Hello everyone, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, fathers, mothers, friends and fans. I have decided to make my book available to this family.

I'm a regular visitor of this awesome platform and wish to share my book here.

You need to read this book.

I will be posting the chapters piece by piece as you read along.

Please feel free to drop your comments and criticism, i'm only a learner, though soon I hope to be in the class of Chimamanda Adichie.
(c) Copyright 2015, Tony Ekwoaba,(Shadows)

In case you want to use any part of this book, feel free to contact me on www.tonyekwoaba.com or tekwoaba@gmail.com.
www.fb.com/tonyekwoaba.

A few reviews of shadows, so you know what you will be reading.

"Very few books set an intense tone early on and keep you spell bound through and through, a fine blend of plots all intertwined..a real page turner.”
Dr Stanley Ukpai

“Shadows…taut suspense, solid characters, well choreographed action sequences and some good plot twist…a page turning thriller that will keep the reader on edge to the last paragraph. There is nothing better than a book you have to keep up until 2a.m. to finish.”
Umeh Ifesinachi Favour
 
"Many a corrupt politician started her or his career with aspirations based on integrity, betterment of their fellow citizens’ lives and something close to philanthropy, and it could be that Senator Johnson Ike was once a “Steve Obi,” and “Steve Obi” may find himself at some time not too different than what Senator Johnson Ike had become.
Shadows shares a message of hope as is noted in Barrister Steve’s speech after the soiled election: “Yes, we can be known for better things than corruption, crime, terrorism, poverty, instability and failed leadership. We cannot afford to lose our precious hope!” The book also envelops us into the labyrinthine world of Nigerian family and career life, politics, economy, traditions, and survival.
The political thriller Shadows is based in Nigeria, a typically busy, complicated setting of the best and worst of humanity’s capabilities, a place where one can sell a nonessential body part, and where everyone (friend and foe) shakes hands and everyone fluently speaks English as a second language.
Follow the lives and in some cases, the demises of Senator Johnson, Steve Obi (AKA Barrister Steve,) Steve’s wife Matilda, Steve’s best friend Kunle Mohammed Afolabi, Mrs. FolakeAdewunmi (a young nurse with AIDS), Barrow De Executioner, and Barrow’s girlfriend Annabel. At the end of the book, you will pray for a sequel!"
Suzanne Bowen,
U.S Blogger, entrepreneur

Have a happy read.

My next post will be chapter one of Shadows.

SHADOWS


By

Tony EKWOABA

























Shadows is a complete work of fiction. The names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, and events used in the book are products of the author’s imagination and are therefore fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is coincidental.
E-Book Design by Amic Network
Copyright © 2015 by Tony Ekwoaba
www.tonyekwoaba.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA













Dedication
To
Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Ekwoaba, my parents and mentors;
Mrs. Okoro, my teacher, who was the first to teach me how to write;
Mr. Jeffery Ucheh, my brother and editor, who held my hand at crucial points so I may finish this book;
And for everyone that has given their life, fighting for justice.




Chapter One
FINALLY, the results were ready.
Professor Moses Uwi smiled and leaned towards the microphone. He cleared his throat. “Once again, let’s settle down. We’re done with the collation.”
Taking the cue, the police fell into action, ordering people to sit down or leave the hall. But the crowd was defiant. The place grew rowdier.
Irritated, Uwi banged his glass case thrice on the table and barked, “You must all settle down and pay attention as I read the results! I will not repeat any figure once I start.”
This tended to do some good. Substantially greater numbers dashed about, trying to locate their seats before some opportunist did. Eventually the noise subsided. Then with the calm, studied gentleness of an experienced father after spanking his child, Uwi admonished, “You know, except you all keep quiet, we cannot read out these results.”
The strategy worked. Everybody settled down, and calm returned.
“I, Professor Moses Odiga Uwi, being the Returning Officer for the senatorial elections held on this day of February 2010, do hereby certify that these figures are an accurate representation of the results obtained and collated in all the wards of Owerri Senatorial District of Imo State, where this election was conducted…”

* * * * * * *
SOMEWHERE UPTOWN in the state capital, in the Government Residential Area, sixty kilometers from the State Unity Building where the election results were being announced, and twenty kilometers from the Government House, Owerri, celebration was already afoot. Select members of the ruling party, thirty-six in all, had assembled at the luxurious mansion of Senator Johnson Ike. Most were already seated and chatting in anticipation. Anytime now, the senator would make an entrance with his characteristic flourish. He had gone to the airport to receive the Vice President, Alhaji Abdulrahman Isa; the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Rt. Hon. Abu Moko; and the National Chairman of People’s Democratic Network, Chief Afolabi Atanda. It was widely believed that anytime this group converged, a political tsunami erupted.
Johnson Ike’s sitting room was gigantic, about half the size of a football field. The furnishing was exquisite: thick leather chairs, Italian design, with Romanesque flavor. Different electronic gadgets lined the walls and center. The most prominent of these was a five-meter-wide Sony LED flat television screen which took up a sizeable portion of the wall opposite the main entrance. It was a limited edition and installed by its Japanese manufacturers, who had to knock down a wall to bring it into the house. It came with sundry other paraphernalia including a gramophone, DVD player, satellite dish, cabinet, external alternative mixer and a squad of speakers. The speakers looked deceptively small and compact but could rake up a thunder, audible way beyond a mile. That singular purchase was rumored to have cost enough to buy a home.
The wall on the left wing was adorned with several fine quality paintings, some of them masterpieces. The family portrait of the senator with his wife and four children came from a painter in Paris. Right next to it was a copy of Pablo Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, which he had acquired from The Prado in San Diego. To the immediate left of the family portrait was Vincenzo Camuccini’s depiction of the Death of Julius Caesar. Other less famous paintings by local artists also graced the wall. No one who stepped into this room could help but marvel at the gargantuan size of everything. From the imposing glass center and side tables to the massive, fifty-piece compressible dining set; from the floating chandeliers to the ornate flower vases, everything appeared built to either impress or intimidate. Ike always wanted it big.
And he always got what he wanted!
The attendants served packs of Cuban cigars and glasses of champagne depending on what brand the guests preferred. A few proceeded to cut and light their cigars, while most just sipped their champagne and chatted idly in anticipation of the senator’s arrival. Only then would the real party begin.
What was almost certain was, when it was time to disperse long after midnight, they would all be drunk.
It was not long before the big TV screen came alive with the six o’clock news on Grassroots Network Television (GNT). After an initial promise to relay the announcement of the senatorial election results live “any time soon,” the newscaster went on to other items on the headlines: tales of fuel scarcity, bomb blasts, fraud allegation, unemployment, poverty, industrial action, corruption scandals and the like, which the newscaster narrated with a deadpan face.
Like junkies waiting for their fix, they huddled impatiently in their seats through the boring news. Their real interest was the response of the media and the electorate to the result announcement. As for the result itself, that was no big deal.
They already knew it.
A door swung open to the right, and in walked Senator Johnson Ike in stride with the Vice President. Immediately behind them were the Speaker and the Chairman, walking side by side. The quartet was flanked by aides and several Secret Service men in dark suits and goggles.
“Now, here comes the winning team,” a voice announced. Everyone stood up.
The Vice President waved to the entire house, making a double thumbs-up sign with a smile. So also did the Speaker and the Chairman. After exchanging pleasantries, they each took their seats as directed by their host. The other guests also sat down.
“Long live the unbeatable senator!” The state party chairman enthused. The attention reverted back to Ike. He was the beautiful bride of the day.
“Our own indomitable senator!” shouted Hon. Emeka Ezeugo. Ezeugo was the member of the House of Representatives whose constituency corresponded with Ike’s. Several others followed with their accolades, amidst much laughter.
“Thank you all for your kind words. And may I welcome you all to my humble cottage, ladies and gentlemen?” Ike could hardly contain the childlike joy that oozed from every pore of his skin. “Please, feel very free, and enjoy yourselves. It’s aalloondaahaause!” He said the last sentence with a drunken slur, lurching forward like a drunk. The whole room erupted with laughter.
Ike had remained in the senate since the comeback of democracy when the military ‘khaki boys’ were forced by death to hand power to a democratically elected government. There had been a successful challenge against his victory at the polls only during his first tenure. But trust his legal team of Senior Advocates, the court only quashed the elections and ordered fresh polls and did not declare the other party winner as prayed. The legal battle which went up to the Supreme Court had lasted well into the third year of his four-year tenure. In the eventual re-match that took place in February 2002, Chief Alphonsus Okorocha of the Grassroots Democratic Congress was an easy win. His lean resources after the initial three years’ protracted legal battle ensured he was too paralyzed to undertake any further litigation. The eventual result was an elongation of Ike’s first tenure. He couldn’t ask for better!
Since that bitter but glorious battle, every subsequent election had been a “kill-and-chop” affair. After three consecutive tenures without any scruples, the senator had acquired a mythical reputation. He strutted with the confident defiance of an alpha male lion—the seat was virtually a birthright. It was near-impossible to defeat him—he knew his game.
The truth, however, was that with the help of this same cabal now in his living room, he had remained unbeatable. Through the years, the faces might have changed, and so might the political office they each held, but the job description within the cabal remained largely the same. So also did the interest of the individuals: to win at all costs.
The senator had built a clout around himself. His flamboyant lifestyle was legendary—he spent as if he had a dollar farm somewhere in his courtyard, especially during elections. Practically everything he owned was custom-designed. His children attended only ‘Ivy League’ schools and drove only rare-breed luxury cars. His business managers, however, would tell you it all came from his jumbo pay from the senate, and the juicy deals that came with it like icing on a cake. Same went for most members of the cabal. This gathering was, therefore, not just important to all present.
It was a matter a life and death.
Resuming his sober mood, Ike continued, “This isn’t my victory; it’s ours together. You all know that without you this could never be possible. Let’s once again toast to a well-deserved victory.”
He lit a Cuban cigar, popped a bottle of Moet Hennessy, then filled and raised his glass. The others equally charged their glasses and stood up to toast. After the merry clinking of glasses, they sat back down.
At a signal from Ike, the attendants took their exit, while the aides seemed to melt into oblivion.
The National Chairman of the party, Chief Atanda gave an update on the post-election plans and the upcoming general elections. He was followed by the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Rt. Hon. Abu Moko, who expressed concern about the state of affairs within the party and their readiness for the forth-coming elections. The “little chap” the opposition had fielded for the just-concluded senatorial election had given them a run for their money. It appeared as though the senator had suddenly become unpopular since the “brat” emerged. Had it not been for a last minute intervention by the party chairman, the opposition would have disgraced them in the election. Moko said it was a litmus test for the general elections.
His Excellency, Alhaji Abdulrahman Isa, the Vice President, waited to listen to the others before he made his speech. He conveyed the blessings of the President and spoke on the presidential hopes for the party.
At about 1815 hours GMT while these deliberations were still on, the news on GTN was interrupted with live coverage of the announcement of the election result. Instantaneously, the talks ceased, and all eyes were fastened on the huge television screen.
“Volume, please,” someone complained. And the Senator obliged, hitting the volume to the desired decibel level.
On the screen, Uwi continued.
“People’s Redemptive Front (PRF): 353; Democratic Coalition Party (DCP): 474; National Democratic Movement (NDM): 130; People’s Democratic Network (PDN): 1,340,098; and All People’s National Party (ANPN); 1,020,075.
“By this result, PDN is the winner, having polled a total of 1,340,098 valid votes in this election. Therefore, the candidate of the People’s Democratic Network, Senator Johnson Ike, having scored the highest total number of valid votes cast in the Owerri Senatorial District, I, Professor Moses Odiga Uwi as the Returning Officer for the same election, hereby declare him elected and duly returned as the Senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria representing Owerri Senatorial District.”
A group of children who had just stumbled upon the castle of Santa Claus could not have been more excited than the politicians in Ike’s sitting room. Shouts of “hip hip, hurray!” rent the air. Glasses and more glasses clinked. The wine began to flow more freely, and the tongues became looser.
On the screen, the camera moved away from Uwi and beamed on individual members of the electorate. Grief clothed their faces. They were totally oblivious to the celebration going on in a sitting room sixty kilometers away. Most of them appeared deeply grief-stricken, disappointed, and even exasperated. Some waved the camera away as it edged towards them. A few, however, were eager to ventilate their anger and disappointment.
“What do you have to say about the result?” a reporter made the mistake of asking a young lady.
“What is there to say? This is ridiculous, I don’t believe the result. The election was rigged. It’s obvious it was rigged,” the lady retorted.
“We did not vote for Johnson Ike—how come he got over a million votes? I am sure none of us in this town voted for him, but he has the highest number of votes from our town.”
“This election obviously was a sham. It is sheer corruption,” someone shouted. The camera chased after the voice, but the man had squarely planted the back of his head to the lens.
The cameraman moved a few paces off. “I am not surprised—what good can one expect from a corrupt man like Uwi?” This was from a ludicrously chubby man with a bald head the shape of the butt of a gun. “How can a chicken give birth to an eagle? Ptueerrh…,” he spat out contemptuously and walked away from the lens.
The crowd faded from the hall. To most, it had been a bad day made worse. Thankfully for some, it was over and without any fatality.
The cameraman followed the melting crowd. Under the shade of a mango tree just outside the building, a small crowd was engaged in animated discussion. They seemed to be getting more and more excited. It was clear this particular group was in no hurry to leave the venue. The camera closed further in, and the reason soon became obvious. They were crowding around a man whom they had somehow cornered and prodded to address them. Presently, they were taking turns pelting him with questions on whatever bothered them.
The man was Mr. Steve Obi, popularly known as Barrister Steve.
He was the man whom most people thought should have won the just concluded election.


