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“Something’s wrong…” the technician turned his head away from the computer screen to a large crowd of meekly seated men in front of computer screens. He looked at them to see their hands visibly shaking on keyboard keys that he wondered what it was they were frightened of. They should be less frightened and more concerned—he thought.

A thin man with obviously wrinkled face and grey hair stepped forward to confront him and tell him the reason for their fear, “What went wrong?” he rather muffled squeezing the muscles on his face as his chest stood out with authority passing through his breath. The technician wondered if that was the reason.
“Trump’s coms are down sir…” the technician began,
“What?” the man went all out before the technician could continue.
“The tracker, coms everything…down” the technician finally had his moment but before he could relax in his speech, the wrinkled man walked closer to him and pulled him out of his chair.
“What do you mean down?” the wrinkled man asked staring at the technician’s computer screen. He drew his lips to a mouthpiece while looking at the technician. The room went silent listening to and waiting for the moment, “Agent Trump, come in. Are you still in position? Agent Trump, come in. Agent Trum—I repeat are you in position?” the man’s voice then took the form of an echo, making it seem like he had just shouted into a microphone.

The other technicians had to cover their ears to block the screeching sound that came afterwards. “What happened?” the wrinkled man turned to the technician; his eyes flaring while the technician looked at them knowing its colors were being directed at him.
“His coms went off as soon as he stepped into a section of the mansion” he replied pointing at the wide computer screen. The wrinkled man looked at it to see a red tag blinking consistently at a cross section that appeared to be a map. “Must be a glitch” the man theorized after looking at the monitor.
“I don’t think so sir. I think Trump’s down or gone rogue” optimism wasn’t in the technician’s play book and as he stood looking at the man, he maintained his sense of pessimism.
The wrinkled man looked at him, annoyed and irritated that age seemingly restricted him from acting. He rubbed his head to see if his hair was still in the usual spot then turned to the rest of the crowd.
Beneath him if not seen before was a bold insignia drawn to the floor, ‘C. I. A—Central Intelligence Agency’ it read with an eagle inscribed upon.

“Zoom in on the satellite. Surround the entire mansion. This mission is of top priority” the man commanded. He moved from his position towards the others talking as he walked, “Scan on any suspicious movement, images, video anything” he paused. He turned to his left axis to where a blonde lady was seated, “Set up a phone call with Patrick Zamani” he stressed.
Responding to command with no questions, the lady picked a land line telephone, clicked some buttons before turning over to her computer screen; “Alright sir” she said before the call started ringing.
“Sir…” another technician called to his notice. He was different from the previous technician. This one had a suit on and seemed to take his job seriously; the wrinkled man hence took him serious. “There’s something…” he said raising the man’s aged hope high. “Satellites can’t get full coverage of the mansion”

The wrinkled man froze for seconds within his mind as he looked at the technician wondering what to make of his comment or more importantly, what to do to him. He reached for his gun but decided against it, “Are you shitting me?” he spat out, hands reclined, “…that’s a 12 million dollar piece of hardware and you can’t tell me the price is well higher over its quality. Now zoom again” “Got a movement sir” the wrinkled man was about turning to the call-girl lady before another man called on his attention. It was a geek, seated with eye glasses over his eyes and hair scattered in a wavy form. “It’s Trump” he summarized, “…coming out of the mansion” he turned his eyes over to the wrinkled man as if looking for some kind of praise or acknowledgement.
“Keep the cameras on him” the wrinkled man rather said, reigning on the geek’s parade. “Trump, come in…Agent Trump?” he then moved to the speaker in front of the geek, pushing him out of his way as he settled his attention on the video image on the monitor screen. The entire room grew quiet once more as all attention transferred to the wrinkled man. The geek looked down, disappointed. “He’s not answering” he muffled out.
“Something’s wrong” the man raised his head to look at the geek; finally acknowledging him. But before the geek could fully shine in his moment, the wrinkled man turned his gaze off him, “Do we have a team stationed nearby?” he asked the entire room to which only one person replied.
“Negative” he said, making it seem like a rhetorical question to the wrinkled man.
“Jeez…” the wrinkled man admitted the shame.
“Mr. Patrick on the line sir” the call-girl woman called the wrinkled man off his moment of regret. Her eyes darted at him as she watched him bow his head and raise it slowly.
“Keep eyes on Trump’s movement” the man turned to the geek before walking away from him to the lady. The geek held a short grudge with the woman who was rather much concerned with the situation on ground. She had no time for glory instead she felt glory should prove itself worth her time. “…this is Brad Palmer, Director of the C. I. A. calling from Langley. Am I speaking with Patrick Zamani?” the wrinkled man went straight to the point.

There was no time and neither was there a reason to waste one. The receiver on the other end of the line knew this and as he picked the call, his voice went to the point, “Your agent just left my building with the package. Good doing business with you…” it said in Mr. Patrick’s voice with the line going dead.
The C. I. A. director sighed, more like a pant before looking at the technicians and analysts seated. “Trump’s headed to the streets” the geek came in to relieve the moment. The director turned to look at him as his heart flared. He was indeed a life saver, the director acknowledged. The man moved from his current position to his former position which was where the geek was. “Hold on there’s a movement behind him” the call lady chirped in immediately; a killjoy, the geek noted. “Someone’s following him” she said pointing at the screen catching on everyone’s attention. The geek was jealous but had to look.
“Zoom in on the assailant” the director ordered walking closer to the screen.

Gradually, the image on the screen became the high definition of suspense as none was willing to take their eyes off it. Following the director’s eyes, the image on the screen was that of a black man, bearded and dressed in baggie jeans with a navy blue top. His face was covered with a face cap leaving the lower part of his face to be seen accounting for his race and his bearded status. “Yes…yes. Yes. Hold it. Hold it” the director controlled the direction the analyst zoomed the video on. “Who is that? Run a facial recognition” the man asked before instructing, once the analyst had settled on the facial fixtures of the still blurry video.

For a time like this, this was the best they could get? The man reasoned, sensing there was something wrong or that wasn’t adding up. He stared at the image of the white man; the one he had identified as Trump and the black man that was few paces behind him. Trump was smarter than this and this doesn’t feel like Trump.
“We got nothing on the facial recognition sir…” one of the C.I.A analysts called out.
The entire atmosphere in the hall was now somber and based on the dark colors surrounding the room, things were getting tenser. “…there is a man in a vehicle straight at Trump” the call lady noticed once more, “And another van with a man in it on Trump’s 8’O clock” “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why isn’t Trump doing anything? Why hasn’t he taken them out?” the director questioned turning to the call lady for an answer. She shrugged literally telling him he was asking rhetorical questions.
“This is Trump sir” the geek came forward reminding, “He can handle it”

The room paused once more in silence for the director to look at the geek one more time. That wasn’t an assurance, the man concluded turning his eyes away then at the screen.
“Trump, come in. You’re being followed. I repeat you’re being followed. Halt…there is a man in front of you…in a van. I repeat…there is…” the director started off on the microphone only to be cut off by an intrusion.

The man slowly but gently rose his head up to be sure what the intrusion was or if he actually saw what happened. He saw it; the computer screen, but did he really see what happened before the intrusion? The scrambled video on all the screens in the room left that question unanswered; if not rhetorical.
“What the hell?” the geek muttered turning to steal a glance at the director to gauge his expression. The man stood still for seconds allowing the images recap through his memory. Yes, Trump got closer to the van. The man in the van twitched, the van lifted itself off the ground then—blast; fire everywhere. Another van drove by disrupting the signals. The scrambled video on became the resultant effect. What? How? What?
“Shit!” the wrinkled man yelled out pushing the computer off his sight in a reflexive surge, “Damn it” he struck the empty desk. The room went silent for minutes not because it wanted to but because Silence deserved respect. So they paid him their last respects.

