Suspense Short Story – Comrade
Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com
As tragedy struck him when he least expected, he ceased reading anything which could make this world go round. He bought airtime for his phones; landlines and cellular phones only to waste it on petty talk. The researches he made were neither here nor there. Thus, they never made sense to anyone but he until he had spend more money than he could’ve wished. He hated spending but temptations to be heard by people the world over kept him drawing money from electronic banking outlets.
When people asked him why he always carried wads of cash with him, why he spent it without a care he retorted;
“ I earned it. It’s mine and not yours.’
He was looked at suspiciously by the jealous ones whenever he applied for a business project. Though he submitted all relevant documents he still found himself in the cold as far as the awarding of tenders were concerned. His friends flew over his head in jets, first class and business seats but he never got worried by it. Told them point-blank that theirs was a temporary thingy. None of them believed him but were still wary of what he could do with his life. They were scared of what he may become and it showed in their pep-talks.
When nobody cared anymore, he found himself thinking a lot about the good old days but had to admit quick that those days were gone. He used to brag about how much money he had spent on church services, how much of his tithe was given to his Lord by he. Now all he ever wanted to hear was a voice of a true friend advising him to man up. To hold on and be strong. He wasn’t sick but weak in thoughts because he no more had friends to talk to.
No man or woman came to his rescue psychologically or financially but by the look of things from were I stood all he needed was some cash injection not injection in the rear— if you know what I mean. He know had a beggar’s bag on his bag every day and slept in a shack. Three steps down from where he was once was. Naughty scribes had a field day teasing him;
‘How the mighty have fallen.’
They had forgotten that the apple doesn’t fall very far from a tree. Like he, they too were scared of the day when their newspapers ceased to be relevant to their readers. No readers, no cash, no job. That’s how it goes. He used to remind them during the good days when they would flatly refuse to cover his community projects up but opt to look for wrongs in them.
Wished for an audience but it had disappeared and given its ears to his rivals. Because he no had support, going to community meetings seemed a waste of time and money. He was on the brink of becoming a poorest of the poor. A new term coined by a new elite who wanted to loot quick before five years was up. And they did brag to he telling him;
‘Your time’s up. Watch us how quickly we’d transform this community.’
None of what they promised came to life. He found himself surrounded by new friends who wished they too could be afforded a luxury life by those in power.
Together they planned how to weaken the braggarts but without any sponsorship, theirs seemed a forever dream, a distant success. They brainstormed day and night at places unimaginable even at cemeteries at night. He had taken over a final resting place and made it his. Amongst other things he taught the new crowd; speaking, listening, reading, writing, observing, respecting and being alert. Yeah! Those were some of the traits he taught himself before he became important and now unimportant. He was rejuvenated. Unlike in the past when he’ll try to say something and asked to;
‘please take a sit.’
Yes. And there was nothing more embarrassing to him than to hear fellow comrades ask him to please take a sit. The did happened so often that he sometimes felt he was cursed. But he wasn’t and a lot of his supporters assured him. Before he became a comrade, he was a wanderer on this earth. Like Cain, he killed lot of men with lies. He always told crowds he wished he did it with his bare hands than with his tongue. One day an old man reminded him about it in a meeting attended by the most influential men and women of his town and faraway cities. Imaginable town and cities but real. I can say a lot of them out of a country of fifty five point seven million citizens; natural and naturalised.
His newly-found support grew in leaps and bounds and he soon found himself being able to be given leeway to spend some time with the town’s mayor. That didn’t sit well with fat-cats who had orchestrated his demise the first day they laid their eyes on he. They argued he wasn’t born in the area he wished to represent but had forgotten talent is more important than envy. The mayor told him he was surprised that his name had been erased from the party’s roster and promised to investigate how it happened. His detractors bought newspaper space and wrote nonsense about how likely it then seemed he was to be a councillor in a township where a lot of residents disliked and mistrusted him. But the poorest of the poor were sure he was the right candidate as the others were a mere model-C type canvassers.
It wasn’t long he was elected a councillor that the community heard of a calamity which hand befallen their neighbourhood. Their dear friend had been found dead in a seat of his new posh Mercedes Benz. All the assailants took from he was his new barcoded-identity-card. Police hands were full trying to solve a mystery behind his death.
–END–