CHAPTER ONE CONTINUES...

* * * * * * *
IN THE PAST FEW YEARS, Steve Obi had gained unprecedented prominence. Young, married, and a devout Christian lawyer, he was called to the Nigerian Bar barely twelve years ago. Ten of those years he had dedicated to community service through human rights and public interest litigation. Many an innocent prison inmate owed their freedom to his compassion, his fervor and skill. He was highly renowned for the pro bono services he rendered. He was a favorite face on the television screens, especially when an obnoxious policy of any administration was being debated. His anticorruption outfit known as Steve Obi Foundation (SOFOUND) took the anticorruption war to the courtrooms.
Steve was a man much hated in political circles. Perhaps the only thing more obvious than his enmity with the political class was the overwhelming love the everyday people had for him.
Born thirty-eight years ago, Steve was a partner in Rodshield Chambers headquartered in Wuse Zone 3, Abuja. He had started this moderately successful practice eleven years ago with his friend and colleague, Kunle Mohammed Afolabi, just after they were called to the Bar. These two had been together right from their first year in the university. During their service year, they agreed to set aside sixty percent of their monthly allowance to enable them to start their practice immediately, since neither saw any need to work for the peanuts most law firms offered to new wigs. With a little family support, they started out as planned. At first it was a bitter struggle. But after sometime, the briefs trickled in with some consistence. The pro bono cases soon gave them some publicity. Eventually, it brought clients who paid.
Rodshield Chambers became so popular that it was christened “The People’s Shield”. The rich, the poor, the walking wounded, all flocked in. There was always something for everyone. At first, it was just the two of them and a receptionist. But with the influx of briefs, other lawyers as well as paralegal staff were employed. Apart from three more lawyers who eventually joined the firm, an office manager, an accountant, a janitor, and a librarian soon followed in quick succession. So also did other part-time staff, now numbering eight non-lawyers in all. Soon there was an annex office in Lagos.
With the large volume of pro bono cases, the income of the firm did not quite reflect their heavy business traffic, or their popularity, but somehow, they managed. Through the years, they had stuck together as a family. Recently, there had been some significant improvement, and everyone had enjoyed the reward for their patience.
Back in his hometown in Owerri, Steve was well-known for his community development efforts and volunteer services. He was widely regarded as a role model for the youth, not just in professional skills and moral values, but in social projects also that gave back to society. From freewill donations by friends—both the rich and the not-so-rich—SOFOUND had executed several small but high-utility projects around the state.
Eventually, Steve’s townsmen began to pressurize him to run for an elective office. They were convinced he would make a great representative. So on one of his frequent visits home, the elders and some of the prominent young men and women approached him. They said they were done allowing rogues to govern them—they needed a government which would truly cater to the yearnings and aspirations of the people and not steal their common wealth. At first, Steve was skeptical and very uncomfortable with the idea, knowing the dangers it portended to his family and career. But after wide consultations and prayers, he agreed to give it a try.
With the backing of his people, he decided to run for the senate— what he believed was a good place to start the change from. He also decided to run under the APNP—the All People’s National Party—because their ideology fit in with his aspirations. Also, they had nationwide spread and had offered him a fair chance at the primaries. Even though it was an opposition party, the party machinery was quite formidable. In addition, his own grassroots connection was solid.
Only his wife Matilda and Kunle his partner tried to dissuade him—a very tough job to do, once Steve’s mind was made up! Steve told Kunle it was high time the people got good leadership. After a long battle, Kunle threw in his lot with him. Matilda was never quite convinced, but she gave him her support at all times nonetheless.
Steve’s declaration was a joke to the ruling party. He was going nowhere, they said. However, in the course of his campaign, the massive support he received began to worry the politicians. They had expected a scratch, but not such massive impact. The name Steve Obi became a prickly thorn that could not be ignored. A defeat from him would be terribly damaging. And it was even more damaging that he was gaining grounds in the political system. He was not just the problem of his opponent, the unbeatable Senator Johnson Ike.
Steve was the problem of every member of the ruling party.

* * * * * * *
AND NOW under the mango tree, the man who had just lost the senatorial election was being thronged by his people. They hung onto every word of his, as if for dear life. As more and more people gathered, someone in the crowd shouted, “Steve na he lele!” and another answered, “Steve na waya o!”
Other voices joined and soon the song thundered from everywhere:
“Steve na he lele! Steve na waya o!
Steve na he lele! Steve na waya o!
Whether them like am o, or them no like am o!
Ewoo, Steve na he lele!”
Someone dragged out an old, abandoned table from one of the rooms and quickly converted it into a makeshift platform. Then he invited Steve to climb and address them. Steve was hesitant, but soon, the chorus changed to:
“All we are saying, talk to us now!”
Two strong men volunteered as his aides. Each held one of his arms and between them, they gently but firmly steered him to the podium. After he had climbed and faced the people, the men stood with arms akimbo, feigning the cold, expressionless faces of secret service men. The crowd worked itself virtually to frenzy as the singing and clapping came to a crescendo. Several cameras of different media houses focused expectantly on Steve.
Stilling the crowd with a raised right hand, Steve smiled and began. “My people, kwenu!”
The crowd responded, “Hey!”
“My people, kwenu!”
“Hey!”
“My people, kwezuenu-ee!”
And the people chorused, “Hee-eey, hey!”
“If a woman decides to make the soup watery, the husband will learn to dent the fufu before dipping it in the soup.”
“Our senator, speak on!” the crowd shouted.
“Our elders say a goat which dies in a barn was not killed by hunger. Such cannot be our case!” A deafening applause erupted.
When it quieted, he continued, “I know I am not the most qualified amongst you, considering the intimidating credentials of some of you here. But again our people say, akwukwo jurun’ohia ma a baa a choba okazi. So here I am. As a Nigerian, who has grown up seeing things done in the wrong way by the wrong people, seeing things get worse every day. Yet we sit back and do nothing.” He paused, before continuing.
“We must do something. All of us, this is the time we must do something”.
The crowd roared. More people joined the crowd, including security operatives.
“We have everything, yet we have nothing.” He waved his right hand. “It’s all over us.” He waved this to those at his left hand side.
“Yeeaah! Yeeaah!” the people chorused, shaking their fists.
He waved to his right. “Can’t you see it, people?”
“Eheeeeh!” they responded with even greater enthusiasm.
“Even the blind amongst us see it, and the deaf hear it.”
“We rise and fall all by ourselves, with no one to speak for us, as if we had no leaders. Every little success we achieve is drawn out of hard sweat. I am not saying that government should solve all our problems; but a complete disregard to the basic needs of the people by those in government is injustice to all of us.”
“Fela Anikulapo Kuti was right to say. ‘We are suffering and smiling.’ Today, if we wanted electricity, we would have to buy a generating set. If we wanted water, we must dig our own bore-hole. If we wanted a good school, a good hospital, a good market, good roads or any other public utility, we must build it. Why then do we have a government? What then is democracy all about?”
The crowd shouted, “Anyi a makwa o!”
“In every election, we always wanted something new, something different, just a little ray of hope. Is that too much to ask for? But what do we get? Violence, rigged elections, empty promises!”
“That’s why we voted for you!” someone shouted.
“Thank you for voting for me. I promise you, your vote shall not be in vain! We shall no more stomach their deceit, and sit down doing nothing! I am fed up, our children are fed up, and our people, you are fed up! Are you not all fed up?”
“We are fed up!” the people screamed.
A group of three men continued the chant, “We are fed up! We are fed up!”
Others around them joined in, and the entire arena erupted with the animated chant. “We are fed up! We are fed up! We are fed up!”
Steve raised his hands and stilled the people. After the singing subsided, he continued. “When a handshake extends beyond the elbow, it is no more a handshake. It has become an attack! We can’t take it anymore – the bad policies, failed leadership, corruption, the failed institutions. We are tired of the shame and disrespect before other nations of the world! Being a Nigerian is no crime, and nobody should be punished simply for being Nigerian. God did not make a mistake in making us Nigerians, so no one should make us regret our good birth!
“As a nation so endowed with human and natural resources, we deserve more. We deserve the basic things of life: food, shelter, human dignity, education, and a future we can bank on. Our nation is one of the richest in natural resources. If a nation like Singapore with little natural resources is enjoying one of the highest per capita income earnings in the world, then the good people of Nigeria cannot remain poor and downtrodden! We must have a good life! The stolen wealth of this nation is enough to give us all a good life. That good life we must have! Nigeria will be great again!”
The crowd shouted, “Yes o!”
He went on. “Yes, we can be known for better things than corruption, crime, terrorism, poverty, instability and failed leadership. We cannot afford to lose our precious hope! The Chinua Achebes, the Fela Anikulapo Kutis, the Gani Fawehinmis have protégés. We must continue from where they stopped! We will not sit down and watch our beloved Nigeria get destroyed in the hands of a cabal! It is an abomination to watch a she-goat go through the pain of delivery while tethered to a tree! I see hope in your eyes. I see better days in the eyes of every one of you.”
The crowd became ecstatic. Wave after waves of unending applause rained the air sporadically, punctuated by high-pitched screams and whistles.
“I see the spirit in us. You came out en-masse today, to give our nation a gift—a gift of your time, your sweat, your passion, and your unwavering faith in our corporate future. You left your businesses, your offices, your children, some of you on empty stomachs, and came to cast your precious votes. You stood in the sun for hours, endured security threats, and in some instances, submitted your right to personal dignity. This precious gift will not be wasted, and your sacrifice shall not be in vain!”
Again, a voice started singing, and the crowd followed.
“Steve na he lele! Steve na waya o!
Steve na he lele! Steve na waya o!
Whether them like am o, or them no like am o!
Ewoo, na him na he lele!


END OF CHAPTER ONE.

Chapter Two
THE MOOD OF THE GATHERING at the senator’s sitting room had changed. As they watched with rapt attention, the address relayed live on GNT, and the tension in the air could almost be cut with a knife.
“What sort of rubbish is this?” Ike exclaimed in disbelief. With every subsequent statement, his face looked more ashen.
“Is this not disgusting? This boy actually has the guts!” the Vice President declared, shaking his index finger at the gigantic screen.
“I think someone should turn this thing off, and save our ears from this poison!” Moko suggested, looking towards Ike. “Senator?”
“No, the solution is not to turn it off,” Ike replied. “If we don’t assess the damage being done, how can we control it?”
“Who the hell is the manager of this goddamned TV station? He should be severely dealt with”. Moko was visibly shaking with rage. “How could they allow this on public television? Do they realize the kind of trouble this could cause all over the nation?”
“I have an idea,” Chairman Atanda brightened up. “This is something we can easily handle. In fact, we can leverage on this opportunity and…,” he seemed strangely calm, almost expectant, as he dialed a number with a mischievous grin on his face. The call went through and first he mumbled something inaudible into the phone.
“Take action right now!” he shouted into the phone. “I am watching it on TV. Let me see you do it!” he ordered.
The moment Atanda dropped the call, a fight broke out among the crowd Steve was addressing. In an instant, bottles were being smashed, and a near stampede ensued. Hoodlums who seemed to materialize from thin air began to vandalize the State Unity Building and the cars parked around, using bottles and stones. Everything happened so fast.
Steve was too shocked at first to know what to do. Quickly regaining himself, he tried to calm the situation, but it only got messier. The police moved in. A particularly violent fight was going on directly in front of the podium. Steve stepped down and moved to intervene. As he raised an arm, a mobile police officer grabbed it.
“Oga, come with us, please”.
“What? Come with you? Why?” Steve pulled away his arm. The man could not have been serious.
“Oga, I said, Come with us.’ You go know the reason after we reach station.” The man grabbed his arm again.
“Na for your interest,” another officer added from behind. By this time, the first officer had a gun trained on Steve’s left ribcage. Three other officers surrounded him.
Stepping deliberately on his left foot, the officer poked him a little harder with the gun. “You no go want make this be accidental discharge, abi?” he hissed.
Quietly, Steve followed them into a waiting black Peugeot 306 saloon. He realized that these men were on an assignment and were willing to waste him if he showed resistance. As long as it was the police station they were taking him to, he’d be fine. He was in familiar territory, and could wriggle his way out of anything. When he was out, he would make them apologize for this!
Minutes after they were gone, the fighting ended and the vandals melted into the crowd, like it had never happened. Gradually the crowd fizzled out and normalcy returned. The live coverage of the announcement on the big TV screen was interrupted with a telecom commercial. Not long after, a text message came into Atanda’s cell phone. He smiled. The others had no idea what had happened.
“What just happened there?” someone asked.
“I told you we could use this to our advantage. The police have the idiot now. That’s issue number one settled.” He sounded exultant.
A thin wave of relief settled in the room. A few chuckles could be heard.
“And what is issue number two?” someone asked.
“Make sure this mess does not repeat itself.”
The statement was made by Vice President Isa.