Mr. Patrick rolled his chair backwards as he dropped the book he had been reading, halfway on the desk. Biafra Testament by Kalu Okpi was the book’s title, and as he sighed to the ceiling, he reflected on a quote from the novel.
‘I have a good idea as to how their recce patrols operate and I am pretty certain they will give up the search for after six or seven…’ the quote ran down his mind.
Stretching his back against the wheel chair, Mr. Patrick relaxed his nerves before picking up the remote control on his desk. He looked at it briefly before pressing the + button, increasing the volume of the French opera that had been playing on his home theatre. He raised his eyes to look at the plasma screen against the wall facing him. It annoyed him. Even as it stood hinged in the midst of the four cornered shelves of books, Mr. Patrick felt like pulling it down. Not the television itself, but the motion picture on it; it irritated him. As harmless as the picture seemed, Patrick felt mocked by it. It was a picture of a white man, blonde hair standing to a door of a mansion in a garden.

Did he actually have an idea of how they operated? He asked himself in reference to the novel’s quote. He looked at the screen again. The white man pressed his thumb against the doorbell once more but this time picking a quarrel with it. It was an interesting shot, Mr. Patrick mused.
Would they give up the search for him after…? Mr. Patrick adjusted himself on his seat, “Open the door for him” he said softly to a landline telephone next to the books on his desk, “…get ready to bring out the double” he added before resting his back once more.

Looking at his drawer desk, he dragged out the first edge, gazed at it then stretched his hand inside. It struck up an object and with relief, he sighed. Good, he said to himself.
What if this didn’t go as planned? He settled to ask himself weighing on the outcome. His eyes went through the novel and the object in the drawer to scale. It was a tough call, he concluded but it needed to be done; he decided and with that decision, resolved to pick up the object from the drawer. It was a .44 magnum semi-automatic 1969 pistol. He stared at it for minutes like his life depended on it then corked it before placing it on the underside of his wheelchair. The underside was another drawer itself. The door immediately kicked open before he could properly hide it.
“Sir, the man is inside…” the intruder said.
Instead of getting angry or upset and toning his voice up, the man remained calm bearing a soft voice, “Good. Let him wait there” he replied. Turning around, he held his arm up signaling the intruder to halt. He stared at the air for a wild moment before returning to the intruder, “…take him to the glass chamber and let him wait there” he suggested after having a thought spring into him.

Fixing the position of the pistol discreetly while the intruder’s eyes were away, Mr. Patrick adjusted himself. He let him go before sighing in relief or trepidation; that was left obvious to him.
Waiting for the door to close behind the intruder before wheeling off, Mr. Patrick took some time to look at his Study. He was about going to his glass chamber.
The glass chamber unlike Hitler’s was a wide room saliently made of glass in a Shakespearean way reminiscent of the Louvre of Paris. Although it did have some few types of furniture such as chairs, desks and computers made of wood and metal, its entire design was a translucent glass so clean that a tip toe would echo and leave the image of a would-be intruder sketched on its patches. The glasses were louvered in the form of library shelves and like a library shelf, had books stored in them. “Mr. Patrick!” a noise echoed from within almost as soon as Mr. Patrick made his entrance and his wheelchair came in sight. “You are a hard man to reach” the owner of the voice stepped out from behind the louvered shelves revealing a man in dark blue suit, blue eyes and golden hair. His skin was white that it was obvious he had gotten cancer from the louvers, and his accent, like one who had hot hair thrown into his throat and forced to confess a sin he didn’t commit.
“Agent Trump” Mr. Patrick called, faking a smile “…you finally trumped your mission” he added, wheeling closer to the blue suited man. “The file wasn’t there” the man proclaimed with his eyes flashing red as he got closer to Mr. Patrick; closing the gap that was once between them. Patrick wondered what he was going to, “…the C. I. A. files that were hacked weren’t in the galleria like you said. It was something else” the man glared around before finishing.
“Really…?”
“They tricked us” he finalized; with his British accent becoming thick. Thicker than pap and coming off strong, “We broke into the building all for nothing. Just some piece of shit containing facts on corrupt politicians and what not…” he struck a glass shelf closer to him hard and loud, forcing the glassed floor to shimmer. Mr. Patrick looked at it agape before forcing a smirk on his face. An expressionless face followed. The British man saw it and backed away, “Shit, they knew we were coming” he hit the ground softening his voice. He dropped a flash drive in the process. Mr. Patrick stared at him for seconds allowing the man act however he liked while thoughts raced his mind; “Look you’ve got to track the file back to where it could have been. Any potential buyer, seller…this is your country, man. You got to know how things work…” “Relax. The operation went as planned” Mr. Patrick finally spoke; looking at the British man in the eye. Intimidated, the man stepped back before returning to his previous position, “What?” he questioned, “How many of what I said did you not hear?”
“You stole the wrong file. Yes but that was the mission. That was the plan. What I didn’t tell you was a part of the plan was that, I had the file stolen…the day you landed in Nigeria” Mr. Patrick explained, tacitly counting his words while the Brit watched wondering when he would finish. Mr. Patrick adjusted himself on the wheelchair to let him know he already had.
“What? By the teleporter…?” agent Trump blinked after discovering a pepper had flown into his eyes. “No” Mr. Patrick rolled his wheels backwards, “Not only the C. I. A knows how to scheme…” he theorized. Surprised and somewhat confused, the Brit glared at the entire room again. A glass library? He exclaimed within his thoughts. The last place you’d think they’d have one, “Certainly not only the C. I. A know how to craft a glass library,” he said aloud.
“I knew you were being followed. I only needed to be sure” Mr. Patrick revealed, rolling to a computer screen much to the chagrin of the Brit. He pulled out images on the screen, revealing tough Caucasian men with brutish faces like men starved during the final world war; World war 10. “You’re C. I. A remember? You make enemies everywhere and have enemies everywhere. I couldn’t take the risk” Mr. Patrick reminded. The background on the image was that of an airport lounge filled with white people that became more of an interest for the Brit who stared on.
“You have the files then?” he turned, hoping.
“Yes indeed” Mr. Patrick said. He stared at the Brit then pulled his hand to the underside of his wheel chair. He touched the gun, stared back at the Brit then skipped it. He pulled out a flash drive that was next to it then handed it to the Agent.
Surprised, the British agent stared at the flash then at the man before receiving it. He turned to the computer screen then connected the flash to it.

Some encoded background encryptions dropped before him followed by some folders, which the Brit skimmed through before clicking on one that, read ‘Homo Veniens’.
The folder contained varieties of videos, which out of them, he played one. It revealed a woman getting captured by men dressed as extremists; hundreds of them then fire engulfing everywhere right down to the camera that had been recording the ordeal. It was authentic, the Brit said to himself.
“Then why have us stage the robbery and let dozens of your men die?” he asked in subtle skepticism. “Like I said; my plan” Mr. Patrick picked up the flash drive the Brit had earlier dropped to the floor in fury. “I needed to let you see things for yourself” he said.
He moved to the computer screen then inserted the flash drive to it.
“What?”
“The meta-man…I take it you saw him?” he asked
“And woman” the Brit corrected, “…meta-woman. Jesus, these freaks are everywhere. First it was knowledge then science, now…this needs to be contained. Remain secret, your government shouldn’t find out about them. And this hacker, you know him…they?” he continued, theorizing but not before dropping a question. By then Mr. Patrick was prepared; for everything and anything.
“He’s not a threat” he answered
“What do you mean he’s not a threat? However our files are secured from him or his organization, they still have knowledge on the classified data if not a copy. And as long as they do, my agency isn’t safe” the Brit clarified, “The world isn’t safe”
“The hacker isn’t your problem. The organization that made him do it is. Am sure he doesn’t even know what he hacked” the wheel chair man stressed.
“What organization is that?”

