would be justice, a fair justice that wouldn’t render her powerless.
A signboard denoting the hospital stood left. Punama hospital. Its name rang everywhere in Lagos but she had no knowledge of its location. He followed the direction and stopped front of the gate.
The gateman had his head bowed to a desk and did not raise it on their entering. No much noise spiked her ears except the slapping of their soles against the ground.
The spacious interior had a stench worse than that of a usual hospital. The usual hospitals smelled of drugs, different kinds that combine into one pricking smell. But the smell here was a different kind, not drugs, but something else that was difficult to ascertain, a stench she would not love to inhale every day. A man sat on an armchair, reading a newspaper lowered to his nose. Before his eyes could reach her, she flicked hers away from him. He waved to the stairs for the doctor’s office.
As she stepped into the office, cold air from the air conditioner bathed and froze her insides, icing and tearing up her stomach. The doctor’s round spectacles covered the whole of his eyes that bored into her.
Richard presented her case to the doctor, who then opened a file and brought out two white sheets. One, he placed at her front and the other at Richard’s. There were many things to fill. Some were not easy to write down but it was a mere form. She filled it and handed it to the doctor. He tagged the forms and other papers to a folder.
Her room was number forty-four. The doctor told Richard before he left.
She watched him leave and asked herself how she ended up in the hospital, how she ended up in a psychiatric hospital.
The form in the doctor’s hands accounted for a three months payment.

Story: Two Realms ( Romance Thriller)-Season 1

Episode 2
Ivie sq££zed to an edge of the bed. The door’s squeal pinched her ears. She managed to overcome the weight of her lids and raised them to the stranger, the intruder, the Richard, her victim. The nurse’s chair was empty, and Ivie realized she lived alone in the small room with an unwelcome guest. He walked further and positioned on the nurse’s chair. She directed her gaze to the ceilings. Its white surface did more good than the man’s round, tan face or his expensive-looking suit, the kind he wore on the day of her accident. He told her the doctor said she could leave today, his voice different from the last time she heard him speak.
Her nurse previously told her she had been discharged, but shouldn’t leave immediately; her body needed rest to return to its normal physiology. If she hadn’t listened to the nurse, she would have saved herself the plight of meeting this man. She would have left the hospital and go work for some money to pay for the broken perfume, so that the next time she would encounter him she would have his money in hand.
With a glance at him, the bottled perfume burgled into her mind. It must have broken during the accident. It had. Whatever the cost was, it would be hard gathering. Nothing in that place was cheap. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she told him.
“The doctor recommends you go to a lab and run some tests. We could go there from here.”
He ought to be admonishing her, wagging his fore finger with a frown and not thinking of taking her to a lab. “No need for lab tests. They did a perfect work here,” she managed. The crack dividing her lips tore and tormented the flesh. The lower lip, she folded into her mouth and wetted with her tongue, scathing her tongue’s tip.
“It’s necessary,” he said. “What’s the essence of everything if you don’t get completely well?”
Seriousness bared in his face, the kind that showed she might not be paying for the perfume. It did not seem he would need it. But there would be no further treatment from him. Lest, her debt amassed. If a lab test was necessary, she would do it on her own. “A lab test is not necessary.”
He did not argue, allowing the room to return to its normal tranquillity.
“What are you doing about your illness?” he severed the quiet.
She swallowed the wound that rose from her throat. The doctor agreed to her discharge; it meant she was well. That shouldn’t be difficult for the man to understand.
“I’m not talking about your accident,” he said.
Her lower lip’s wound tore up itself, and the lip refused to fold into her mouth. If he meant her disorder, then someone must have informed him. People knew of it. That was the truth; people knew. And now, he knew. That explained his nice play ever since. No man would act nice or even pretend to act nice to a woman who stole from him and tried to run. “What illness do you mean?” She tried opening eyes wider, but the heft of her lids did not allow.
He gave no reply. “Was it klep—” he hung and transferred gaze to the floor.