* * * * * * *
THE PEUGEOT 306 SALOON pulled up outside the divisional police headquarters, a colony of dilapidated blocks with shattered windows, broken doors and rusty roofing sheets, located in the outskirts of town. Stacks of accident-torn cars and scraps of automobile parts littered the entire compound. There were old rickety vehicles abandoned by owners who ostensibly did not consider them worth the bribe and trouble it would take to claim them. Most of the walls were disgustingly peeled and needy of paint. Potholes dented the floor of the pavement of the main block, from the entrance to the counter and beyond.
The doors of the car swung open and the police men each jumped out. Steve followed. They clutched him by the arm and tried to drag him but he shook them off. These men were bent on treating him as if they did not know who he was: a renowned lawyer and senatorial candidate. He wasn’t going to let them do it! He had been humiliated enough; he was not going to be further debased like some criminal.
“You can’t treat me like that!” he declared, mustering his best air of authority. “I am a lawyer and a senatorial candidate. Maybe you’re used to giving others such inhuman treatment, but I won’t let you do that with me. Now tell me, what am I being accused of? Why did you bring me here?”
They tried pushing him, but he stood rooted to the ground. The scuffle attracted a few junior officers who came brandishing their batons. But as soon as they recognized the face, they either turned back with sad faces, or offered unsolicited advice, “Oga, just follow them now. They will not do you anything.” Steve ignored them.
At that point, the most senior officer on duty, an Assistant Commissioner of Police, stepped out of the front door. “What is going on there?” he demanded.
“Shun Sir! Shun Sir!” The policemen all stood at attention on seeing their boss.
“What is going on?” the ACP came closer, ignoring their salute.
The leader of the team stepped forward to explain. “Oga, wallahi na this man, the ANPN candidate you tell us to arrest. We want to bring him to the station, but he no want to…”
“Mr. Steve Obi, I am ACP Christopher Agaba.” The ACP stretched his hand towards Steve. Steve hesitated for a moment, but eventually took the hand. “We are honored to have you with us.”
“I demand to know why I was arrested and brought here! What is my offence, and why am I being mistreated by your men?” Steve was unimpressed by the pretense of civility.
“Mr. Obi, we are doing the best we can to make things easy for you. I do not expect you to complain. What have my men done to you other than bring you in for questioning?” There was an unmistakable note of contempt in the ACP’s voice.
“Look, ACP, this is looking more and more ridiculous to me. You sound more interested in defending your men than in protecting my rights as a Nigerian citizen. What if I told you that one of your darling men has threatened to shoot me and pretend it was an accidental discharge?” Steve was almost beside himself with exasperation. “Doesn’t the law entitle me to be informed of my crime upon arrest?”
The ACP suddenly looked cold as his eyes became visibly red. “My men are well-trained, and I do not believe anyone of them would threaten to kill you”. He spoke through gritted teeth. “But if you think you are above the law and cannot be brought in for questioning, then we shall see. Inspector Yahaya!”
The team head stepped up with an extra-loud “Yes, sir!” accompanied with a salute.
“Handle this man.”
“Yes, sir!”
The ACP walked away.
Inspector Yahaya gave Steve a hard shove. “Oga, move forward!”
Steve staggered under the impact and nearly fell. Other officers crowded around him, poking him with batons and pushing him forward.
At this point, Steve knew this was going to be tough. These men were acting out a script, a script written by someone powerful behind the scenes. They were pulling the strings, trying to tighten the noose around him. His only chance at survival would be to somehow cooperate with these men and deny them the excuse to liquidate him before he got a chance to tell his story. So he followed the men without any further resistance.
The police men led Steve past the counter and into a long, dimly-lit corridor.
Several people sat half-naked on the bare floor by the counter. Two of them were hungrily gulping a meal which some family member had brought them. The rest sat devouring the food with their eyes. Several relatives mooned around with despondence written all over them, trying to rescue a loved one from incarceration. Evidently, they had fallen short of the amount required of them as “cooperation fee”. The whole place stank of unwashed human bodies and stale cigarette smoke.
Halfway through the corridor, they turned right into another short passage. It was lined with dinghy detention cells, from where a horrible human stench arose. They turned into a room. There were two desks, behind which sat the Cell Guard and another officer.
“Remove everything you have on you and put it on the table!” Yahaya ordered.
“Hope say you no carry bomb with you?” one of the officers quipped.
Steve opened his mouth to demand why he was being taken to the cell, but reconsidered. It was futile. He meekly emptied his pockets—car keys, a Blackberry Bold One handset, a white handkerchief, and a wallet containing a wad of naira bills, his driver’s license, ID card, an ATM card, complimentary cards, and a few odds and ends.
“Count the money.” Yahaya had a wild glint in his eyes, like a hyena upon sighting a dead animal.
Steve did not move.
“Abi make I help you count am?” He snatched up the money and counted. There were eight thousand, seven hundred naira in all. He kept it back on the table, close to himself.
“Remove your clothes!” the Cell Guard spoke for the first time. Steve stood looking at him.
“Ha! You be deaf and dumb?” he bellowed. “I say remove your clothes, before I tear them off your body and push you enter cell. Maybe they no tell you about me. Me nobi like those men outside, I no dey take rubbish o. And this nobi place you go claim right. Once you don cross line, it means you are a criminal and we treat you as criminal.”
Steve could not believe he wasn’t dreaming. The words tore through his senses like a stab wound. These men were out to reduce him to an animal, to demolish his personal dignity and make him think and act like them. Should he fight them? What was the point—they would be too glad to devour him like a pack of wolves would do chickens. Besides, that would mean becoming the very thing they were pushing him to be: a beast! He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, no matter what!
Slowly he removed his tie and laid it on the table. His jacket followed.
“What of the shirt and trousers?”
Without a word, Steve removed his shirt and kept it beside the jacket. Then he removed the trousers. He could hardly contain the rage building within him. But somehow, he swallowed the words. He was left with just his singlet and boxers.
“Write down your things on the paper, all the things you came with.” The Cell Guard tossed a paper to Steve and began packing the items into a wooden box half-full with clothes. Steve could not help noticing how his suit was being carelessly rolled up, but that was the least of his worries. “Thank your God that you have money. Hunger for kill you.”
While Steve made the inventory of his items, his brain worked. The press must certainly have gotten wind of his arrest, and so would his party members. He could imagine the headlines tonight and tomorrow morning. But something kept nagging his mind. Where were his party members and all his campaign team? It had suddenly seemed like nobody witnessed his arrest, other than a disorganized, motley crowd running for their own dear lives. Was he alone in all this?
“Wetin you dey waste my time for, you dey write book?” the Cell Guard was tugging at the inventory.
Steve let him have the paper. He regarded Steve suspiciously. Then he examined the paper, peering like an old professor who had forgotten to bring his glasses.
“Before you put me in the cell, I need to call my family.”
The man kept peering as if the paper was written in hieroglyphics.
“You write the money, too?”
“Why not?” Steve was getting slightly amused. “Is it your money?”
“Wetin you go carry feed?” the man shouted, banging the table. Then he smiled as though he discovered a billion dollars stowed away somewhere in the wallet, not just the meager eight thousand naira left in there!
“If you need the money, you can take it.” Steve was very calm. “Only give me my handset. Let me call my wife.”
“No!” Yahaya was on his feet, clutching the money. “It’s only the ACP that will give you permission to make phone call.”
“You mean you want me to wait until the ACP is back from wherever he went before I can call my wife to let her know my whereabouts?” Steve couldn’t believe these men could be serious. “Am I being kidnapped?”
“Anything you like, you can call it. All I know be sey you no fit make call except Oga give permission.” He turned to the Cell Guard. “Corporal Mike, what are you waiting for? Take him to the cell!”
“Move, Oga,” Mike raised his baton threateningly. Steve glared at him. “I say move, Oga! You no dey hear word?  Stubbornness no dey work for here o. Don’t make me use this thing on you!” He poked Steve behind with the end of the baton.
Mike picked up a bunch of keys, and the three officers herded Steve to the entrance of the cell. It was barricaded with heavy metal rods. As Mike began tugging with the lock to open it, an inmate was approaching the gate.
“Hey, move off! I no dey here for you!” Mike yelled. After trying a few keys on each of the three heavy padlocks, the gates slid open. He pushed Steve into the cell and locked back the gates.
Then they all stood back to watch what would happen next.

END OF CHAPTER TWO.

We will continue chapter Three tomorrow, those following should please share their comments.

It has been a very good read so far, man. I enjoy your writing style. Proceed soon.

Thanks a lot @ OluwabuqqyYOLO.