A deafening silence fell down as both men stared at each other; Mr. Patrick’s was much deeper, “One worse than ISIS, al-Qaeda combined that will make them look like a bunch of kids shitting in their pants. They rule the world, America, the oval office even without it knowing” Mr. Patrick explained, “Even the C. I. A itself” he adjusted himself to his chair.
Scoffing, the Brit turned to look at Patrick, “What do you mean?”
“Why so much interest in saving the world Mr. Trump? You’ve killed enough to earn a lunch invite from the devil while still alive. You don’t even see the value of life itself” Mr. Patrick mocked.
“…because I have a 2 room apartment in it. And even if I hate my land lord, I wouldn’t give anything for my 3D television and weekly CW shows” the Brit said with a straight face. He didn’t take the joke lightly.
“As much as I would love this organization destroyed and would want to be of help. I must admit, I know nothing about them” Mr. Patrick reverted to his sober mode, “Except…trust no one”
“And what about the other thing? The blood?” the Brit agent switched the subject, “Had every chance to take it at the scene. Shot the girl but the meta showed up”
“Your mission went awful. Against the rule” Patrick finalized.
“No witnesses remember?” the agent reminded
“The bystanders? The employees…? That was a total waste of body bags and land. There’ve been too many deaths and we don’t need too much corpses growing to claim land and space with the living. That would be bad. Fighting ourselves in wars then the dead? That would be World War Z”
“That was your men. They’re Africans. They think with their muscles move with their mouth” the Brit replied. Mr. Patrick swallowed his anger for his pride’s sake, “And you were the supposed leader of the mission. What does that make of you?” “A hunter trying to deal with wild dogs” the agent replied, “So, let’s cut the chit chat. Where’s the blood?” he went back to his statement. Calming, Mr. Patrick rested his back to his chair, rubbed his hand on the chair’s underside. “Like I said, I did promise you your files” he began; opening the underside carefully, slowly, quietly and unnoticeably, “…to an extent, the blood” he paused pulling out the gun, “What I didn’t say, was you leaving here with them” he finalized to the confused agent who rather stood waiting in expectation. Mr. Patrick readjusting himself, pulled out the pistol then fired three shots blindly.

The Brit holding his tummy, felt life run out of him in the form of blood. He fell to the floor immediately. Fear struck silence into remaining quiet once the Brit man’s blood stained the glass floor. The intruder came in immediately, “Chief” he said. “Replace his body with the decoy” Mr. Patrick commanded.
The man turned to his computer screen once the intruder was gone then inserted the CIA flash drive to the USB port. He tapped on some keyboard keys before settling to relax as he saw the URL load on his browser. Once it was finished, he opened a mailbox titled ‘alexnickel@gmail.com’. He sighed before transferring the files from the drive to the email. The only thing he had to do was watch it send.

The lights came on immediately a loud tap hit the wall. Though it was dawn, it felt like the sun was setting and the night, taking over. Chappi walked into the room removing his hand gloves. He sighed with his mask on as he gazed at the mess that was the room.

His mind that moment went to the lady at the alley and what she had said to him. She had the guts to judge him, he hissed kicking straight the newspaper in front of him. It was in his way. How dare she? Twice now he had rescued her and all she could do was taunt him. He even killed so he could protect her and the streets from further bloodshed and all she could do, was judge him. Not even a thank you; not that he needed it anyway.
He looked at the papers again, having calmed. They were all over the room. Squatting, he started picking them one by one, looking at the pictures, the texts and the graphics. All had one story—bad things happening to good people and good things happening to bad people. So much for karma, he sighed.

One particular headline on the papers piqued his interest though. Even if it had a similar story with the others, this was to him different. Unlike the others which he skimmed through quite swiftly, this was quite different as he turned the pages carefully, saliently and very much planned. The image on one of the pages that piqued his interest bore a picture of a damaged car stuck in a valley.

Governor Bankole’s Secretary Dies in car crash’ was the headline in a banner. Beneath it was another headline after all the stories the first had.
Was Governor Bankole’s Secretary’s death staged? Driver’s whereabouts unaccounted for’ that one read. Staring deep into the contents of the headline, Chappi mumbled a line from it, “…the late secretary early this week claimed to have had incriminating evidences concerning the governor and his schemes…what a country?” he sighed, breathing heavily that it appeared he was panting.
Could it have been…? another headline read. Underneath it was a paraphrase of a statement, Bankole was a thug; he raped me and killed my Uncle— Doyin the sub headline went.
Breathing in loud, Chappi raised his shoulders to exhale only to behold a man standing in front of him. Out of nowhere he seemed to have appeared from but Chappi relaxed once he knew how he got in. Not again, he hit his head.
“I was there when he gave him the money to kill him. 50 thousand dollars he counted and asked him to kill your father” the man said; his face stern and wrinkled of being a snitch, “The accident was no mistake. He also ordered your mother’s death and staged like a robbery. The thug that led the mission now stands for local government chairman”
“Why are you telling me all these?” Chappi saw himself asking, but rather it be with his voice, he found it was another that had dropped the question. It was his younger self-standing in front of him without a mask but face blurred.
“…because I want you to be free from all these, so you know your enemies and you stay away from them. Don’t do anything rash so they don’t know there’s still a member of the family left. The order was kill everyone. They will kill you if they find out” the man replied to Chappi’s younger self, advising it along the way. He stretched his right hand towards his shoulder to comfort him. Somehow, Chappi felt the man was talking to him presently in a mask, “….without a moment’s warning” the man ended in a much lower tone. “So I should just let the man who murdered everyone in my family go free?” Chappi questioned but still, it wasn’t in his voice. “What do you want to do? You think they will jail him?” the man’s eyes shortly flashed at him, “I lost my job because of this. You don’t think I too am offended?”
“That’s how the world we live in works son” another voice came in; much deeper than the 1st man’s and much louder. Chappi turned to look at the owner to see a tall man, light skinned and in native attire, get up from a well-furnished 3 sitter chair. How he came in, when he came in was beyond Chappi, “Politicians are criminals and criminals rule the world,” the man said.

And with his voice, it was obvious he was a media personality who ran a media outlet and had schooled abroad. For him to have said that meant he somehow knew about politics or was somehow involved in it. A thief can only know a thief; commonsense would tell that. Chappi bowed his head then raised it to see no one in the room. A moment of silence engulfed the room. Neither the snitch nor the media man or the three-sitter chair was there. Then Chappi realized he had far too long been staring at the newspaper. The last headline he saw on it being; Late Secretary to Governor Bankole properties seized for alleged fraud—Governor claim properties are state owned assets Chappi looked at the date of the paper ‘July 4th 2005’, he sighed. He dropped the paper again then picked another—Bankole’s Secretary arrested for fraud’ the headline caught his eyes. As if doubting its authenticity, he turned over the pages only to be struck by another; ‘Wife of Bankole’s Secretary takes to court over husband’s fraud scandal’ the headline read with the sub headline revealing in context a statement by the subject; ‘My husband is not a thief. He is a God-fearing man. Bankole is the thief. All will be revealed—Mrs. Oshiomagie’ Dropping the paper on top the previous one without reading, Chappi picked another. This time, he looked at the date before reading any headline. He was avoiding been imploded by the bombshell first, so he sought to take the bullet.