He knew of it. The flesh lining her heart shredded. “How did you know of the dis—”
“I just thought so.” His gaze shifted to her. She tried not to maintain a contact.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do I have a cause to lie?”
Tranquillity found its way back into the room, but this time it brought thorns along with it, thorns that hovered around the air she breathed, with their thin, sharp, slimy mouths pointing to her. “I need some time alone,” she muttered. “Please.”
“I’ve arranged with the doctor to take you out of here.”
“You are in no position to do that.” She coughed and the sore in her throat ruled.
“I brought you in. I signed.” His voice had an element of authority, as though she was one of his business transactions bound by his signature.
A thorn pierced her gorge as she managed to speak between coughs. “It was a voluntary service.”
“A little appreciation will do.”
The entire thorns poked through her and refused to leave. They pierced her to the mattress. He was right and he should not be. “Thank you,” she said. The hurt of her lips spread to all corners.
“That’s better. I should take you to a new hospital.”
“You’ve done enough. I’ll take it from here.”
Silence happened, one that amplified the noise occurring in her head.
“What were you doing at the store’s premises on the day of your accident?” he asked.
The rhythm of his voice triggered her tongue. It fluttered as it wanted, forming the words it pleased. “I-I was initially in the store, picked what I needed, paid and left the shop. I left the shop almost the same time with you. I saw you holding a shopping bag that was wide open, then I don’t know what happened next. The devil took over, and I just picked. I dipped my hand inside your bag and just picked.” She tried stopping her voice from diminishing. “The urge was there. It kept coming and coming. It happens every day. I try fighting, but it keeps coming. I’m sorry I destroyed your perfume. I was trying to find a way to put it in your car when you arrived.
I’m sorry I ran. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was afraid you might call the police or do something worse.”
“I’m sorry for your illness.” The only word he said, and it had no good effect. He should stop staring at her and walk through the exit. That might have a good effect.
“You’ve tried a psychiatric hospital?” he asked.
“What will it do?”
“They might help. That’s what they do.”
She rubbed her peeling thumb, shedding its skin off her palm, the same palm that conquered her.
“I’d do you the favour of taking you there,” he said. “Therapy is what you need right now.”
Therapy would do nothing. The disease of the fingers was something one was to learn to live with. “Why are you helping me?” She squinted into his eyes and tried releasing more words, not minding the hurt of her throat. “I damaged your item, and it must have cost you. Nothing in that place is cheap.”
“It didn’t cost me.”
She peeled off her thumb-skin, fingering off its first layer. “I shouldn’t have blamed you for my accident. I’m sorry.” The thorns gradually waned off her skin.
At the middle of the highway, he sought for space to reverse, twisting his head and glancing at the side mirror. With the nearest car a few distance away, he managed to swerve before the others began honking. The speed that followed almost jerked her off the chair, a speed similar to what caused her accident.
And now, she was dwelling in another accident, one she let happen, one which ridded her of the strength to say or do anything but ride with a stranger, a victim of the devil inside her. If only she knew how to talk to someone she stole from, object to someone she stole from and tell him to go about his business and stop being good. She stole from him; he was supposed to frown at her and demand for payback as that would be justice, a fair justice that wouldn’t render her powerless.
A signboard denoting the hospital stood left.
Punama hospital. Its name rang everywhere in Lagos but she had no knowledge of its location. He followed the direction and stopped front of the gate.
The gateman had his head bowed to a desk and did not raise it on their entering. No much noise spiked her ears except the slapping of their soles against the ground.
The spacious interior had a stench worse than that of a usual hospital. The usual hospitals smelled of drugs, different kinds that combine into one pricking smell. But the smell here was a different kind, not drugs, but something else that was difficult to ascertain, a stench she would not love to inhale every day. A man sat on an armchair, reading a newspaper lowered to his nose. Before his eyes could reach her, she flicked hers away from him. He waved to the stairs for the doctor’s office.