Chapter Three
AS STEVE STEPPED IN, the stench of rot was so overwhelming he felt dizzy. He staggered back, then stood still for a moment, to clear his head.
Then he entered into the cell.
The cell was a concrete box, about eight meters long, and six wide. The height was about ten feet, with two tiny openings high on the back wall, through which light trickled in. It was the only source of ventilation. The walls were dank and moldy, and most of the lower plastering was peeled. The middle and upper walls were full of graffiti, inscribed on the soft plastering by past inmates in their boredom, using hard objects.
With his palm across his nose, Steve stood and surveyed the inmates. There must have been at least twenty-five persons in there, but he could not clearly see any face except those closest to the entrance. Some lay in six-nine position on the bare floor, some kneeled on all fours, some sat holding their knees, while others stood leaning against the wall. It was practically an animal pen—it was a wonder that anyone survived for more than a few hours here!
Cautiously he stepped forward, trying to adjust to the darkness. Even without seeing their faces, he could feel the hostile glares. Hardly anyone spoke—they just sized him up like a leopard would its prey. He removed his hand from his nose—it was no use trying to avoid the stench.
“Hey, you!”
Steve ignored it. After all that could mean anyone.
“Hey, newcomer!”
It was difficult to pretend any longer. Steve stared blankly in the direction of the voice.
“Over here, come and kneel to the boss.” The voice sounded raspy and bored.
It took Steve a moment to decide he would need some wisdom of the chameleon here. He turned and began to make his way into the dark corner, stepping over bodies. Once or twice he nearly stumbled.
The “boss” was sitting on a plastic bucket.
“Kneel before the Kudo!” the owner of the voice stood behind the “Kudo”, his hairy chest bare. He had a broken nose which made his face appear like a gorilla.
Steve looked him square in the eye. “I respect your boss,’ he said. “But I do not kneel to anybody. I kneel only to God!”
Boss was silent for a moment. Then his face creased into a hideous smile, which grew into a raucous laughter. His companion joined him—a short, fair-skinned man with Sudanese hair—and together they laughed like maniacs.
“He…he…he doesn’t kneel…to…to any…body!” Like lightning, a hard slap landed on Steve’s left cheek. At first he didn’t know what hit him. He just stood stunned, with stars dancing Jingle Bells in his head, or what was left of it. Before he could recover, the second bolt of lightning struck his left cheek. He fell on hands and knees.
Two strong, calloused hands grabbed his head and turned it up to stare at the same hideous face. “Hey, what’s wrong? You shouldn’t be kneeling down. What happened?” Then another bout of maniacal laughter by the same duo.
The Sudanese raised his foot to kick Steve in the ribs, but the “Kudo” stopped him. “That’s enough for now.” Then, holding up Steve’s chin to face him, he asked, “What is your name?”
Steve made no response. He couldn’t afford to expose himself to any more danger from these mongrels, in case someone recognized his name. Only God knew what they would do to him if he could produce no money on demand.
Kudo turned to his two goons. “This fool doesn’t know what’s up around here. He may need some more orientation.”
“Yes, boss!” they chorused.
Then glaring at Steve, he snarled, “I said, what is your name, bo-y!” His voice was so loud, Steve instinctively ducked; pretty sure he’d been hit again.
“I think I know this man.” Steve looked up to see a pair of probing eyes intently scrutinizing his face. Oh God! No, you don’t! This probing man was an even worse nightmare than the Kudo and his goons! How could he make him shut his mouth? He stared back at the man, his face a mask of desperation.
“Yes, Einstein. Who is he?” Kudo suddenly turned curious. The others also had eager eyes trained on Einstein.
“That is the senatorial candidate, Barrister Steve Obi.” Einstein seemed genuinely pleased to make this revelation.
“You mean the Obi of the People’s Shield?” a voice enquired from another corner.
Like pins drawn to a magnet, they came pressing for a closer look at Steve in the semi-darkness.
“I knew it. There was something familiar about you since I saw you step in,” said a bearded old man in his fifties. He shook Steve vigorously, with a comradely air. “I am Emeka Nwachukwu, a lawyer.” Steve took his handshake tentatively, not sure of what awaited him.
For the moment, Kudo and his gang were forgotten. But still, Steve felt exposed and vulnerable. Nevertheless, it appeared the attention they were giving him was favorable, quite unlike he had expected.
“Bros, wetin come happen?” a tall, thirty-ish young man with a long scar on his face enquired, genuine concern on his face. “When all of us dey hope say you go help us get out of here, na you come enter here? Wetin you do?”
“Shoo, Faga, you come dey blame am? Na him carry himself jolly come enter cell?” The Sudanese-haired one, rather surprisingly, rose to Steve’s defense. “You no know say this man be enemy of government?”
“Chei, nawa-o for this life!” Faga lamented. “Even the man wey na so so poor people him dey help. Only God na Him fit save us for this country!”
“Are you really Barrister Stephen Obi?” Kudo asked.
“Yes,” he answered ruefully, bracing up for the worst. There was no more hiding. And, well, could he be killed twice?
Slowly, Kudo rose from his “throne”, an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He stretched a hand. Steve recoiled, unsure of what it meant. “What an honor to have a man like you in my cell.”
Steve could not believe his ears. His jaw dropped for an instant, but quickly he regained himself, and managed a timid smile. Kudo’s palm felt surprisingly soft and warm. Clearly, this man had seen better days. “The misfortune is mine.” Steve replied and everybody laughed.
The mood had suddenly lightened. Just moments ago, Steve felt like a piece of prey in a lion’s grip. Now, he was something of a celebrity in a detention cell. Everybody was having animated discussions, and he was the subject. He wished he could actually give something to these people, even though they’d asked for nothing.
Kudo, eager to turn a good friend, vacated his “throne” and asked Steve to sit down. Steve first of all rejected the offer, but realized it was a crude attempt to make amends. Rejecting it would mean hate. So he took the seat. Everybody clapped as soon as he did.
Kudo cleared his throat. “Listen up, chairmen. I’m the boss, but Senator here is the godfather. From now on, you are all his “mugus.” If he wants your food, it’s his. If he wants your money, drop it. If he wants your space, you piss off. If he wants your bitch, don’t waste his f--king time. And if he wants you dead, consider yourself lucky. Anyone has something to say?” He paused, looking around. The place was quiet as a grave. “I didn’t think so. Now, if anyone disobeys him, just pretend you’re dead. Go buy your coffin, and be in it before you show me your sorry corpse! Are we cool, prisoners?”
“Yes, boss,” murmured a few of them.
Even though Steve couldn’t identify with any bullying nor imagine himself giving such dehumanizing orders, he could not help admiring Kudo’s style and expressiveness. He clearly showed traces of an interesting history. He would love to find out more about him—if he stayed long enough. He hoped not!
“Ehm…Godfather…I didn’t know it was you.” One of Kudo’s goons—“Broken Nose”—was standing before Steve, wriggling his hands like a boy caught stealing. He shifted from foot to foot, darting his eyes up and down, right and left. “I would not have hit you if I knew you were the one.”
Steve felt like laughing—the man looked pitiable. With a patronizing smile, he met his nervous gaze. “Hey, knock it off, man. I’m not holding it against you.” He turned to the Sudanese. “Now are you, ok?” They both nodded like a pair of randy schoolboys.
“Thanks.”
The dim shaft of light was getting dimmer. It was about the only thing that signaled nightfall in this hellhole. Someone was impatiently toggling with the light switch. That must mean there’s a light bulb somewhere in here that worked, Steve concluded. Well, let’s wait and see.
Kudo was the first to voice the question on everyone’s mind. “So, why were you arrested?”
Steve already decided to be friendly with these men, but speak as little as possible. “To tell you the truth, I am still wondering about that myself.” They did not look very surprised at this revelation. “I’m sure you know today was senatorial elections. I lost. After the results were announced, I was addressing my supporters when a fight broke out. Then they picked me up.”
A bright yellow bulb came on directly above Steve’s head, blinding him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, the disembodied voices took on human faces. It was strangely comforting to identify with the suffering of these forlorn souls.
“That makes you a political detainee. You shouldn’t be here.” Kudo was clearly not done chatting yet. “Except they wanted to humiliate you.”
Steve was completely taken aback by this remark. This young man was surprisingly perceptive. “Kudo—should I call you that?—you’re sound. Who’re you?”
He smiled. “In the free world, they know me as Badmus Jaja.”
“Jaja? Mere coincidence, or is it the famous Jaja family in Rivers?”
“King Jaja of Opobo, yes.”
“How did you end up here?”
“Long story. My stepmom’s a bitch. Mom had been suffering from cancer for three years. She was so weak and withered with the chemotherapy, she could no longer appear publicly with my dad. So my dad wanted another wife for his political image. He told me after I came home from Ukraine where I was schooling. I said, “The hell with it. How could he do that to mom?” I didn’t want no gold digger showing up to mess things up for us. I warned her to lay off, but they kept seeing each other. A month after my mom died, they were about to get married. I accused her of killing my mom, and told her I’d kill her if she dared marry my dad.
“Well, they got married anyway. I tried to stay out of their way so I don’t get pissed off, but she kept begging me for sex. I warned dad, but he said I was just lying because I hated her. One day, I went to my dad’s room to tell him I wanted to go back to Ukraine. He wasn’t there, but she was. With another guy, and they were making love. I couldn’t hold myself. I chased the man off, then beat her until she nearly died. When my dad came, he refused to believe me. Eventually when she woke up in the hospital, she told my dad I beat her because she wouldn’t have sex with me.”
“Is Senator Jaja your father?”
“Yes.” He sounded hesitant. “And I hate him. I hate his money and his LovePeddler”
Steve smiled. He wasn’t going to argue, “You have to forgive him, you know.”
Kudo looked sharply at him. “You a pastor now?”
Steve ignored the question. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years.”
“No wonder, you are so adjusted.”
“I’ve done everything I can to get out. But my father thinks I’ll rape his wife or kill her as soon as I get the chance.”
“I smell witchcraft.”
“No, she’s not a witch. She’s queen of the bloody coast! And she’s got him under her stinking armpit.”
Steve was already having ideas what to do to get him out of detention. “Tell me, if I get you out, will you hurt her?”
“Why the hell would I? If my father wants to marry a thousand whores, that’s his business. All I want to do is get out of this country and stay out of his hair.”
Steve made a mental note to call Kunle about a habeas corpus proceeding as soon as he got the chance. For now, he would concentrate on harnessing all his resources.
One cellmate had remained quiet all along.
He was sitting at the far left corner, holding his knees and trying to sleep in that position. Steve beckoned on Broken Nose and pointed. “Please call me that man over there.” And with great zeal, the bully set out on his first errand on the command of a new boss.
Steve soon learned his name was Emeka Nwachukwu, a lawyer of over twenty-eight years’ post call. He had a fairly successful practice in Aba. He had been thrown into detention after he ran a motorcyclist over in Owerri, three days ago. The boy had been trying to make a U-turn in the middle of a busy highway. Emeka had to make a quick choice between killing the cyclist and risking the death of his wife and children with a dangerous maneuver. He chose the former.
Before long, the inmates were recounting how they were arrested. Two had been there for over ten years without being charged. A young boy, formerly a house help, had been detained over eighteen months ago for stealing his madam’s handset. The boy was sixteen. One man was there since two years ago, after a team of policemen on patrol arrested him for smooching with his girlfriend beside his gate around 2 a.m. Another had been there for three years without even knowing what offence he was arrested for. He had been scooped in an unprovoked mass police raid at a marketplace, and asked to ‘bail’ himself like the others with a fifty thousand naira. Those who paid were let go, and those who couldn’t were detained. He was part of the latter.
Steve had always been appalled by injustice. But it was one thing to stand in court for the victims, and another to experience it live with them, inhaling the full range of its disgusting stench. It brought a whole new perspective to human rights. It was no more an abstract concept confined to the pages of academic textbooks and theses, but a living, breathing monster that lived next door, jumping over the fence daily to hunt for human prey. It also made the quest for good governance even more urgent than ever.
Before leaving home that morning, Steve had asked God to lead him away from temptation. He had asked for strength to withstand the little storms that came with the day. He had asked for faith to follow whatever God had in store for Him, without questioning, because he knew it would all turn out well in the end. All this while, he had been silently wondering why, despite his prayers, he had been subjected to the grueling experiences of the last twenty-four hours.
Now, he knew that not a word of his prayers had fallen to waste.
They had all been answered.


End OF CHAPTER THREE. Please drop your comments. I will try and make sure I post a piece of the book everyday. Enjoy the read as you follow.

Chapter Four
KUNLE MOHAMMED AFOLABI was on his way to Lagos to represent a client. The lady, an HIV patient, had received the wrong end of the stick in her office. Rodshield Chambers had filed an action at the Federal High Court, to enforce her constitutional right against discrimination. He had decided to drive the long distance from Abuja to Lagos, so he could stop over for a brief visit with his aging parents at Ekuku in Oyo State, his hometown. He had bought them food supplies, beverages and nutritional supplements. He had also bought them their favorite items—items he had stopped over at Lokoja to get. He hoped to see them excited about the gifts. That would make it all worth it.
He still relished his father’s beaming smile three days ago when he saw the pack of tobacco snuff he had bought him. And even now, the figure of his mother cradling her roll of the sweetly peppered steak– kilishi, he had bought her, roused those boyish days. She looked so childlike! After all these years, mother had lost nothing of her charm. Since visiting Kaduna and tasting the dried beef “wonder” steak, mother had never stopped craving for it. He thought it would bring back good memories of the North. Her response proved him right.
As he sped along in the big, muscular 2008 model Toyota Camry on his way to see them, his thoughts wandered to the dismal state of affairs of his people. He had had childhood dreams of turning his beloved Ekuku into the New York he had read about in the story books. While in the university, whenever he was around, he always wondered why most of the children never wore shoes. He would imagine buying a pair of shoes for everyone, just like in his younger years he thought of turning every house into a skyscraper, turning every footpath into a highway, and every stream into a river, complete with a harbor filled with trawlers, yachts and flying boats. The men and women would never need to toil so much in the farm, as there would be factories and big businesses, and a big, booming economy.
How those dreams had all but flown with the wind.
Now, Ekuku was a ghost town populated mainly with the aged and very young children. The young men and women were all in the big cities, searching for pastures. These days, any pasture was okay—whether it was lush green or as brown as the hair in the armpit of Olorioko, the local lunatic—as long as it afforded escape from the hoe, and offered a thread of hope to hang on to. For many, that hope was an appetizing, lifelong dream that stayed just out of grasp like a mirage, until the day they headed back on retirement, like hens returned to roost.
The dawn of democracy had offered a ray of hope to which many hung on to. There was renewed interest in politics, and quite a few had found their way home to start one political association or another. But they soon discovered it was a gamble whose outcome was captive to the whims and caprices of the occupants of the seat of government. And unfortunately, Ekuku seemed to always get the wrong end of the stick with the government. Until the recent appointment of Alhaji Olakunle Ibukun as Commissioner for Agriculture by Governor Lekan Balami, not a single individual from Ekuku had been so much as shortlisted for any appointment by any of the successive governments since 1999.
The implication was that Ekuku witnessed true abandonment of government. Every school child had to travel to the city to attend secondary school after graduating from the only primary school in Ekuku. Besides the major trunk “A” road that passed through the town, the roads were dirt roads. Bicycles were the SUVs; and every family owned one. For all their water needs including drinking, they depended on the free-flowing Ogunpa River. “Disease no dey kill African man” was common response to any query about water-borne diseases. Thanks to the rich knowledge of traditional herbs which had produced numerous native doctors, they had truly learned to live with the diseases. Diseases, therefore, did not scare them.
What really scared them were the frequent disappearances.
Many tales, myths and legends had grown around the disappearances. Some said it was the river goddess and her water spirits; others said they saw crocodiles. A few had claimed to see boa constrictors, which were said to swallow children after squeezing them. In an attempt to arrest the phenomenon, the Oba and the elders frequently offered sacrifices of goats and chickens by the riverside; and babalawos were invited to make incantations and pour libations. Each time, they claimed to have solved the problem. Then someone else would disappear, and the process started all over again.
It was rumored that in this process, whenever the elders had to visit the forest, a young virgin girl usually disappeared without trace. And nobody was allowed to discuss or even mention it. This was by far what the girls were more scared of. This was what the mothers really dreaded anytime the Ogunpa took another victim. Curiously, the disappearances usually happened in the dead of the rains, after a particularly torrential rainfall when the Ogunpa overflowed its banks. Yet the tide was never a suspect in the tales spun to solve the mystery.
But the appointment of Ibukun as Commissioner, though short lived, had saved the town. Within the short time as Commissioner, he had gotten the community connected to the national power grid, had three boreholes dug by the UNDP, and established one additional primary and a secondary school. The town now had three streets paved with asphalt, a primary healthcare center, and a cassava processing factory. The foundations of a general hospital had been laid, and the contract for the laying of water pipes awarded, when suddenly fate frowned on them. Governor Balami died in a plane crash, and his deputy upon assumption of office, did a cabinet re-shuffle. Ibukun was removed as Commissioner, not being a strong loyalist of the erstwhile deputy governor. Since then, nobody had talked about the pipe-laying contract, and the hospital under construction had become a has-been.