He took the bullet then went on for the bomb;
‘Armed robbers raid home of Governor’s ex Secretary accused of fraud; kill wife and entire family’ Mrs. Oshiomagie robbed and murdered in Abuja home by Armed robbers’
Death at a funeral; a sad end to the Oshiomagie’s’
Chappi read in sporadic order. He panted before turning the pages over once more;
‘Lawyer drops lawsuit as Appeal court closes case of the Oshiomagie’s’ he looked at the last headline then closed the paper. He flung it away immediately before rubbing his hands over his head. Looking at the window, he took a few steps towards it, folds his hand into a fist then holds it straight at the window. He paused when he realized there was no need for the act. He looked at his fist before dropping it.

Falling to the ground rather timidly, Chappi hoped for it to swallow him. But instead, the floor stood still staring at him. Vexed, he pulled the rug to himself forcing it to swallow him. Still it refused. It was as if the floor held its own grudge against him.
Resolving to leave the floor alone, Chappi stretched his right hand over his head aiming to pull of the mask. But before he could do it, something asked him to look opposite where he sat. There was a body lying upon the floor barring how cold it was. Maybe the person itself was cold.
Without a moment’s warning, Chappi pulls himself up once again walking towards the body. It was Funke’s but was it still Funke’s? Struggling to figure out the puzzle, he knelt in front of it before rubbing his hand against the body’s neck; hoping to feel its temperature. Sighing, he pulled the body back to the bed before running to the wardrobe. He brought out some first aid kits and other medical equipments before dropping them in front of the bed to administer the girl. He touched her skin again. This one was his fault, he admitted.

LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY
Agnes’ eyes stretched open to the sight of a wall clock staring at her and a table with a tray on it nearest to her leg. She stared at it for seconds till she noticed something strange with the atmosphere around her. The odor was bad and the colors were bleak. She turned her eyes around to be certain only for a sting on her belly to give things away. She looked up to see a woman in a white lab coat in front of her. The sting on her belly increased, spreading to her waist.
“Good morning” the woman greeted
“What time is it?” Agnes replied turning her eyes to the opposite direction to be sure she wasn’t in the afterlife. She saw a drip bag hovering above her and medical instruments spread over the room with a desk closest to her. Maybe she gave the wrong reply, she thought. “7:46” the doctor replied, “How are you feeling now? You almost lost a lot of blood last night” “Where am I?” Agnes struggled to get up but found herself restrained. She looked closely to find the drip stitched to her hand. She tried to mumble but the woman held on to her shoulder.
“You are in Trinity’s Clinic and Medical centre. You came last night” the woman said, smiling. Could it have gotten that bad; Agnes soliloquized as she stared at the woman.
“What am I doing here?” for a moment, Agnes felt she knew but then, relaxed when she discovered her mind was blank. Maybe it needed a warm up, she reasoned as she noticed bleak images flying right into her mind. They were meaningless yet felt so important. “You are here…” the doctor paused, allowing Agnes’ mind to settle before continuing, “You came here for treatment” she corrected. Agnes felt something didn’t add up or wasn’t adding up.
Then suddenly she realized what it was.
“…My phone” she forced herself up, “Where is my phone?”
“You shouldn’t get up. The injury on your side hasn’t healed” the doctor forced her back to the bed. There was one thing the woman didn’t quite get, Agnes thought as she struggled. She couldn’t afford losing the phone no matter what. “You don’t understand. I need that phone” she stressed, holding the doctor’s hands in firm grip. She stared at the woman with a massive surge of energy running through her eye balls. “My life depends on the phone” she said.

Sighing, the doctor stared at her for minutes, shook her head then stepped away from Agnes. Oh God, she reasoned. My phone is gone, the thought invaded her mind. What am I going to do? Where is it? Who would be in possession of it now? Did that guy find it? Oh he found it—the thoughts rushed as she stared at the woman. She started imagining all weeks, months of thorough research and planning being futile.
“We found this bag with you” the doctor cut in, pulling Agnes back to reality. She held a familiar bag in her hand giving Agnes some sort of relief. But where is the phone? “We also found you holding this in your hand while unconscious. The boys who brought you in guessed they may be yours” the woman held up a phone to Agnes which she had grabbed from the desk beside her. Agnes wasted no time in snatching it, first to see if it was her’s and secondly…she tapped the screen twice to see an image on it. She scrolled twice to see other images. She sighed. “Thank God”
“So what happened to you last night? Were you in a fight?” the doctor asked. Images flashed at Agnes again. “No…no” she adjusted herself on the bed. She was scared of the drip somehow forcing its way out of her. It wasn’t as if she was worried of the syringe though, but the Doctor injecting it to her skin again should it fall off. “I—I can’t remember” she mumbled through her nose. The doctor looked at her for minutes, knowing how awful the comment sounded yet hard to believe. Agnes sighed once more realizing the woman wouldn’t digest that. She glared around; she wanted to maintain that act no matter how bad she was in it. Who cared about an Oscar? “What happened?” she played dumb.
“We found you just outside the gate in your own pool of blood with injuries all over. At first we thought it was a hit and run but the stab wound on your stomach, your head wound proved otherwise” the doctor answered, playing coy, hoping Agnes one way or the other would come clean. Agnes touched the back of her head, “Your injuries itself proves this was more than a fight. Were you raped?” Agnes stared on, rubbed her breasts. She allowed minutes to pass without talking only listening to the beeping of her heart rate as they came from the monitor. She opened her mouth to talk but closed them. She did it again but found same thing still happened, she felt it best to close her mouth afterwards.
“I don’t know” she finally let out. That seemed to be the perfect answer. For if she had said ‘Yes’ it would’ve led to an interview session and if she had said ‘No’ it would’ve led to more questions and worse, the woman demanding what happened to her shirt and why it was like that. The shirt surprisingly was hanging behind her on another string with blood stains on it.

Agnes raised her head upwards to look at the shirt’s silhouette, sighed then closed her eyes. The doctor breathed in and out to mimic Agnes’ mood and to voice what actually she thought was going on in the young woman’s mind. “You shouldn’t be shy to talk about it” she said. Agnes said nothing. She stared on. Sighing, the doctor turned her eyes and backed away, “…so much violence has been laid against women that the justice system needs to be aware of” she said.
The doctor made it seem it wasn’t Agnes she was referring to but Agnes knew better.
“See, there was this patient who came to us back then. This woman was in an abusive relationship. Time and time again she would come with all manner of wounds, injuries and whenever we asked her, she said nothing. Continuously she kept coming, still in silence then soon she stopped. Months later we heard she died” the doctor turned to Agnes then started pouring syrup into a tea spoon, “If she had said something then, who knows, she may still be alive”
“Who said the justice system isn’t aware of what’s going on?” Agnes questioned, interrupting. Ironically she found herself becoming the interviewer. The doctor looked at Agnes and sighed. She wanted speaking but paused, “It’s because they don’t want to do anything” Agnes clarified showing sparks of fury. Surprisingly, she found herself sounding like Chappi. She toned down at the realization. She had almost started seeing things in a different light before shaking it off.

Still, that was unjust, she said to herself thinking about something else. She found herself caught in the middle of the concepts; Law and Justice. And she wondered in one way if the two were right or one more than the other. She found it perplexing realizing no matter how those two seemed to match, never really got together. They were 2 separate notions that conflicted.