As she stepped into the office, cold air from the air conditioner bathed and froze her insides, icing and tearing up her stomach. The doctor’s round spectacles covered the whole of his eyes that bored into her.
Richard presented her case to the doctor, who then opened a file and brought out two white sheets. One, he placed at her front and the other at Richard’s. There were many things to fill. Some were not easy to write down but it was a mere form. She filled it and handed it to the doctor. He tagged the forms and other papers to a folder.
Her room was number forty-four. The doctor told Richard before he left.
She watched him leave and asked herself how she ended up in the hospital, how she ended up in a psychiatric hospital.
The form in the doctor’s hands accounted for a three months payment.
“Stop peeling that. Apply some Vaseline and the peeling will stop.” He touched her hands and set them apart.

Two Realms ( Romance Thriller) - Season 1

Episode 1
Richard didn’t want to believe his Venon perfume had been stolen from his shopping bag.
He probably forgot it on the checkout counter before heading to his Honda, but here was the cashier saying no perfume was left on the counter, that Richard should go check his shopping bag properly; or worse, it might have been stolen by some of the boys who loitered around the store premises, waiting for someone to walk out of the store with a fat bag, so that they could dip in their hands and slid out something.
If it were a boy standing by Richard’s Honda, Richard would have suspected him to have the perfume, but it wasn’t a boy. It was a young woman in a tailored, yellow gown. She seemed to be viewing herself on his side window as though the window was a mirror that actually showed her reflection.
“You could use the side mirror,” he told her, and the woman quivered. The bag slung over her shoulder fell to her elbow. Without readjusting it, she strode into the street. Richard shook his head. One of those scary, jobless women who thought every man that talked to them was trying to woo them. No sane man would try to woo women like her who wore solemnity on their faces.
When he had driven near her, she looked to his car and increased the length of her strides that morphed into a scurry, her legs stretching her streamlined gown to its maximum that Richard feared it might tear from overstrain. She glanced at the distance between herself and his Honda with the frightened face of someone being chased. The woman had done nothing against him that he would chase her. She could be mistaking him for someone else. He wanted to park his car somewhere, call out to her, and tell her he wasn’t who she thought he was, but it didn’t seem she would stop from her run even if he called out. She was already close to the main road. Nothing would stop her from hiring a taxi to continue her run.
He was veering into the main road, ascending from a pothole that held water from the previous day’s rain, when a commotion erupted at his far right. People began clustering around a spot. Some wailed in Yoruba, some murmured, and some watched with wrinkled faces. He peered through his side window. A woman was spread on the tarmac in bits of blood. A drive further gave him sufficient view. It was the same woman, bag on the ground with its items shattered, including broken bottle pieces. He stepped out of his car and walked to the crowd, only to see the broken bottle pieces were in the midst of a spilled liquid that diffused out a fragrance. The same fragrance of his stolen Venon perfume. It was the woman who stole his perfume; how much he had tried not to believe that. And now, everything looked like a punishment from God. A man hurled her onto his shoulder and scurried out of the crowd, her thick, crimson blood dripping on his pullover.
“Bring her in here,” Richard said.
The onlookers directed eyes to him.
“A car will be faster to the hospital,” he said.
The man carrying her hurried to the backseat and settled her there. “It was a car accident. She got hit while running. The driver zoomed off. Hurry, there’s a hospital at the next two streets.”
“Maybe you should come with me.”
The man hastened to the front seat. Richard entered and fastened his seatbelt.
He avoided looking at the backseat, but the reflection on the rear-view mirror made him try to manoeuvre traffic. The man pointed to the hospital, a bungalow with fading white paint.
The Honda bumped up the stony way, forcing Richard to reduce speed until he stopped at the hospital. They rushed her out of the car and Richard heaved her into his arms and hurried past the entrance. Two nurses wheeled a stretcher to them and helped lay her atop. No bloodstains stuck to his suit, only short hair strands, which he dusted off with his handkerchief.
The receptionist table had tiny holes filled with sawdust. He managed to fill the forms without contacting the table.