* * * * * * *
WHEN HE HAD DRIVEN into his father’s compound, the small hut facing out was open, meaning his father was there. This was where his father did his woodwork, and it was right next to the old flat he shared with mother. Since Kunle could remember, father had always loved carving wood—he called it his second wife, and even mother had learned to live with that. He gave his figurines female names, and other carvings he gave male names. When he carved, he did not just chisel with his hands; he literally coaxed the shape out of the wood with his smile, his tobacco and his songs. And when he wasn’t singing the words, he was humming the tune with the trademark smile dancing in his eyes. It was difficult to watch him work and not fall in love with his craft.
Upon hearing the sound of his car, father had stepped out of the workshop, stooping to come through the low door. “Welcome home, my son,” he said in his native Yoruba.
Kunle went prostrate on the ground. In all his western acculturation, in the village, he had not lost his basic Yoruba manners—his father had seen to that. He was still facing down, his hands stretched on the bare ground, when his mother emerged from a small bush path leading from the farm, with his two teenage cousins Taye and Titi. She had a basket of cassava settled on her head, her hoe dangling from her shoulder. The sisters were carrying firewood bundles. Upon seeing him, they threw down their bundles and ran up to hug him. Mama patiently stood waiting, her basket of cassava balanced on her head.
Kunle stood up from the ground quickly and just when the girls came rushing at him, he ducked. Laughing, he hurried up to bring down the basket from Mama’s head. Stooping low, he received her hug plus backrub. He remained stooped while she conducted an examination of his eyes, his cheeks, his neck, his hands and all the vital parts, and then nodded her approval of his good health.
“Kaabo, omo mi,” she finally said her welcome.
“E se Mama.” He found it refreshing to speak his native tongue again after a long time. “Thank you, Mama,” he interpreted instinctively as he finally turned to the two teen huggers waiting behind him.
But they would have none of it. As soon as he turned, they both squeezed their faces into a frown and stood aside, each hugging her chest tightly.
“Not so fast, lawyer,” warned Taye, looking very serious. “On second thoughts, we have decided to withdraw our offer of a hug.”
Titi held out her right palm. “A thousand naira per hug.”
Kunle couldn’t help laughing hard at the two conspirators. “So ladies’ hugs are now sold in this town? Even respectable ladies like you?”
Taye pouted her lips. “No sweet talk. Ju-ust cash!” She held out her palm, too.
“Thinks he can bribe us with lawyers’ talk,” Titi rejoined, rolling her eyeballs.
Kunle brought out two notes of one thousand naira and held them out, wondering how much the value of naira had fallen. Back when he was a kid, such an amount was enough to feed a village for a full moon.
The girls eagerly came closer. “No, no, no. Service before payment.” They both hugged him tightly, staining his white shirt with their farm clothes. Titi disengaged first. In a flash, she snatched the money from his hand and took to her heels. Taye took off after her in hot pursuit.
Kunle stood watching them in feigned shock, his mouth wide open. Then he turned to his mother. “You’ve been letting these girls learn too much about money.”
“Don’t blame me. Blame your father,” she snapped back.
“Hear, hear her. What have I done now?” Father was clearly not up to any argument. He turned and re-entered his workshop, beckoning Kunle to come in.
“I’ll be with you shortly, father.” First, he went off to take a quick survey of the compound. It was in relatively good shape, except that the old three-bedroom flat which constituted the main living quarters, needed some maintenance. The walls with peeling brown zinc roofing sheets would need to be checked for leakages. He would ask his father afterwards. From a distance he took a look at his pet project, a seven-bedroom flat whose foundations had been laid fifteen months ago, but arrested at lintel level due to paucity of funds. But he avoided going close—he didn’t want to go through the emotions of hating himself all over again for that hasty investment decision he had made just before the stock market crash.
Back in the hut, Mama and Papa were waiting. He noticed his naughty little cousins had moved his luggage from the boot. Thankfully, he found the bags in his room. He gave them each the Nokia handsets he had bought for them and headed for the hut. As soon as he presented the snuff and the kilishi to papa and mama respectively, they each tried them out, nodding their heads approvingly. He held his Mama’s hand and examined her knuckles. “I have told you people not to labor so much in the farm. You just won’t listen to me.”
His father responded with a proverb. “Iyawo akofe kii ra’un oko, okele akobu kii ra’un obe.”
But Kunle was quite clueless where Yoruba proverbs were concerned. “What does that mean?”
“Does it mean you have lost your sense of language?”
“Uhn…uhn…father, am I that bad? I understand the words, at least. But what has the proverb got to do with reducing your labor in the farm?”
“Look at this shameless lawyer who cannot even understand a simple proverb in his own language! You should take a full year off, and come home to revisit your roots. The only thing you know now is Oyibo.”
“Yeah, yeah, dad. Please back to the proverb.”
“That hoe you are seeing there,” pointing to a corner, “is what sponsored you in the university. Now that you are a lawyer, has it suddenly become an archaic instrument?”
“Father, I do appreciate what you and mother did for me. You know I do. But there is time for everything. Are you still sponsoring anybody in school?”
“No, that is now your job, and you’re doing it well. But what about feeding for the old generation?”
Kunle stiffened. “Papa, you’ve never told me the monthly food supply was insufficient.”
His father patted him on the shoulder. “Kunle, my son, you cannot understand now. Just wait ‘til you grow old like me. Then, you’ll understand.”
Kunle’s lips made as if to say something, but then he didn’t. He hated to admit it, but deep inside, he knew what his father meant. He understood the listlessness of giving up the life you ever knew, and trying to learn a new, strange lifestyle. He knew the frustration of waking up to a sunrise without a victory to aspire to, without a giant to slay, the lethal power of idleness and boredom—especially for the not-so-young. They literally became beady-eyed, personal demons which must be fought and conquered every minute of the day. And idleness needed not be actual to be lethal. Technical idleness—being physically busy but unfulfilled—was just as deadly, and even more so. It was like turning the mind into a weapon, then letting it loose against your own soul.
“While you two tigers are busy fighting over my old, wrinkled hands, I have a young, hungry lawyer to feed.” Mama stood up. She looked at Kunle. “What do I make for you, son?”
“Ehm…I’m really not hungry, mama. I stopped at a restaurant along the way.”
“Don’t give me that story, Kunle. When last did you eat my food?”
Eventually, they settled for amala and ewedu soup, with bush meat. He did love his mother’s cooking—only he hated to have the old woman bother herself with chores. He preferred that his cousins prepare the food, but mother would have none of that. Oddly, he felt himself longing for a taste of his mother’s cooking. Thoughts of his adolescent years flooded his mind, when he would dash into the kitchen straight from school, and practically rob the pot, meat and all—‘til the day his daddy drilled that “mis-adventurous habit” out of him with twenty strokes of the cane to his naked back. That was after he had practiced his generous appetite on his uncle’s wife’s pot. But why was he thinking this now? Kunle wondered. Since he left home after graduation, his mother’s food rarely had that effect on him. Maybe he was hungry after all. It had been a long journey, and the evening wasn’t too far away; one could see the sun, red and thick and round as a ball, going down beyond the top of the trees.
Being a celebrity of sorts, the news of Kunle’s arrival spread like harmattan wind throughout the village. Group after group of visitors came calling—some simply to welcome him, others with legal, financial and other issues to discuss. The kids who came received packets of biscuits, and left to tell others. The village chief sent a message, inviting him to a meeting of the elders, to discuss a land dispute with close neighbors. After giving them the needed advice, they gave him their blessings in return. The routine continued for two days, while he pretended to be resting. On the third day, he set out for Lagos.


CHAPTER FOUR CONTNUES...if you are following, please let me know you are following.