“That’s because women hardly do anything to change that. Isn’t it surprising that no matter the era we live in, Nigeria is that part of the world where violence against women is seen as a normal thing and nothing is done about it? Sometimes we women are our own enemy” the doctor finally replied holding the tea spoon of syrup to Agnes mouth. Agnes stared for some minutes picturing what the woman had said. Maybe she was right. She opened her mouth to receive the syrup. “Whenever you feel free to talk about…”
That moment everything fell silent and mute to Agnes as her eyes immediately sailed into the blank. It listened to screeches that came from within her ears. She looked at the doctor to see her mime and mumble without any idea what she was saying. She closed her eyes again for the last time.

Shriving at the bloody sight, Agnes found it necessary to call on her lord, “Christ!” though meekly. Realizing that was the intended plan for her all along, she forced herself up while the gang busied themselves with the identity of the recently crafted corpse of the once alive man. She thought in order to make her run quiet and unnoticed; she had to pull of her shoes. She did. Though her intentions were smart, that didn’t stop the gang from finding out and taking after her. “Catch am!” Eulogy yelled.

The shortest corking his pistol once again, fired several shots at Agnes. Although not intended to meet her, Agnes managed to duck every shot meant to incapacitate her. The bullets bounced of several surfaces in consolation.
The chase still went on and Agnes luckily, was able to cover several paces before running into a dead end in a different block. Arranging herself and her clothes, she prepared herself for whatever came next.
The gang’s footsteps still sounded in her ears. It was the only thing she felt or paid attention to. She stood against the walled up corner and panted, she cursed when she found it was really a close end with little to no chance. Turning back, she resolved not to go back as she looked on.

Their footsteps were still racing and this time, came along with gunshots. She closed her eyes, shut her arms to the air then opened her eyes again. She felt the ground should open and swallow her.
Having used up much of her adrenaline, Agnes found her blood kicking through her chest, ready to burst itself out and away from danger. Gasping, she bellowed to calm everything down but then realized for one reason or the other, things had slowed down for a meek start. She felt smoke in her eyes. It was the atmosphere. Like that, everything remained till minutes later. A loud excruciating scream flew into nights minutes later followed by another, this time twice.
Gunshots triggered once again, followed by loud bangs that were difficult to distinguish from gunshots. They weren’t gunshots though. Were they tricking her? Agnes thought as she stood for minutes. Then everything went static.

Glaring at where she was, a pillar of fear surrounded her. She resolved to rather make a move than wait and die from a stray bullet or worse, curiousity. Staggering, she walked back to where she ran from. She felt her feet itching and piercing as she walked barefooted on the rocky ground.
“Aargh…!” a much more agonizing scream rose again, almost before she could take another step. It came in a crescendo that forced her into stepping on a piece of broken bottle. Quack—she heard in front of her. It wasn’t her leg, she reasoned. It was few paces from where she stood.
Breathing in, she forced herself to make another step but then her right foot caught on to something. Or rather, it kicked something. Bending to see what it was, she found her handbag. Next to it were her fallen items, her phone and a body.
She picked up the phone, tapped the screen for a flash light to see whose body it was. It was Eulogy’s with his skull bashed open. Pity engulfed her. Shriving in fright at how lifeless and gory it was, she pointed her phone in front of her. Someone was standing before her. It was someone masculine but not quite muscular and in a mask. In short, it was Chappi; Agnes recalled the codename Chuks had given him. She pointed her flashlight phone at him again. A body stood hovering above him. And on it was blood flowing all over as Chappi held to it with one hand.

Stepping backwards, she covered her mouth immediately with both hands. She did that so to prevent herself from unknowingly screaming. Something she eventually did, though much coded.
Her voice that instance took on the tone of a whisper. She tightened the grip on her mouth once more. Tears ushered itself from her eyes as she looked on. The masked figure stared back.
“What…what are you?” she stammered, “Why did you do this? Are you even human at all?” she stressed, bellowing while holding her side. “Don’t. Don’t you have a heart?”

Chappi ignoring her dropped the body to the floor.
“So this is what this is all about?” Agnes reasoned from what she got as she took cue from what Chuks had told her. She put it in theory. “…to see who could create the most terror? Who would be a force to be reckoned with? The one with the greatest kill and damage?” she blurted out.
At first, she was angered by the sight but then she became much angrier with the fact he ignored her. All these had happened because of him and all he could do was to kill?
He looked at Agnes then all that was around him then back at her, “Don’t judge me. I just saved your life” he said, caring more to stress the fact. What? Agnes’ eyes sparked.
“You saved me?” she questioned, staring at him to be sure they were on the same page “By killing these…these thugs, do you know what you just did? You just placed me in the cross fire. The fire you started” she felt it best to explain in plain terms and stress out what he saw as a favor.

Paying less attention to the fact or rather happy to be in oblivion, he shook his head “Would you have preferred if I had let them kill you?” he dropped. Nonchalant as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I was already dead before you came. You didn’t save me. If you thought you saved me, you didn’t. You just used that as a pretext to show off” she corrected. Agnes always felt the need to correct people especially when they were wrong. Even to the extent of forgetting herself. No one judges himself. “What happened to leaving them for the police? What happened to justice?” she questioned. Prompted to step into the spotlight, Chappi scoffed inside his mask as he took few steps forward though away from the spotlight. That moment Agnes’ hand touched the screen of her phone, starting an application. It flashed few bright lights then stopped.
“I tried that. It didn’t work. That’s why you are here talking now” he said.
“Do you know how many lives you have risked…by killing them?”
“20 more thugs who wish to intimidate defenseless people and rape young women” For one thing, Agnes wanted him to keep talking but as he did, it made her belly hurt more, vexing her. Chappi stared back; “You think am doing this for glory, status, power or something?” he turned to question, raising his voice while letting his eyes tell his mood. Not that anyone would see it though. “I get nothing from it. What I get is what the society would if the police and the justice system took their job seriously” he clarified, making Agnes green all the more. “Do you know how many lives were lost because of these fools? How many that could have? That happened because I tried to do the right thing” Chappi continued before pausing. If Agnes was going green, he was already red. “That body I just dropped now maimed 6 girls below the age of 15. With his tiny dick, he raped many girls as far as you can imagine. Now you can go about condemning me or questioning if am human or my morality, remember who saved you from sleeping in a coffin” he uttered, plain and sharp before turning to walk away. He had his own story and neither does she know of it. Why judge him?
“For god sake you have destroyed things, people in your so called quest” Agnes stressed, reminding she too had a story, “At first I thought you were doing good. I argued that you were good but this isn’t good” she finalized, pointing at Eulogy’s already rotting corpse with her flashlight. It beamed again.
“Sometimes in a jungle, jungle justice is necessary. Like they say, Lagos is a jungle. If you can’t stand the jungle, leave” he looked at the bodies with a careless glare then turned back on them and at Agnes. He was already making his leave.
“Whether you know it or not lives have been lost in your name. Properties, people have been crippled. If I were you, it will give me sleepless nights. If I was human” Agnes called at his back; shouting if it’ll help ring the bell.

No matter what, Agnes knew right from wrong and hated when people tried to cloak it. Maybe she was wrong, she thought. “Call 9’ eleven next time” Chappi responded without turning back.
As dark as the night was, it was clear he didn’t care for anything Agnes had said. He only replied while walking because he felt the urge to stress the fact.
Few paces from Agnes who found herself rather overwhelmed, he ran atop a fence in front of him. He stood for seconds before running atop the hurdled roofs that lay hinged and devoid of people inside. Agnes’ phone flashed at him from behind its screen.
While holding her belly and hunching, Agnes stared at her phone’s screen. The picture of the guy stood bolded on it; revealing in every way. “Ah…” she sighed slumping to the ground. Checking her heart rate, Agnes found her heart was kicking with few pumps; pumps that were about sending hiccups through her throat. She coughed out to halt it but then discovered something else holding her back. What? She tried again. Then again till it became the fourth time, still nothing happened. It was at the 5th time she had tried to cough out that she sensed a reaction. Something weird forced its way from her mouth making her yelp in reaction. She stared at it to know what it was only to see blood. The sight sent chills down her spine to her belly as she watched. Forcing herself up, she made the decision to leave that premises. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed though and when she finally did, she found herself at the gate post of a clinic. Trinity’s was the name and once she saw it, she fell to the floor. “Help!” she struggled to call out before blacking out. The only thing with her was her subconscious and in it, she heard the faint screeches of fantasy. She was sure it was death.

