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Lopound Virus 4

My sick mother would say "The old woman never gets tired of the familiar dance steps." Prior to this time, I thought it to be some old lady's gibberish but Prof proved my thoughts to be wrong.

He had unearthed all the facts concerning the black-op. It was a black operation called 'Operation Lopound' which had  already been blacklisted and destroyed by the intelligence service of the United World Organization till these sons of doom resurrected it.

Another ally in the plot was the Congolese government who had supplied a massive amount of cobalt to a certain phone manufacturing company called Tinkstar Technologies hidden under the conniving wings of the European assembly.

The cobalt chip had been cloned with dermaloglyphic and telepathy influenced technology to extract fat-soluble vitamins in human bodies. Activated only by clicking delete on a crappy message that read;

I dropped 10pounds in a couple weeks thanks to these berry-drops I got it here, type in website with nospaces--->

Puffy eye bags, a slouched back,worn out face and scanty strands of hair on my bald head were the result of the eventual visit of the mountain to Mohammed.

He had suggested that the only way to shut down the program was to hack a viral programme into it. The three programmes we had come up with failed to infiltrate it.

"We should get back to work", I was startled by Prof's voice. I stretched my body and felt my bones make cracking sounds.

"Sir, we need to rest. I am fagged out", I whined

He shook his head. "I pity your generation. Lazy folks! Who are not ready to work. The Chinese who invented this technology since the 19th century are not resting on their oars, their inventions have doubled and you who have not even saved your mother craves for rest", he scolded.

The sound of 'your mother' sent my ears tinging. If mother dies, I would have failed as a son. I dragged myself up from the cushion where I was relaxing.

"Get up! Get up! Son of a bald man", Prof's hoarse voice spurred me. I laughed while he chuckled.

"Bald men always think on their feet and are bold..... Pull the bull by the horn", he urged me.
I believe Prof would have done well as a motivational speaker but the man had never seen the possibility. He had a personal dislike for them, he called them the folks that passes a current that charges ten laptops, ten power banks and ten phones. Eccentric man,indeed.

He faced his laptop while I buried my head in mine. This had been our regular posture for the past one month.
I keyed in the programme. We had a bit of alteration on it in the morning. Prof had insisted we use Fortran instead of Basic which I was pretty familiar with.

My finger slided on the keyboard to click on debug. The frustrating programme had refused to run. I slammed the lid of the laptop close then headed to the room for my shoes. Prof watched me like a lunatic that had escaped from  rehab.

I had my hand on the door knob.

"Where are you going, young man?", he inquired

"To get my head clear", I snapped. I stepped out and banged the door behind me.


My house looked like where some rodents had a reunion party. Maybe I just needed to stay away from computers, writing and running programmes that were always bounced back to me by errors.

I unzipped my trousers and flung them close to the shoe rack  in the room. I had no plans of stretching the curtains.

"Just remain there!", I yelled at them like they could hear me.

My burning furiousness led me to the bathroom. Water was all I needed. I turned the faucet on and submitted my body to the treatment of the cascading cold water from the shower and for the first time in a long while, I wept.

I wept for my failure, my frustrations and fear of being the man who lost his priceless mother and darling Abike.

I had lost count of the number of times, I had ignored Prof's calls. The whole thing proved futile. I didn't want to go back there and keep fooling myself that I would get it right soon. Planet Z continued to  play the role of the soothing maiden who offered me bottles of head-spinning liquids that drowned my burdens. Not for a very long time but it was manageable.

I had gulped down three bottles and  awaited for the busty waitress who pulled the endowment behind her like a towing van dragging a nineteen ninety five modeled Volvo wagon behind it.

I felt my phone buzz, it was a text message from Prof. It read:

"Help! Kene! I am in trouble"

I chuckled. The old man had to re-strategize. The stunt he pulled was too easy to believe. I was not just ready to go back to that feeling of misery each time the programme crashed. "Shut down", I commanded and the voice activated sensor did my bidding.

I sipped from my large tumbler and nodded to the rhymes of Damian Marley and Bruno Mars.

"I'll take one shot for my pain
One drag for my sorrow
Get messed up today
I'll be okay tomorrow
One shot for my pain
One drag for my sorrow
Get messed up today
I'll be okay tomorrow"

Those lines were terrible lies. Being 'okay' tomorrow was a big fat lie, I woke up the following morning with a migraine. My heavy head tried to calculate how to split my time today and visit mama and Abike. My weak muscles failed to help me crawl out of bed.

Buzz! Buzz! Who in  the heavens would call me that early.

I punched the receive key. "Hello!", my hoarse sleepy voice croaked.

"Mr Kene! Could you please come down to area H police station? It really important", a voice said from the other end.

"I have done nothing", I yelled.

"Yea, we need to ask you certain questions. Professor Mbakwe was murdered last night, your number was the last dialed number on his phone", the officer  informed me.


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