* * * * * * *
PRESENTLY, the Toyota cruised along at 90 km/h. At Ibadan, the state Capital, as Kunle labored to avoid the ubiquitous okada riders in their characteristic recklessness, he couldn’t help wondering about the roads littered with potholes after all these years of “democratic dividends.” He finally hit the interstate Olusegun Obasanjo expressway, and after refueling to have a full, secure tank as insurance against possible scarcity in Lagos, he kept a straight course. After nearly five hours of non-stop driving except to pick up a snack or two, the huge, familiar billboard came to view, announcing, “This is Lagos!”
“Yeah, this indeed is Lagos,” Kunle breathed. The aqueous aura, the haze from industrial emissions, the endless sea of humanity heading everywhere and nowhere, the adrenaline that never seems to drop, the innate suspicion of everything on two legs without fur or feather, the aggression and dog-eat-dog language, the maddening sense of opportunity and ambition, the daily rat-race without a finishing line—everything came together in those three words! Lagos was synonymous with opportunity and despondence in the same breath. Here, with sufficient motivation, a woman could give birth to a fully grown cow, and for the right price (which may be as little as a pound of marijuana), a man could sell any part of his body, as long as he is assured of remaining alive after it’s been taken! With the pervasive competitiveness of its lifestyle, Lagos was sure to bring out the best in everyone. Including especially, the best way to die!
But Lagos was where everything big happened. The biggest and the best firms were headquartered there; the juiciest litigations took place there. At a time, this glamour had led Kunle and Steve into thinking of moving to Lagos. They had brooded over it for months. After six years of practice building a fairly dependable clientele, it was obviously risky to move. They rather settled for the alternative of running an annex. Since Kunle could not overcome his Lagos-jitters, Steve took charge of the office. Kunle had to admit he was not the horse that Steve was—stress always scared him silly. But now, with Steve so engrossed in politics, someone had to oversee things and handle pending cases, beyond the two junior lawyers who ran the office.
At Ikeja where his hotel was, he drove to the central mosque for Salat. Until his second year in the university, Kunle had followed his parents in worship of Sango the god of thunder—that is, if accompanying them to festivals and shrines every so often as a child qualified for worship. He had converted to Islam to fill the religious void he felt—he needed to be part of a system that made specific, predictable demands on its devotees. His newfound enthusiasm after his declaration of faith had led him to rapid growth as he learned the Five Pillars: the Shahada (faith), the Salat (prayer), the Zakat (alms giving), the Sawm (fasting), and the Hajj (pilgrimage).
Upon getting wind of his conversion, his parents would have none of it. They had fought it with every breath, threatening to discontinue their sponsorship of his education. He remained adamant, and eventually they mellowed and learned to live with it. After all, neither Islam nor Christianity was strange to the Ekukus. They eventually rationalized it whenever someone confronted them harshly. Kunle had vowed to attend the hajj once he received his first salary, a vow which he eventually made good after adding part of his savings to make up the hundreds of thousands he needed for the trip. Going for pilgrimage automatically made him an Alhaji, but he didn’t care much for titles. He found it rather ridiculous for a practicing lawyer to be addressed as “Alhaji”.
As he rushed into the mosque for his afternoon salat, he could not help feeling a little pang for missing his prayers at noon. The only opportunity during the long journey was at Ijebu-ode, but it would have meant praying in the same room with peasants and artisans. That, he could never do!
Precisely fifteen minutes after he stepped into the mosque, he was out, heading for The Dolphin where he usually stayed on those few occasions when Lagos did actually manage to suck him in.
The following day, Kunle woke up in his hotel room with a sense of anticipation. This always happened when he had a great court appearance lined up. He had spent a great deal of his nighttime putting final touches to his preparations, after spending an hour with the witness by 5p.m. at the office. She was an HIV patient who had suffered horrendously from discrimination in the hospital where she used to work as a nurse. Even though the facts of the case were heavily in favor of his client, Kunle was still slightly irked by one thing: he had not had time to personally rehearse the witness. He had been assured by Shola Williams, the senior counsel in the Lagos office that the witness was properly rehearsed, but he always preferred to have full control in the courtroom. And since this was Steve’s turf…
Yes, Steve. When was the last time they had spoken? Two days ago, wasn’t it? He had tried several times to reach him since the previous day, but had failed. First, it started with his not picking up his calls, and later, both of his lines were “switched off or out of coverage.” That was pretty strange and unlike Steve. And even stranger was the fact that he had hardly heard a word about his election on the news since the previous day when it was scheduled to be held. Sure, it was a by-election, and confined mainly to the Southeast, but it was a senatorial election, for Big Ben’s sake, not a councillorship! Why were the TV stations silent last night, and the radios, too? He turned on the TV in his room and scanned the stations. Still nothing! With his mind boggled about his friend, he stepped out of The Dolphin.
The High Court premises were a beehive when he arrived. Journalists hovered with their tripods and cameras, trying to pick up a vantage. Some high-profile case was clearly going to be heard today. Kunle hoped it wasn’t in Court 2, where his case was being held. Nothing turned his stomach like having to wait out the drudgery of a ceremonial proceeding featuring an army of idle lawyers to feed the ego of some SAN who earned his millions by the second while keeping the whole world waiting. The courtroom was still bare when he entered. He liked to arrive early for court sittings—any experienced lawyer knows that success or failure in technical cases hangs by two threads: details and attitude. Such details as where you sit, how well you see and hear or are seen and heard, your paper arrangement, and other minutia could induce such great attitude that even a lawyer with a bad case could scare his opponent into a settlement.
He checked the cause list. His case was third. The first two cases were only for mention, so his was the first full-scale hearing of the day.
The examination-in-chief was a beaut—he couldn’t help but admire the thoroughness with which the witness was rehearsed. She knew just the right thing to say, the right points to emphasize. Document after document was tendered in evidence, while objection after objection of the other party was overruled.
The facts were quite pathetic. Mrs. Folake Adewunmi was a young, thirty-five-year-old nurse who six months earlier was an auxiliary staff member of Gandhi Charan Diagnostics and Treatment Centre, a clinic that practiced a hybrid of orthodox and oriental trado-medicine. The Indian Chief Medical Officer, Dr. G.N. Charan, owned and ran the place by his own set of rules, one of which was that every member of his staff who contracted a terminal disease by whatever means would immediately be relieved of their employment without pay or compensation. Folake had somehow contracted HIV in the course of treating a patient. When she found out, she was devastated. She tried talking to a fellow nurse, but the nurse promptly told on her, and the Chief Medical Officer subsequently forced her to undergo a compulsory test, contrary to hospital policy which required a consent form to be filled before any such test could be conducted. She wasn’t allowed to see the result, and upon her insistence on seeing it, was given three months’ compulsory leave without pay “to enable her sort out her health problems.” She went home that day in a daze, unable to believe the reality of what was happening to her, let alone bring herself to tell her husband.
The following day, she came back to see Dr. Charan. She hoped to somehow make him see what she was going through, make him see it wasn’t her fault, and get him to give her even half of her outstanding one month’s salary to get antiretroviral drugs before she told her husband. Dr. Charan explained that before he could pay her, her husband had to sign an undertaking to make full refund to the hospital in case she failed to resume after the three months’ leave. This was in line with the hospital’s policy of withholding one month’s salary in lieu of a resignation without a month’s prior notice. After extracting a promise from Dr. Charan not to mention her HIV status to her husband since she was yet to inform him, Folake placed a call to her husband.
Curiously, however, as soon as he came, Dr. Charan went into a protracted closed-door meeting with him, while she waited outside. Eventually, from the nurses who came and went, she found out they were conducting tests on her husband. And after some hours, her husband emerged from Dr. Charan’s office with two files. One had his name on it, and contained the results of the tests they just ran on him. The other was hers. The HIV test result was in there. She felt herself shaking. The expression on her husband’s face was a thunderbolt. Folake was torn between madness at Dr. Charan, and desperation to make her husband understand with her. Her husband shrugged off all her entreaties and without a word, left her standing there, petrified. That night, he threw her things out and drove her out. She had never been allowed back since, and had not so much as set eyes on her two children. The following day upon returning to the hospital to demand an explanation from Dr. Charan, she was given a sack letter.
By the time Folake finished her story, there was hardly a dry eye in the entire courtroom. Kunle could hardly find his voice to continue any further questioning. “That would be all for this witness, my lord,” he whispered hoarsely. The defendant counsel did the only smart thing left to do after two grueling hours of taking a pummeling to his case—he asked for an adjourned date for cross-examination.
Kunle was shocked to find camera lenses staring at him, and journalists hounding him when he stepped out of the courtroom. He couldn’t tell if they were there as a result of some prior publicity, or were simply attracted by the newsworthiness of the tearful story his client had just told the court. Surely his case could not have been the initial attraction, the reason the press crews had besieged the court all day. Or could it? What had Mrs. Adewunmi been saying to the press? He was camera-shy and just didn’t know what to tell these hawks. Steve was the effervescent PR-man with a smile that could charm a dinosaur, not Kunle. They fired volleys at him from all directions. Did they really expect him to answer all their queries? He tried to hurry off, pretending to be a very busy man. But they blocked his path.
“Do you expect to secure justice for Mrs. Adewunmi against the racist Indian doctor?” someone fired. Interesting dimension, Kunle thought.
“The issue in this case is not racism, but unfair discriminatory treatment against my client, contrary to constitutional and other statutory provisions on fundamental rights. And yes, we hope to ensure that she gets full redress to adequately compensate her for all she has suffered in the hands of the defendant. By the time we get judgment as I honestly believe we will, it will serve as a deterrent to other employers.”
“It has been reported that Dr. Charan pays Indian nurses twice what he pays Nigerians. Is that true?”
Kunle could not help being amused. “I wouldn’t know that.” He edged on after Shola who was shoveling a path through the crowd with his gorilla shoulders. Aiwan, the new wig came closely behind Kunle, her lithe, fragile frame ducking between microphones as she dragged the small briefcase which carried his legal regalia. “Even if it’s true, it is irrelevant to my client’s case. This is not a class action or a representative action.” As he passed the last of them, he turned to face the pressmen. “That will be all for now. Thank you, gentlemen.” And the four of them headed for his car.

Bring it on, man. Loving the story,

Chapter Five
ONCE BACK AT the Rodshield office at Marina, Kunle called a general meeting where he commended everyone for a great job. He ordered lunch from Tantalizers for everyone. “Who among you rehearsed the witness?” he asked the two lawyers.
“Miss Aiwan, the new wig,” Shola answered promptly—a little too promptly, Kunle noticed.
Aiwan’s mouth went agape. “That’s so not true. We did it together, sir. It took us two whole days. Sometimes we were both with her, and sometimes we took turns.”
It was Shola’s turn to feign shock. “I didn’t know you were such a good liar, Aiwan”. He turned to Kunle. “Sir, she handled everything those two days—wouldn’t let me even sit with them for more than a few minutes at a time. I only supervised.” While he spoke, Aiwan kept making faces at him.
“Shut up…!”
“Hey, that’s ok, guys,” Kunle had to intervene in the friendly banter. “So no one rehearsed the witness, or everyone did! Maybe the cleaner joined in, too!” They all laughed. “Well, whoever did it, did a damned good job. She was simply an angel in that box! I planned to reward the person with a special Chinese order, but since we don’t know who it was, well…” He let it hang.
The two young lawyers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Give it to him,” Aiwan said, pointing. “He’s the boss.”
“No!” Shola raised his voice by a notch. “She did all the work”.
“Well, well, my bad. Forget the Chinese.” Kunle rose from his seat, and everyone else followed. He held up a hand, and they all looked up. “Or what do you say we all buy from the Chinese?”
The roar that came from that little group of four staff made him stagger back, momentarily stunned. “Hey, hey, guys, this is a law office, not a night club!” he quelled. The laughter became subdued. “All right, now, back to work, everyone. After we’ve eaten, you can take the afternoon off.”
As they filed excitedly out of his office, Kunle felt a surge of admiration for the selfless love and camaraderie that was obvious among them. There was only one way this could have happened, he surmised. Steve.
He picked up his phone and dialed Steve’s number. Same story. He dialed the second number. Still the same female voice of the operator, so smooth it was annoying. He decided to dial Matilda, Steve’s wife. As he scrolled through his phonebook to her number, he felt the phone vibrate. He checked the caller ID, and when he saw who it was, his heart skipped a beat. It was Matilda. Now, he knew something was definitely wrong with Steve. Matilda very rarely called him, and only in the morning before eight-thirty or in the evening between six and seven o’clock. Never before had she called him in the afternoon.
He had known the woman back in their days at the University of Ibadan. He and Steve were in fourth year Law when she was admitted to study Microbiology. Very shy and withdrawn, she wasn’t the regular Jane you met at the club or eatery. Somehow Steve, the explorer, was lucky enough to discover her during one of their fellowship meetings at NIFES, and they hit it off together. They were so inseparable they were soon nicknamed Romeo and Juliet; and thanks to Steve’s boisterous mentorship, she soon lost most of her shyness, and developed a graceful boldness to complement her striking beauty. Soon the guys came in droves, scheming, toasting, and brandishing their mint wallets, their mint cars, their mint Timberland boots, their mint diction, their mint lover-boy pitches and their mint lies. But she held out like a lioness, and soon became an expert at the game of ridiculing those who chose to persist in their foolhardiness. Often, she would accept a date after some diehard guy kept disturbing. But when the day arrived, she would walk up to him, elbows entwined with Steve, and introduce him as her fiancé…, leaving the sentence hanging. She stopped the game however, after they nearly got stabbed by an angry axe-man from a Confraternity cult.
Their relationship ran into stormy waters, however, when they were set to get married. Matilda’s parents, who were Ebira, were emphatic that their daughter could never get married to an Igbo man, threatening to disown her if she insisted on marrying Steve. She cried her eyes out and nearly gave up. But then she turned to friends for advice, and virtually everyone told her to follow her heart and let her parents sort themselves out. After all, it was she who would live a miserable life, not her parents, if she quit on Steve and ended up with some wrong guy chosen by her parents against her will. She had taken her friends’ advice and continued with the wedding. She had never quite succeeded in reconciling with her parents since the wedding, but certainly not for want of trying. Between Matilda and Steve, however, the bond seemed to grow stronger each day.
Kunle let the phone ring twice before he picked up. He had to gather his thoughts and brace up for the worst. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type—wasn’t so great at offering his shoulder to people, especially women. He pressed the soft key and with a measured voice, said “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Nothing.
“Hello, ma’am.”
Still no sound.
“Are you there, Mrs. Obi?”
Then his ears picked it up. A very soft sniffing sound, barely audible, someone trying to muffle a sob.
“Are you all right, ma’am? Is everything alright with Steve?”
“He’s missing,” she managed to whisper before dissolving into a cascade of sobs and tears.
Kunle could only hold the line and listen brokenheartedly to her wailing. When she quieted a bit, he said, “I’m so sorry, madam, but you need to calm down so we can find a way out of this.”
“Ok…ok…I’ll try,” she sing-sang through muffled sobs.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“Two nights ago. The night before the election.”
“You didn’t travel with him to Owerri?”
“No, I stayed back in Abuja. He had wanted me to be there with him, but I was too scared of all those people who you can never tell what they are actually thinking, no matter how much they smile at you. I’m not used to politics, and I’ve always been scared of their dirty power games. I drove him to the airport that day, but could not find the courage to board with him. I failed him…,” she suppressed a sob.
“It’s all right, madam. It really wasn’t your fault.” For a moment, Kunle had the fleeting image of a midwife and what she must go through, holding the hand of a woman in labor!
“What about the press? What are they saying?”
“I have not heard anything since yesterday afternoon after the result was declared. I couldn’t watch it live because it wasn’t on national TV. But I was told he lost, and the last anybody knew was that he addressed his supporters at the State Unity Building. I waited for him to call me after everything, but he didn’t. I tried reaching him, and all his numbers were switched off. The only story the papers carried this morning was about Senator Ike’s victory. His name was only mentioned as the senator’s strongest opponent, and nothing else. None of his friends or relatives knows where he is—not even his party officials.”
“How could that be? Were they not with him when he was addressing his supporters?”
“I don’t know.” She broke down again, but quickly gathered herself together. “I…I have called everyone I can think of. No one knows anything.”
“What about the police? Did any of the party officials in Owerri speak to the police?”
“Mr. Kunle, please, if there is anything you can do…”
“Oh, please pardon me.” Kunle realized he had been driving at her as if she were in the witness box. “Just take it easy. I’ll take care of everything and make sure he’s all right. Try to get some rest. I will get back to you later, ok?”
“Thank you, Mr. Kunle. If I don’t hear from him today, I’ll take the first flight to Owerri tomorrow morning.”
“I will see you there. Be careful, ok?”
“I’ll try. Thanks for everything, Mr. Kunle.”
He sat back in his chair, his head running riots. How could this be? What exactly was happening, and who was behind this? He dialed the FCT Commissioner of Police, but got a constant busy tone. The Party Chairman’s number went through at first dial.
“Mr. Chairman, my name is Kunle Mohammed.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Mohammed. When last did you hear from Steven?”
Kunle could hardly believe his ears. “Sir, I was calling to ask you about him. Since yesterday, none of his numbers has been going through, and I believe you were together with him at Owerri for the election.”
There was momentary silence from the other end.
“Hello, Mr. Chairman. Are you still with me?”
“I am with you, Mr. Mohammed. I am just shocked that such a thing could happen in a nation as ours. How does a senatorial candidate disappear into thin air, right in front of everybody?”
“What is the police saying about this?”
“They claim they do not know anything about his whereabouts. They took us where they said they housed political detainees, and Steve is nowhere there. We are left to think he has been kidnapped. But no one has called to make a demand for ransom.”
“But Mr. Chairman, I understand the last thing anyone saw him do was address his supporters. Were your party officials not with him?”
“After the rigged results were announced claiming that we lost, most of us withdrew to a meeting to determine our next strategy. Steve and a few others stayed back because the crowd of supporters insisted on hearing him. They were meant to join us later in the meeting at Concord Hotel. Some thugs in the crowd who were planted by PDN began making trouble, and everyone ran for cover. Eventually when the confusion died down, Steve was nowhere to be found.”
“I can’t believe this!” Kunle breathed, more to himself. “Sir, I’m leaving for Owerri right away. I will contact you as soon as I’m there. Meanwhile, does the party plan to make any official statement to the press?”
“We want to be careful about making statements which could jeopardize ongoing investigations. We are not yet sure if Steve was kidnapped, or whatever happened to him. The press as it appears, is compromised. If you read the papers this morning, you would realize that no national daily carried the news of what happened to Steven. We have reason to believe some pressmen were in position to know exactly what happened. So, the game plan is to first discover who the exact enemies are so we don’t play into their hands.”