The neighbourhood was serene, the air calm and the atmosphere welcoming but with one thing wrong; Agnes’ mind. It wasn’t as cheering as it used to be. Or maybe it was because it was 7:15pm. So many things were coming in and out of her mind. Her thoughts weren’t straight, her feelings weren’t clear. The only thing that was sure with her was her search for No 17 Olubade Crescent. Sure she was in Iyana Ipaja but there doesn’t seem to be an Olubade Crescent let alone a No 17. The only thing that came similar to Olubade was Ayoade and it wasn’t a Crescent. It was a street. And worst of all, the houses weren’t numbered but structured in blocks. Agnes had spent minutes around this neighborhood that it would be okay if one stopped her to ask for directions not minding if she was a stranger. She had crossed every nook and cranny that the term ‘resident of the street’ would be an understatement for her. There were people but she didn’t want to say ‘hello’ let alone ask for directions. That might have been easier. She soon got to a stop, the very place she had started her trek; not for any other thing but to clear her mind. Maybe she was taking this whole thing too far. She brought out her phone and logged on to her email account; as if that would be of any help. She clicked on to the Alex Nickel email, read the message once again then started typing him a reply.

Do you believe people with superhuman abilities exist? She sent. Agnes shook her head due to the ridiculousness of the message and the person she sent it to. It might seem so but that was the fact.
You mean—Powers? She looked at her phone to see Alex Nickel’s response.
Yes. I know it’s silly but…She typed back.
The world is silly. Are you just finding out? Nickel’s replies were much faster than her’s that she sat looking for the right response to give and to make meaning of what he typed.
She looked around to remind herself of why she was there and what the time was. She couldn’t afford to be late today again. She rose up and started walking again. This time she made up her mind to ask for directions and thus settled for the first friendly face she saw. Luckily there were 2 guys opposite her standing in front of a barber shop. They looked calm, she reasoned. Without hesitation, she went straight to them. “Good evening. Please am looking for an Olubade crescent. I don’t know if it’s around here. I have…” she began, pausing when she saw a large shadow casted in front of her on the floor. She felt a presence behind her. She stared at it for minutes while the 2 boys watched without a word. She resolved to turn back to see who it was. Her lungs almost flew right out of her mouth. It was a large man with bandaged head, an injured eye that was half closed.

“Waka!” one of the 2 boys standing in front of her said.
She turned to look at him when she felt something poking at her. It was a pistol and the guy was holding it at her. Then, she realized the second guy too had a gun. He revealed it to her to ensure compliance while the first did to advise her against any smarty act. Agnes found herself lost in thoughts trying to identify who the large guy was till she realized it was Eulogy himself. By then she couldn’t even reason any longer.
“You hear wetin him tell you abi you no hear?” he asked.

Agnes had to play along. She followed them to where they led her knowing full well the consequences and what she was in for. Her adrenaline started misbehaving as she found it hard to think.
They led her like a robot to a secluded corner devoid of any one and strong with the night. It was like history found no other use but to repeat itself.
“Look…” she started, stepping backwards with each footstep while raising hands up hoping to calm the situation. Her imaginations that instance settled on everything being a misunderstanding that could no matter what, be settled out; if it was so. A second look at Eulogy’s face jogged her back to reality, “Am sorry” she thought it best to say.
Instead of reacting or responding, they halted staring at her for seconds in silence. Agnes looked at the 3rd guy who was the shortest then Eulogy. That moment she became overwhelmed by guilt. “I-I-didn’t…” she started but before she could finish, Eulogy had flung his large arm hefty of years of experience on the street at her. It didn’t sound to her but literally, it was loud. Agnes shrived, bellowing once she realized she felt pain on her cheek. She was unsure of what actually happened but she knew what happened. Eulogy and his gang looked on to see if their action had registered. Agnes got up, shook her hair then looked on. Their action had indeed registered.

Moved by her response, Eulogy bolded up once more “Na me you carry your boyfriend come mend bah? Ehn?” he pulled Agnes by the neck forcing her towards him.
She couldn’t bear the odor that came out of him that she sniffed out the one she had inhaled, “He is not my boyfriend!” she corrected. She flashed her eyes at him while she struggled to talk and hide her emotions. That angered Eulogy the more. He looked at her while tightening his grip on her neck, then slammed her head against the wall.
“Shut up!” he barked.
Pausing, he felt embarrassed hearing the echo of his voice as it reminded him of a dog forcing his way out from a leech. Vexed by the notion, he banged Agnes’ head against the wall again. This time harder, “You want set me up ehn?” he barked again, honking his shoulders, “For yah mind you reason say you smart. You bring your John cripple Tekene. Break Sobowale nose, injure Sambisa…” he continued then paused when he saw her bleeding from the nose.

That didn’t stop him though; instead he found that as reassurance. Both to his ego and the injury on his head, “…bury Oneh on top hospital bed. Make who pay?” he continued; unwilling to stop as he stared head on at Agnes. She stared back but this time her eyes had lost their spark taking on a new hue. Still, she was determined, hoping that would prompt them into leaving her once they felt she couldn’t be intimidated. It would’ve worked though. That is if it was in the goddamn 90s. “Who want do the burial?” Eulogy sparked, spitting saliva on her. A small trace of red liquid trailed down Agnes’ nose. She stood still hoping to overcome it as she panted. Her eyes darted once more on everything and everyone as she looked at nothing in particular.

Seeing the red liquid from Agnes’ nose once again, Eulogy pulled her head closer to him to be sure it was what he thought. He raised his left leg up once he found his answer then stroked it against Agnes’.
At first it appeared he had lost it but when Agnes lost balance, it became obvious Eulogy had intended using her as the street ball. In this case instead of a street ball, Agnes fell to the floor like a tree rooted to the ground. To her it felt quick but to them, it was like forever before she hit the floor.
The shortest guy didn’t wait though he rushed to her before Eulogy could continue; then at the last minute like a white knight raised his leg against her tummy, “Who want hire Fada make him pray for the corpse?” he yelled.

Agnes groaned realizing she had actually brought all these upon herself. She started to rethink her stance and actions on things; so many things. Nothing agony couldn’t do. The red liquid from her nose finally dropped to the floor. The moon made it evident. She looked at it then found tears had somehow rolled from her eyes. How many at once? She asked.
The short guy kicked her once again.
“Am-am-am sorry…I didn’t mean it to…” she struggled to say while grabbing at the floor. It was then she knew what it meant to live in the 21st century. The General tried to warn her.
“You see wound wey I carry for head?” Eulogy came at her again questioning. He removed the bandage holding his head to reveal a serious cut that had shaped or rather reshaped his head. The flesh that was first attached to it appeared to have been peeled off to reveal yet another skin. But this one was oozing out blood. For one, any who saw it would be tempted to call it the second layer of skin. That is if the person hadn’t closed his eyes. Agnes did and that instance, an outburst of emotion set in as she began trembling. Her fingers were uncontrollably fretting as they lost their sense of touch and balance. They shivered rapidly and irritably that Eulogy had to step on them. He pulled Agnes once more, up against himself then took out his famed knife.
“You don die…” he pointed the knife at her in close range, poising for an attack.