“Isn’t there a better hospital around here?” he asked the Good Samaritan, who then gave a rundown of how she was losing blood. However bad the hospital was, it would render good first aid.
Women and children with ill faces filled the rows of chairs. Richard found a spot on the second row and sq££zed himself there with the Good Samaritan. They talked about the accident and how heartless the driver was for leaving the woman alone on the tarmac. The talks ended, and the Samaritan rose to go pick his children from school. He pulled off his blood-stained pullover and revealed a white polo shirt.
Richard asked a nurse for the doctor’s office, and after having a talk with the doctor, he began for home.
Driving to his carport, the knocking of the generator from its cabin deprived him of the radio reporter’s final words. He parked and turned his head to the backseat. Parts of the leather had reddened, not by any other blood but one belonging to a thief.
The gateman ran to the carport. “Welcome sah.
Ek’ale.” He opened the backdoor and dragged out the bag of beverages. Richard took it from him and asked him to wash the seats.
The door crackled before he could punch the doorbell and Ezinne appeared, passing out her soap’s apple fragrance, her towel tied to chest level. A drop of water from her weave-on fell on his shoe as he stepped in. Much of the water clung to her hair, giving it a darker coffee than her skin.
He opened the fridge and brought out a chilled Malta Guinness. Questions would come, but it should wait until after his drink.
“You didn’t reach the stores,” she said.
“I did.” He gulped some of the Malt and settled on a couch.
The forming wrinkles on her face straightened out. “Where’s the Venon perfume?”
“I had bought you the perfume, but before I could take it to my car, it was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Her eyes grew bigger, bigger than envisaged. She sat on his couch’s arm and folded her hands. “Rick… how was it stolen?”
Her question was too direct to achieve a good enough believable answer since not all truths were believable. He downed the last gulp of Malt and explained his ordeal with the woman at the shop’s premises. She must have somehow slid the perfume out of his bag without his notice.
Before he could finish with his explanation, Ezinne rose to go check the jollof rice on the cooker, whose aroma had begun to force its way into the sitting room. He promised to buy her another Venon, if that would win him her smile.
Many persons filled the hospital, in contrast to the few cars parked at the small square. The nurses perambulated in blue, their dangling, tiny caps almost falling off their heads. Richard headed to the receptionist’s counter alongside a friend and colleague, Jide Echem, who muffled something of how unequipped the hospital looked.
“It was the nearest hospital,” Richard said to Jide.
“She should be transferred. That is not too much for a woman who took your perfume.”
“Stole,” Richard corrected, and refused pondering on Jide’s words. He tapped the receptionist’s desk, sidetracking her from her writing, and asked to see the woman brought in the previous day.
“What woman? Who brought her here, you or him?” She fixed on Jide, a sureness in her voice that it was he who brought in the woman.
Richard snuck eyes to his friend. There was no resemblance for the receptionist to mistake them. No similarity had emerged. Jide was still that tall, ebony man, whose neck equalled Richard’s head.
“I did,” Richard said. “Fair injured lady. Check your list. I signed.”
“Check room twelve.” The receptionist said without checking her list and demonstrated with her fingers the way to room twelve.
They strode to the first bend and were lucky not to stop any of the perambulating nurses as “12” was carved on a door.
Richard knocked and opened.
The fair lady lay on the bed, connected to a half-empty drip. She appeared thinner in the blue gown, or it could be the bed being too wide. A nurse stood at a corner busy with some syringes and cotton wools on a tray.
“How is the treatment?” Richard asked.
“No complications,” the nurse said. “She lost some blood, but thanks to the surrounding persons, the situation was salvaged on time.”
Her optimistic words were good to the ears. Even a thief deserved to live.
“Any internal injuries?” Jide asked.
“No. The car probably didn’t hit her with much speed. Her fall on sharp objects caused the major wounds. We found bottle fragments in her skin. The road must have had lots of them.”