Those following, please kindly let us know what you think about the book so far.

* * * * * * * *
OFF FROM THE OFFICE, Kunle headed towards Surulere. That would be a shorter route to the airport, he thought. He would drop his car with his cousin at Agege, a few minutes’ drive to the airport. At the airport, he would make a withdrawal with his bank card, secure the ticket and then fly to Owerri.
Alas, at Oshodi, he was held up in traffic for one hour. Then the dreaded happened—he ran out of fuel. With some help, he pushed the Camry off the road, and down to a nearby petrol station, hoping to get fuel, but they were out of fuel, and neither was there petrol anywhere nearby. He borrowed a container and ran around in search of black market petrol, but the Kick-Against-Indiscipline (KAI) officials had cleared the road of petrol hawkers. They had arrested and sent most of them to mobile courts.
While the signs “Eko o ni baje” meaning “Lagos cannot go bad” littered everywhere, he wondered if truly there was anything left to go bad. Frustrated, he abandoned his car under the watch of the security guard at the Mobil petrol station and continued his trip on a public danfo bus. He was sickened by the sight of the rickety buses, but he had no choice. As soon as he mounted the rickety bus, he noticed the other commuters were even more frustrated than he was—it was all over their faces.
The danfo buses had broken exhaust pipes, and stuttered awfully, with leaking smoke stuffing the inside. They wobbled in and out of the potholes on the roads. The drivers and conductors would have had six bottles of beer or a bottle of dry gin and some wraps of Indian hemp as booster, to get “charged for the day’s work.” They needed to be so charged to respond effectively to the abuses and violence from the frustrated commuters they encountered every day. Even though this condition of theirs led to reckless driving and multiple avoidable car accidents, who would blame them? The failed system was to blame. It was usually in this environment of “charged” bus drivers and attendants amidst frustration that you would discover the stark unclothedness of the Nigerian feeling.
Kunle sat quietly on the little space the other commuters sitting on his row allowed him. The car originally was built to take three passengers, but the owner had reconstructed the seat to accommodate five. Of course, he was only interested in the extra money and not the comfort of the commuters. Kunle made a greeting to a fat woman seated next to him, but she gave him an unfriendly stare. She was perhaps under the impression he would ask her to adjust, but he didn’t. He knew such a request would have resulted in an angry outburst. Exasperated commuters like the fat woman would frequently yell, “Are you blind?” “Where else do you want me to shift?” “What is your problem?” And if you were such that replied in a similar tone, a squabble would ensue. But if you were calm and peaceful, then after a while you would get an apology – “I’m sorry for overreacting”; “Sorry, today I’m not in a good mood today”; “I guess you are ok now, or should I shift further?” with a broad smile. The same persons would soon reconcile and would end up becoming friends.
Kunle knew all this. Just like it is often said, “Nigerians are the happiest people on earth.” He knew Nigerians are not originally violent, only that the Nigerian life which is borne out of mentality of “survival of the fittest,” can often be sad and crushing.
After sometime, he noticed that the danfo hadn’t really moved—for more than forty minutes they were still on the same spot. If he stayed in the bus any further, he would miss his flight.
“Please, is there any shorter way to get to the airport?” he asked a neatly dressed gentleman seated on the row before him.
“None that I know of, unless you take a motorcycle – okada, that will take you beyond this hold up to where you can get a BRT bus,” the man responded.
“And where can I get the commercial motorcycle?”
Kunle had hardly gotten the question out of his lips before the fat woman sitting next to him cut in. “You bi oyibo or wetin? See mi, See o! So you ask where you go get okada, for this Eko? Abeg, where did you come from?”
“Are you talking to me?” Kunle turned to inquire from her.
“Emi! Shebi I’m talking to myself ni? Englishi Man, you no dey see okada pass fiam fiam for here? You come here dey disturb us with plenty question.”
“But Madam…,” Kunle was to respond before the gentle man cut in.
“Woman wetin be your wahala? Okunrin naa ko ba e’soro, wetin concern you? You won’t mind your own business?”
“Ah! Eeeh mi! You are talking to me like that? A-a-a-a-h Oloshi! Emi wey fit carry you for my womb…I can mother you” she was beating her hands on her heavy belly; “…you don’t have resipeti shebi?”
“Who’s talking about respect here? Are you not the one crashing into a matter which has nothing to do with you?” the man shouted back.
The quarrel got tense. The other commuters just kept quiet, like the quarrel was so normal. Kunle could not tell why they all chose to be quiet. It seemed they were analyzing who would shout louder and who would give the other the opening punch.
Raising his voice a little he said, “Conductor, let me alight here, please.”
“A light kini! What is “alight?” the bus attendant requested.
“It means that he wants to get off the bus,” the gentleman said.
“Aha! Big big gramar, wey no get meaning, driver stop let him get down.”
The dawdling bus stopped. Kunle jumped out. Immediately he waved to an approaching motorcyclist and requested that he be taken to the nearest BRT bus stop.
The BRT buses were introduced by the Eko government to assist the growing transportation problem. They were to replace the rickety molue buses when they were phased out from the roads. In order to ensure fast moving traffic for these buses, a separate drive lane was earmarked for the BRT, excluding other vehicles to avoid the usual traffic congestion. It was a commendable effort of the government, albeit the policy hadn’t been faultless—the BRT often carried commuters beyond its capacity, and there seemed to be more people standing than there were seated. Even at that, it was far better than the danfo or the molue.
In about another twenty minutes, Kunle was just seconds away from the airport. He alighted from the BRT and waited for a taxi. Not long afterwards, he saw a clean taxi drive by; there was a neatly dressed young man behind the wheel.
“Taxi” he called, and the car stopped right in front of him.
Kunle approached the passenger door,
“Airport…how much?” he asked.
“Five hundred naira, sir,” the taxi driver replied.
“That’s too much. I will give you two hundred naira”
“Sir please, let’s leave it at three hundred naira.”
“Okay, just be cool and drive carefully, okay?”Kunle said as he jumped into the front seat and fastened his seatbelt. The car moved.
A few blocks away, the driver observed, “Oga, you don’t look like you live in Lagos.”
“Why do you say so?”
“I just feel so. You know, we the inhabitants of this Eko, we have this hurried lifestyle that just leads nowhere. I observed that you don’t have that Eko look.”
“If that’s a compliment, I’d say, ‘Thank you.’ Anyway, that is an intelligent observation. I think I also observe something about you.” He added, “I am convinced this is not your main job; you don’t seem like the regular taxi driver I know.”
The young man smiled and moved the lever to five. “How do you mean, sir?”
“You kind of look too enlightened, too smart and too polished to be doing this job. I have never boarded a taxi as neat as yours. I must commend that,” Kunle said as he examined the neat, perfumed car. “You speak and act like you are well educated. Are you?” Kunle asked.
The guy smiled. “Yes, sir, I am a graduate of Physics, from the University of Lagos.”
“What! You mean you are a university graduate and you are driving a taxi? Don’t you want a job or something? Or was your grade that bad?”
“I came out with a second class upper, sir. I searched for a job ‘til I ran out of energy. Some people I met in mostly government ministries, agencies and departments were asking me to pay five hundred thousand naira or get a letter from a senator before I could get a job. I had neither the money nor any senator to stand for me.”
This is so disappointing, Kunle was thinking. “So you gave up and…”
“Sir, I did not give up. Years were passing on me—I wasn’t getting any younger. I needed to cater to my parents, get married, take care of my family. I reasoned it was foolish to wait for a job that was not forthcoming, so I started a tutorial center for undergraduates and pre-degree students. From there I raised money to buy my first taxi, and then a second taxi. This is my third taxi.”
“Wow! That is so nice to hear. Do you still run the center?”
“Yes, sir. I teach my classes in the morning hours, while the other teachers I employed—about seven of them, all graduates—take on the afternoon and evening hours.”
“Why don’t you rest? Isn’t all that enough for you?”
“Not exactly, sir. With the exposure I got from school, I feel I haven’t even started. I am looking forward to a future where the two small businesses would run as twin companies. I want to register them as companies. Presently, our tutorial center is being run in an uncompleted building at Ajah. I would like to rent an office or even build a proper training center, and for the taxi business, I am trusting God for a time when we would provide world-class car hire and taxi services with well-trained, uniformed chauffeurs. I am plying this route because I want to know more about the airport system.”
“This is wonderful. I am truly inspired by your efforts, brother. What is your name?”
“I am Philip Ekpenisi, sir. This is my card.” He pulled out a set of cards from the glove compartment and gave one to Kunle who nodded, gazing searchingly at the card.
“This is good. That’s why they say, never judge a book by its cover. Anyway, you have impressed me with your story. I am left speechless.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And from the look of things, you are quite focused and committed to your vision.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I am Kunle Mohammed Afolabi. I am a partner at Rodshield Chambers and this is my card.” Kunle pulled out his own complimentary card from his wallet and dropped it on the dashboard.
“I am traveling to Owerri now. From there, I will go to Abuja, but I will be coming back to Lagos in two weeks. I have a case I am handling here. You could call me then. I want to assist you, perhaps with your company registration.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Soon the car drew close to where the airport terminal was within view.
“I think people are rushing into the airport lobby, I need to hurry up before I miss the flight.” Kunle alighted from the taxi and waved at the guy, who zoomed off immediately.
“Gosh, that was hell of a guy!”