He stared for seconds to calculate the best spot to strike; her eyes, the top of her skull, her neck, her firm breasts that were beating and rising with high level of adrenaline or her belly. It was flat and it would stick well. But that would be quick, too quick; Eulogy reasoned. He pulled Agnes once again as she stared, with eyes now blinking. The red substance was all over her; her lips, her clothes, her nose were all soaked in it. Perspiration served as detergent.
Her feeble sobs sailed into the night as Eulogy looked on. Agnes stopped once she saw he was about letting her go. Eulogy released his grip slowly and gently while his two boys watched. Others joined that moment from out of nowhere thus increasing their number. Distracted, Eulogy released Agnes against the wall again but hardly. Like the millionth time, she struck her head against the hard surface. The wall itself vexed with her as it complained to her hearing. Agnes was unable to hear it though. In this situation, she was unable to hear anything or respond to anything. She felt like paper being tossed around with no effect. Eulogy standing like one who had come to his senses, stretched his knife forward.

He looked at Agnes one more time, somewhat with pity, but before he could fully give his life to morality, he forced the knife at Agnes. Slash—it sounded and Tuff, Eulogy withdrew it. Agnes stared on. At first everything was alright but then,
“Aargh!” she yelled to the glory of her voice.
Agnes fell to the floor; rose up to the wall again with her back rested on it then forced herself towards Eulogy. She raised her right foot with spontaneity against his groins. She didn’t know how but it felt she had kicked a hard ball, hard. She relaxed to the wall again to console herself for such feats.
Eulogy fell to the floor in shamed defeat in front of Agnes. Rather than rejoice for such feats, Agnes drew her bag then flung it against the 2 other boys who rushed up to her. She held her belly in support while the 2 boys ducked. This was her chance, she reasoned seeing there were now 2 obstacles in front of her; the 2 that had recently joined the gang. She did the same thing but unfortunately they had predicted her move. One grabbed hold of her bag while the second at her.
“Come here. You no dey go…” he pulled her towards him hugging her tight. He brought out his tongue and started licking her neck ferociously. Reciprocating to the sentiment, Agnes brought forth her teeth to his neck also. Instead of licking it, Agnes bit it off. “Chisos…!” the guy ran backwards.

Agnes saw her chance that moment. She still held on to her belly though.
“Una allow am run?” Eulogy finally got up from the back end barking as usual. He had finished mourning the loss of his dick. And the night itself consolidated him as it darkened itself around him. “Teju your father!” he assailed the guy who Agnes had stroke with her teeth, “Catch am” he commanded.
Taking Eulogy’s command as lord and law, the boy regained his balance though out of malice than compulsion and took after Agnes. The rest followed in full chase. The bitten guy was the one with the most advantage though and utilizing such opportunities, he launched himself at Agnes.

Like a lion bouncing on its prey, he dragged Agnes to the ground along with himself. She fell to the ground on her back.“You think say you go comot here alive?” he said defending himself against her clawed attacks.
When he became tired of what he saw as pre-intimacy, he restrained her with full force and tore the shirt she had on. The buttons sprang out of its strap flying at him. He did the same to her leggings but in this case, pulled them down to her knee level. He smiled before rubbing his hand over her breasts while watching Agnes fight on.
“You dey craze…? You dey try me?” Eulogy pulled the bitten guy off Agnes. He slapped him then pushed him to the ground. He paused to see if the boy would react but he rather bellowed. “Where she dey…?” Eulogy came at Agnes again when she thought he had come to her rescue. “Who be that?” that moment everything fell dead as the question came. It was neither from Eulogy, his gang nor Agnes. “Ehn…?” the voice repeated sharp and thick with an Edo accent.

The voice was disembodied but its volume high and closing in, “Who them no born well wey stand for my backyard? You dey mad?” the voice revealed itself showing a short man standing in for it in white singlet. The glowing bulb in the distance made the color look brownish though. His face was hidden but his figure wasn’t.
Finally, Agnes sighed. Somebody to my rescue, she thanked her stars.
“Na me…!” Eulogy replied hitting his chest.
Vexed by the response, the man increased his pace towards them, “Who you be?” he questioned, making it look more of a command. Provoked, the shortest guy amongst the first batch that had joined Eulogy pulled out his pistol before the man could wait for an answer. He wasted a whole load of bullets into him. “Shege!” he said.

In the masked guy’s attempt to block the rays of the sun, he tripped his right foot against the table beside him that was filled of books, journals and newspapers. In response, it flew right above him over the air towards the ceiling that was almost 20 feet high. It knocked off the bulb that had been standing alone minding its business. Everything that was once on the table came right down at him. He caught the table with a hand but failed to catch the books. In a consecutive order, the books fell first then the newspapers. He sighed. “I no know oh. Bros, later. I go advice you make you run. Na army on 2 fronts” the calmed voice resolved to complete his speech, rather out of fear. It appeared it had heard the noise that had come from the masked man’s room.

The masked man was rather worried at the mess he had created as he looked at everything on the floor. For one, the Alcata gangs were deadly and Eulogy killing one of them with a cop meant the streets would be bloody. Worse, Eulogy was after the lady. Something must be done—the masked man thought knowing full well what was on. He kicked at a newspaper that was on the floor nursing its own pain. It flung up before landing itself on the masked man in rage.
Funke too scared to emote any expression while watching the person, lied firmly on the bed. The masked man moved out from his position in annoyance.
At first, Funke thought he was coming for her only for him to walk out of the door. This was her chance, she thought. Suddenly she felt the weight of everything upon her body and her back rooted to the mattress. At first, it appeared as a joke but when every timid attempt to shift a torso or muscle became futile, she knew something was in her.
The agony was there for sure but Funke was less concerned of it and more on her failing breath. It soon became the perfect moment for her eyes to start laying tricks on her as every inanimate object in the room came to life.
The little strength in her was starting to drain. Or was it, sanity?

THE REST AFTER THE STORM
At first when the sounds came, they felt faint but when it repeated itself, it became obvious it was the bell of dawn. Funke’s eyes sprang open immediately the tender touch came to her left side. So calm it was she wondered what it meant or who it was. The images around were faint and blurry, the sounds timid yet she felt something familiar. The pain on her side—she moaned. She thought it was all a dream. Or was it? She pulled her hand towards her stomach to be sure, only to be met by a restraint. It was a hand—a firm hand, so hard a blind man would mistake for stone.

In it was a warm wet cloth rubbing itself over her hand and stomach; “Careful. You are bleeding” a voice warned, “The bullet penetrated your abdomen. It fractured some bones. It took some time to get it out. So, don’t make any move” the voice continued, advising Funke who lied somber with fingers trembling and eyes darting to be free.
It took some time for her to know what exactly was happening till the masked person came in sight; then she knew she was done for. “I…I don’t have it” she confessed. Looking at the person, she knew full well not to expect mercy. Was this Patrick’s way of making sure everything fell in line? Or was it a way to keep her in check by having her monitored?

Still, he saved her life which was something to be thankful of except she wasn’t. She shouldn’t be thankful yet knowing what was ahead. She looked here and there for an alternative then at the masked person. The mock grin on his mask made it difficult to know what he was going to do. He stared at her again, this time for long before backing away removing the hand gloves on his hands. Maybe this would be the clue, Funke thought looking on.
That was all she could do; look, twist her head and pant. The rest of her body was stiff like they didn’t belong to her or that someone had placed a password that would require a code for her to move.
“Rest…you still need to heal” the masked man said.
He moved to the curtain that was opposite Funke, drew it gently then hid behind it. From where he stood, he had a great view of the neighbourhood; the thin hot smoke that floated around, the chirping of birds and the meek sounds of women that came from a hidden source.