Bottles? Richard thought. His perfume had caused that. “When will she be discharged?” He stared at the bed and tried to elude that pity that tried crawling into him. Next time, the woman wouldn’t steal, and even if she didn’t learn her lesson and decide to steal from another man, she would be careful not to run like a masquerade.
“The doctor will say that.”
The victim’s eyes partially opened. Richard drew nearer to her bed. “You remember me?” he asked with a lowered voice.
She stared at him, and the stare lasted without a word emerging from her lips, without anything but her piercing eyes pointing to him as though it was he who smashed her with a car.
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Jide said. “She might not have seen much of you.”
“I remember you,” she muttered without moving lips. “The man who caused my accident.”
She said it as a truth she had no doubt about, as though she saw him run his car through her. The nurse was looking at him with a cornered eye.
“You were hit by a car, which isn’t mine. The driver sped off.”
“You should not talk to her,” the nurse said.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She continued staring and coughed, coughed again and the cough was her response.
“It’s Ivie Oboh,” the nurse helped.
“I’m Richard Fayemi, and I did not cause your accident.”
She closed eyes, and they remained closed with no hope of opening. The nurse, holding a moist towel, sat by her and massaged her neck. A necklace hung at her neck, a pendant necklace of St. Vincent de Paul, one that only parishioners wore. Hard to say, but she might be a Christian, a Catholic, and… a parishioner of St. Vincent de Paul. Of all the parishes, why same parish with him?
“We should leave,” he told Jide.
Jide ducked his head out of the door and they left the room.
At the car, Jide brought up topics about the woman and the nonsensical federal hospital, as he called it. Richard did not talk much, but spared the nods for his friend. Talking would not make him enjoy the less bumpy highway drive.
Lander Close was silent. It always was, except at nights when the crickets disturbed. The gateman opened before any honk and Richard sped in.
Ezinne was stretched on the long sofa, viewing the screen. It’s Wednesday, so it should be The Nigerian Idols.
“Mr Echem, nn?,” she greeted Jide in Igbo. Jide smiled at her, his usual faint smile.
“You’re early today,” she told Richard.
“I left work early. Jide and I went to the hospital to check on that young woman.”
“I still don’t understand why you would want to help a thief.”
“Believe me, if you were there, you’d have done same. I don’t know why she did what she did but she is of same parish with us. You can’t give a blind eye to your parish member. Of what patronage is Vincent de Paul?”
She looked at Jide, the type of look an Igbo man gives to his fellow Igbo. Jide made no remark.
#
The shop hadn’t changed except women overpopulated the place, leaving Richard as the only man. Two Venon perfumes stood on the shelf of perfumes. He selected one and walked to the cashier, whom recognized him at first sight. When she learned he was buying another perfume, she sympathised for the stolen and apologized for the incident. It didn’t happen on a good day.
“I found the person who stole the perfume. It was a woman.” He deposited a bunch of money on the counter. The cashier’s face tightened on the news that he didn’t get the thief arrested.
“Why buying a new perf?” She arranged the money in the counting machine and pointed her dark eyelids to him. Her eyelids looked like those of the women modelled on cosmetics cartons, very sharp and black. The counting machine flipped the notes so fast Richard wondered how it managed to make no mistakes.
“The woman broke the first. While running, she had an accident.”
Her cheeks puffed out and her thin nose swelled. It was difficult to establish if that was caused by the news of the broken perfume or the accident.
“She was hit by a car while running? Was she injured?”
“She was. Not very serious.”
She gave Richard a change of four thousand. “My boss told me most female thieves who find their way here are mentally unstable.”
“Insane women?” Richard asked. The Catholic didn’t seem as someone near insane.
“Kleptomaniacs would be a better word. My boss had caught two women and found out they could be suffering from that. They stole items a sane person wouldn’t. She warned us to be vigilant. They could be skilful. Issues like that go beyond normal reasoning. It could be something spiritual.” She signed on an invoice and passed it to him.
