He was a tall, coal-black, handsome young man. His every movement, a connotation of unbridled strength. Most girls in the campus could not help but salivate in their lower regions…he dominated their fantasies. Yet, he hid his consciousness of this fact in a character too simple to be true.
In the blackness of night, on grounds stained with the unholiness of deviant associations, he was a terror dreaded by men of a kind, tied in one by like minds.
She was a stunning, petite beauty. A sight to behold. Our hearts churned in a windmill of passion, but she denied us fulfilment. She was his…and his alone.
Towards the end of his programme, a war broke out between his people and an age-long opposition. The rules of warfare signed in the deep of dark were thrown to the winds. Blood letting, sewn into the tapestry of violence was the order of the day. He fled the campus, along with his men.
Before the war, his close friend, an Artist, won the bid to paint a verisimilitude of his Stunness, the petite beauty. The painting was halfway through when the war began.
In town, while waiting for the fumes of war to disappear, the temptation to see the portrait of his Stunness overwhelmed him. His brothers, wise in the ways of the game restrained him. They would all move back in after a peace meeting was brokered and wounds knitted.
One night, believing in the cloak of darkness, he sneaked in and unobtrusively made his way to the Artist’s room. He saw his Stunness on canvass, almost finished, yet still stunning in the state of incompletion. Satisfied…mission accomplished, he left the room and boarded a bus at the park.
He never left the park. He was dragged off the bus by two equally tall young men. Fit as a Pro-Wrestler, he fought them off and took to his heels, sprinting down the freshly tarred road constructed by a VC desperate for re-election. He was graceful in flight, but the Gods refused to play that night. He kicked something in the dark and went sprawling. In the micro seconds it took to get up, his assailants were on him. In the moonless dark in which he ruled, they pumped him full with bullets of foreign guns that heed not the power of the Juju man’s bullet proof vest. His brain, they splattered on the tar, then like wraiths, they faded into thin air.
He died in the dark…the darkness within. The portrait of his Stunness was never finished. The Artist could not bring himself to complete it. He no longer believed in perfection.
A week after his burial, the peace meeting took place and the campus regained its health. The sacrifice had being made.