He sighed, looking at his hands then the window again. He turned to Funke. Their eyes jammed but she turned her’s away immediately. He refused to do likewise though. Instead he preferred to stare at every inch and aspect of her body allowing himself to go lost in thought. Something brought him back though. It wasn’t the girl but it was something; a noise. He looked at the window again. Everything went silent once more. He decided looking at the wall opposite him, the wall papers on them and the spoilt clock hovering on it before something caught his attention again. It was a spider. It fell off from a reasonable height to the floor, rubbed itself against the rug then continued. He sighed. The noise came once more but this time, they were disembodied voices talking at each turn. One was calm and in sibilant whispers, the other loud and raspy. The raspy one spoke first. “Guy wetin dey happen na? Why guys dey run from area na?” it said. Its pitch commanding all that stood around it. “Street don rugged oh. Kunle don finally craze, the guy don go kill 2 Alcata guys and one Olopa for junction yesterday” the calmed voice replied, “You know as e dey be, them go soon begin find us” it continued with fear obviously backing him up one way or the other. “Wetin happen?” the raspy one was quite persistent and relaxed.

The calmed one didn’t like it though, “Boss logic. I no get time. I no want make those guys find me” it said, its tone almost fading to oblivion. “Ah-ah…Ogbeni, wait now. Wetin happen?” the raspy was in time to hold it.
The masked man sighed by his window, turned to where Funke was then back at the window. “They say na one girl oh. Say she set Kunle up make one guy come mend am and him boys for corner. They say na Zekeri. Some say na Dotun. Nai Kunle go kill him boys. They never find Zekeri but them still dey look for the girl” the calmed one had suddenly found the courage to go on as it stood on explaining itself. The voice itself wondered how that was even possible till it reasoned the confidence of the raspy one could be the reason behind it.
“Who be the girl self? You know am?”
A bright light from the sun peered through the window towards where the masked man stood. “…no oh them say she tall. Yellow…she no lepa like…” the calmed voice replied before halting.

A hand reached for the doorbell pressing it thrice before pulling away. Ding-dong, is anybody home? Agnes waited for the reply as she pulled herself to the side of the wall in a chaste manner. Before she could think of rubbing her back against the wall, the door flung open. “Yes who is it?” a short guy answered the door
“It’s Agy. Is Lillian here?” she replied.
The short guy nodded before closing the door back again. What was the point? Agnes wondered. Few seconds the boy came back again, “You can come inside” he said, inviting her in. Catholics with protocols, Agnes shook her head as she looked around her seeing photographed paintings, the sculptures and the design of the house. Somewhere within, an air conditioner was, blowing chilled air as she followed the guy’s lead inside. They arrived in a small room before the living room, a passage to be more precise and from there she started hearing echoes of Lillian’s voice. Hot, fast and loud it sounded that she wondered whom it was she was quarrelling. The short guy stopped mid steps then showed her the direction. It seemed that was as far as he could go or maybe he sensed what was coming.
Agnes not paying attention to the guy, walked in gently. Her first sight was Lillian sitting beside a man in white robe. Her face was stern. Before she could go further in or picture the appearance of the man and his face, Lillian moved from her position then towards Agnes. Agnes pulled up her hands ready for a hug. But instead of Lillian pulling her arms too, she paused in front of Agnes then slapped her. If it wasn’t for the ceiling fan that had still been rolling, one would’ve mistaken it for a spark of electricity. But the fan for sure, succeeded in masking the sound. It was the kind a fellow girl like Agnes would term, ‘slapping one hot on the cheek’. The only thing left for the victim to cling on to was the scar that would later appear.

But Lillian didn’t stop there. She released another one; aimed at Agnes’ right cheek, leaving her confused on her stance on things. Lillian was only following the law of Jesus and that appeared to be why the man in robe didn’t make efforts to say anything. His only moment of action was when Lillian drew her hand for another hit to defy Jesus’ law that the man got up. “What eh…? What were you thinking?” Lillian vented.
“Calm down. Calm down. Sister calm down, give her a chance to explain herself” the man moved to hold up Lillian’s hand. In his grip he felt her adrenaline and rage.
“What were you thinking going about chasing boys? Eh, ruffians. Did you think anything good could come of it?” Lillian yelled further, “Did you know I almost lost my life because of you?”
“Calm down and give her a chance to explain” the man begged. He looked at Lillian then Agnes. She was silent only with her hand to her cheek.

Agnes found it hard to believe or know where she was. She knew she was standing but it felt like she was floating. Taking a turn around, she thought best to retrace her footsteps back to where or how she came. It led her outside then to the garden then the gate, then finally to her car. She opened it, sat inside, and sighed. Tears started rolling down her eyes. The rear view mirror mocked at her imitating her actions while she watched.

“Chimamanda…! Chimamanda…!” she slowly called. She hoped that would stop the person but instead she continued walking. “We shouldn’t be seen talking. They are watching. You should leave. This neighbourhood is not safe. They are looking for you” the person rather said still walking ahead without stopping.

Frustrated, Agnes paused to vent her anger. She was confused yet clear on the whole thing but she needed to hear the lady’s version of the story. She looked ahead of her to see the lady paces away from her, “Who are those looking for me? What happened that I should leave? Why are you so scared?” she rattled.
Surprisingly the lady stopped. She turned back, leaving Agnes to wonder how the lady got to know her. “Didn’t you hear what happened? People died because they were looking for you. Now they know where you live so I suggest you run. Adekunle and his gang would be there. You better find somewhere else” the lady explained. But Agnes was still left startled.
“Why would they be looking for me? What did I do?”
“Are you not Lillian’s friend?” the lady flung the question at her. Agnes stepped back in shock. And here she was, thinking no one knew her. How? “They said you set them up and brought someone to beat them. Eulog—Adekunle said he left 2 of his boys handicapped and he has promised to do the same to you”
“God. I didn’t. I didn’t set anybody up. I didn’t” Agnes started arguing then stopped once she saw the lady was rather uninterested, “Jesus…how? How did they know me? How are they sure I was the one?” she didn’t know when she mentioned the word.
“These streets have ears. And Adekunle tortured some people including Lilly” the lady revealed, “He did this to me” she stretched up her sleeves to an arm size to reveal a red scar. Her skin tone made its color a disfigurement on her body.

Shocked, Agnes started grasping the picture. A lot had gone down last night. The most shocking was the fact that Lillian was among those who suffered the wrath, “My God” she found religion, “Where is Lillian now?”
“I don’t know. She escaped. Someone came to her rescue. No one has seen her” the lady said. She was now looking at everywhere. Her legs were now itching to move, “Take my advice as the first person to have seen that guy that wears mask and can do things people wouldn’t believe. I know him more than anyone else. Stay away from this neighbourhood and from that guy. He is dangerous. I have to go. Please don’t follow me” the lady, Chimamanda said rushing her words. She had already started walking off before she ended her ‘don’t follow me’ monologue.

Confused and worried, Agnes glared around. “Please wait. Who is this guy? Is he part of this gang squad?” she found herself hopelessly asking. “I can’t tell you anything. If you want to know more meet me at No 17 Olubade crescent Iyana Ipaja at 7:00pm” the lady resolved, putting Agnes out of her misery and more into suspense. She then ran off before Agnes thought of asking another question.
The way everyone ran out of this neighbourhood without a single thought of the police, it signified something worse—Agnes thought as her mind settled on running like the rest. Join the circus, she thought. But what could Lillian be doing at a parish house?