He stared at the money-counting machine, waved to the woman and walked away, refusing to accept the excuse of the thief being insane or having spiritual issues. People stole for so many reasons. It wasn’t a new occurrence that should be blamed on insanity or spiritual puppetry from some kind of demon.

Story : The Engagement Affair ( 18 + ) {Season 1} (THE END)

Episode 30
At the last moment Nataniel pulled out of Sofia. He wrapped his fingers around his slick throbbing cöck and gave it a few quick strokes. With a loud m0an escaping his lips, he sent large amounts of his man-milk flying. Sofia gasped and stared wide-eyed as Nataniel drenched her tummy with his hot splööge. A small squeal left her lips and a shudder ran through her. Nataniel’s legs shook as he emptied the final drops of his spünk over her body. He lay back exhilarated and they both admired his handiwork.
“What’s it with you cümming so much all the time? That’s a lot.” Sofia exclaimed. She smeared the splööge all over her skin, coating her breásts, chest, and tummy. She stuck her fingers into her mouth and licked the salty göö off them.
“It’s you Sofia. You look so hot and beautiful with all that cüm on your breásts.” Nataniel replied.
“You’re definitely learning fast.” She smiled up at him.
“You’re a very good teacher.” Nataniel replied. He stretched beside her and relaxed.
Sofia propped up on her elbow and looked at him. “We should do this a little more often…you know…to be sure you’re…ready to take care of…her…my sister.”
“The last thing on my mind right now is how to take care of your sister.”
Sofia smiled and traced her wet fingers around his limp rod. They had no idea of the other pair of eyes watching them through the crack of the door, nor did they hear it close softly.
Emilia closed the door gently. So this was what the two of them had been up to all this while. She couldn’t believe Sofia could stoop so low. Her soon to be husband? No wonder Nataniel always wanted to be around her sister. She stormed off to the room she never occupied and slammed the door. She jumped on the bed and burying her face in her pillow, she was surprised that she burst into tears.
After a while she rolled off the bed and took a deep breath. It’s not his fault, she thought. If that bitch hadn’t flirted with him, if her mother had been alive, this wouldn’t have happened. She was going to confront her sister. Tell her to leave him alone. She’s had her own husband. Let her have his. From that moment on she was going to change and take care of him herself. Right now she was in no mood to confront them both. She decided she wasn’t going to spend the night in the same house as that traitor. How dare she sleep with her future husband? Who the hell did she think she was? She quietly slipped out of the room and the house.
For the next couple of days Emelia stayed away from her sister and Nataniel. She couldn’t bear to face them at that time. The disgust that enveloped her anytime she saw them threatened to pour out and she was always a hair’s breath away from unloading her loathe on them, most especially her sister.
Sofia noticed the change in attitude in her sister. Her sudden coldness and the kind of murderous looks she gave her whenever they were all together in the main house made Sofia begin to suspect something was wrong.
A few later, Nataniel was walking along the beach towards the store when he ran into Emelia and some other youngsters. He smiled but she returned a cold stare at him.
“Hi Emelia.” He said cheerfully.
Emelia simply ignored him and turned her nose up at him. She focused her attention to the group she was in and they all walked away. Nataniel felt snubbed. He simply walked towards the store and met Sofia just about to close up for the evening. The look on his face made her pause.
“Why do you look so sad?” she asked.
“It’s your damn sister.” He replied, the anger beginning to seep through him. He told her about the snub and Sofia laughed.
“I’m really getting fed up of her attitude. Honestly. It’s getting on my nerves.”
Sofia smiled. “Don’t be angry okay? She’s just being a kid.”
“If she keeps this up, I doubt she’ll be a good wife to me. Why can’t she be as nice and caring as you?”
”Don’t say that. I know my sister. She’s like that sometimes. Please be patient with her. I’m sure she’ll come around soon.”
“If you say so.”
”I’m going up to the main house now. I’ll talk to her later tonite.”
“Okay. I’ll finish locking up here. See you later.”