Continue...CHAPTER 5

* * * * * * *
THE EKO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT in the suburbs, northwest of the heart of Lagos Metropolis, was the busiest international airport in the country, but miniature, at least when compared to the Hartsfield-Jackson International Atlanta or the Heathrow London. The airport wasn’t bad size-wise; however, the flawed air conditioning system, bad water and power systems had been the issues. The government had spent a lot in an effort to remodel the place, but maintenance had remained the crux.
The airport used the simple gate arrival terminal—the aircrafts on one side and vehicles on the opposite side, so one would see the Boeing, Air Bus, Bombardier and other commercial aircrafts parked at the airfield. Due to a recent fire incident, the terminal of the local wing of the airport was shut down. For over a month, passengers on local routes were directed to take the international terminal. Kunle went straight to the international wing.
An unusual rowdiness received him in the lobby. He wondered whether it was just the combined flight arrangements. Something must be wrong.
“Excuse me!” he called to a young man approaching, but the chap kept running, and pretended not to have heard him. “Excuse me please,” he called the attention of another young man, but the man didn’t look in his direction.
He walked to an elderly woman near a newspaper stand which looked unusually empty. “Excuse me, Ma. What is happening?” He bent to look at the stooping woman, who looked up with wet eyes.
“You mean, you aren’t aware that there were two plane crashes this afternoon?”
“What?!”
“My family was in one of the planes. I don’t know what…,” she started wailing. Kunle tried to console the woman, not knowing whether to hold her or just talk to her.
He bent down and said, “Ma, it’s well. God…”
“Don’t tell me that. How could it be well? And did I hear you say, ‘God?’ How could He let this happen to me? My family is gone and you tell me…”
Kunle closed his eyes and muttered, “Allah is great. Ah, most merciful Allah help us.” And because he did not want to cause the woman more sorrow, he turned and walked to a lady carrying some hand luggage. She was a lot more relaxed.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hello.”
“I’m scheduled to travel, but I kind of don’t understand what’s happening?”
“Ten minutes ago,” the lady began. “We got information that an aircraft belonging to Kasala Airline coming into Lagos crashed. Six minutes after, news came in again that another plane which had just left here, and we all saw taking off, had crashed also. We don’t know what is happening. People are in shock; others are afraid to board the planes. I’m supposed to be traveling, but I am afraid.” While she was still talking, a female voice spoke through the airport public address system.
“Attention, please.”
“Attention, please, all passengers scheduled to travel by 4:30p.m., on AirFriku and Rulif Airlines en-route to Abuja and Owerri are requested to hold on. Information on when to proceed with boarding will be communicated to you later. Thank you.” The line went dead.
“They just canceled my flight. I guess they are going to ground all the flights,” she continued.
“Were there any survivors in the plane crashes?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. I hear both of those planes were such that carried many passengers. I don’t know the exact number. The manifest isn’t out yet. The question is, who survives a plane crash?”
“It’s a rare miracle, though we shouldn’t rule that out completely. Thank you.”
“You are welcome”
Kunle lingered at the terminal for a while and then stepped out. His plans had just been changed.
“What a day!” he hissed.

Chapter Six
TEN MINUTES’ SNOOZE gone down the hour, and Barrow De Executioner, opened his eyes, took a long, deep breath and stretched himself out. By him lay a young, light-skinned lady, completely naked. For a minute Barrow stared at her naked body, noticing a tattooed butterfly on her hip. He ran his fingers through her dreadlock down to the tattoo.
She caught his hand, slightly opening her eyes. “Baby, you still haven’t slept?” she demanded.
Ignoring her, he withdrew his hand and stood up. She moaned and went back to sleep. Rhythmically following the Tupac rap playing in the background, he boogied across what seemed like a bar in the room, drew out a Remy Martins and began gulping it down his throat. Then he grabbed his watch from a drawer. The timepiece showed 5 a.m. He had to be quick. He turned to the closet, took out the exact clothes he had worn the other night and as he quaffed the drink, he managed to jump into the clothes. When he was done, he reached for his huge King James Bible, gazing at the woman to see if she was still sleeping. Convinced she was in deep slumber; he quickly opened the bible and drew out a semiautomatic .45 Colt discreetly hidden inside. He slid it in-between his pants, replaced the bible where it was, took a pen and paper, scribbled something on the paper and dropped it on the bed where the lady would see it once she woke up. He looked searchingly across the room to see if there was anything he had forgotten. There was nothing he could think of. He walked out of the room into the second room where about six girls and two boys were sleeping, all naked, lying in different positions. He tiptoed over them, making sure he didn’t step on any of the emptied bottles of spirits and cannabis butts. He went on into the rear room where two boys were seated playing cards, with their guns handy.
“Let’s go,” he motioned to one of the boys.
“Morning, boss. Good morning, boss,” the guys greeted.
Barrow nodded and made a sign. They understood. In a steady gait, he walked across the road with one of the guys who wore dreadlocks and got into a parked Honda Coupé. The guy slid into the driver’s seat, and when he got into the passenger seat, mellowed the seat and closed his eyes. At the rocket speed with which they gunned forward, it took them only ten minutes to be at the black gate.
“Boss, we are here,” the voice said.
“Oh, I’m sorry I had to take another nap. It isn’t easy being me.”
“I understand, boss.”
He stepped out and went to the gate. “See you tomorrow, oh, today. Keep the plans tight, all right?”
“Yes, boss.”
The car reversed and blared off. He undid the gate and stepped into the compound. Then he did his usual surveillance around the environment, around the recently mowed grassy area. Everything was intact. He looked out into the street. There was nothing. He walked through the back door, slid the key into the hole, quietly opened inward, and closed the door behind him. Through the kitchen, he passed his little bachelor’s living room into his bedroom. As he approached the room, he could perceive her aroma, the aroma of the supposed angel of his life. Gently, he undid his clothes, putting everything where it belonged, and ran into the shower for a quick one. Moments later he was under the quilts of the bed, his eyes still wide open. It’s been a long day, he thought, though the day just began. The game just began.
On the bed, heads up, eyes ajar gazing at the ceiling, he lay sleepless. Every thought of what lay ahead made him more vigilant. Not that he was afraid, though. The word ‘fear’ had long been struck off his record—he had learnt that over the years. But in its place, insomnia had crept into his life and had taken hold of every inch of it. There were times he would want to sleep, but he just could not—a five minute nap and up he was again. The most effective sleep inducement pills hadn’t worked for him either. He had been told his condition was chronic insomnia, another medical practitioner had said narcolepsy. One fake doctor had once assumed it as nocturnal enuresis, and he had wondered what the heck that was. Doctors seem to love to bamboozle people with their big words, words even they don’t know the real meaning. He had consulted them and yet nothing had changed. He doubted if any of those things they told him were true. Maybe for people living the normal way, but certainly not him. Since he had no further options, he had done what he hated most—give it up. He hated to give up, and he hated to be left without options.
In the meantime, he imagined what it was like sleeping deeply and dreaming dreams. Talking about dreams, he wanted to dream, he sought after it more than he desired sleep. Dreams could be escape routes for him after his troubled daytime. He had read that dreams possessed oracular powers, and that it often helped people foresee the future. If there was anyone who needed to foresee anything, it was him. He gave a jealous stare at the young woman lying next to him, still sleeping. Annabel had been asleep for more than nine hours now, if I’m right, he thought. He stared at the clock on the wall which said thirteen minutes past 6 a.m.
He had left her in the room at about 7 p.m., after he had shrewdly asked her to go with him to a friend’s birthday party. She had said she was tired and needed rest, but he knew she was going to say that anyway. Annabel wasn’t the night type or the party type. He had wondered if it was laziness or due to her background. Whichever it was, it was to his advantage. She had given him the goodbye kiss. “Honey, be careful. Don’t let those girls distract you. I am not going home ‘til you come. Remember I am here, okay? Remember I am here for you,” she said.
He had left and done lots of crazy things, and had been back, showered and sneaked back into bed, yet she hadn’t woken up. Crazy! Even though he envied her for all the sleep she got, he hated the fact she could sleep that deeply. He tried to imagine himself living that way. That would put a straight bullet in his head, he thought, cold shivers running down his spine at such. What the doctors called a disorder wasn’t entirely a bad thing, he had to admit—in fact, it was a gift, for someone in his shoes.
At about eighteen past seven, Annabel woke up. First thing she did was run her hand through the bed in search of her man. He wasn’t there. She opened her eyes and rose up. In the kitchen, she could hear water running,
“Oh, he’s in the kitchen.” She stood up, knotted the two ends of her night robe and walked to the kitchen.
“Honey, you are up already?”
“Yes, baby, I’m up. Want to make you something sweet this morning,” he whispered. She smiled and walked to where he was stirring the noodles on the fire. She held the spoon, turning his hand away from the spoon and looking directly into his eyes. They canoodled for a few minutes before he drew himself apart.
“You know I have to get this done. And don’t forget, you have lectures this morning,” he said.
“Yes, honey, you are right. I have to be quick. Wouldn’t want to miss Prof’s test again,” she said as she gave a lascivious step, exposing her nudity with his eyes following.
“What a beauty! That’s why I can’t help but keep falling,” he droned.
“Do I make the shower ready for both of us?” she called out from the room.
“No, baby, I’ve had my bath”
“Okay, honey. I love you!” she shouted as she started humming what sounded like one of Alicia Keys’ songs while she ran the water over her body.
While they were eating, he started off with, “Baby, I will be traveling to my village tomorrow.”
“What?” she retorted, almost choking in the process.
“I thought we planned to go for the visa appointment tomorrow. When are you going?” She asked as she sucked the noodles into her mouth.
“First thing tomorrow morning. I am not taking any flight. I’m going by road.” As he said this, he scooped the noodles up, and waited for the dangling ones to fall off, before taking the rest into his mouth.
“Honey, please, it is important that we go for this visa interview tomorrow. You know how much we have fought to get things to this point. Maybe after that we could travel by evening flight,” she pleaded.
“Flight? Who is flying? Oh, you would want me to fly?”
“You mean the plane crashes? I am sorry, I totally forgot.” She gave him an innocent stare.
“On a normal day I would have gone by air. You know I love to fly, but for the perilous state of the airspace now and the emergency involved here. They said my uncle is sick, and they need my attention.”
“Okay, I will see if the embassy could reschedule our interview. But please, can I at least go with you? I really want to see your people,” she said, rubbing him gently on the back.
“Baby, I would have loved you to go with me, but it isn’t really wise to introduce you to my family under such circumstances. I feel we should do it on a better day,” he returned.
“If you say so, but could the driver go with you? I just can’t bear to see you traveling by public transport. Honey, please?”
“No, you need him and the car. He will stay here,” he said decisively, and it was final.
She retreated, giving up the fight.
Barrow had led a double life most of his life. Many people knew him as Chris, the calm, intelligent and handsome young man, but to the underworld, he was Barrow De Executioner. It surprised him how he fitted so perfectly in both worlds, and with all the benefits and respect. It seemed like the best way to live. He had met Annabel in their first semester in the Diploma in Law program, about two years before. She had fallen in love with the handsome, funny and caring Chris. She didn’t know he was a secret cult leader who just wanted fun. Barrow had discovered who she was, and after the first fling with her, he had warned her not to come close to him again. He had a rule not to sleep with any woman twice, and he didn’t see the reason he would break that rule. But she had been adamant; and at every little opportunity she got, she had expressed her love for him. She had sent him packages, paid money into his bank account, arranged for people to beg him and all sorts of crazy things to entice him. Her entreaties had someway broken the wall of his iron-willed heart and she had flown in through the cracks. Even though they were from different worlds, considering their family backgrounds, they were attracted to each other.
Barrow was originally from Delta state, born into a polygamous home of five wives and twenty five children. His father, a poor farmer, had been rich with procreation. Unfortunately or as Barrow preferred it, fortunately for him, he hadn’t lived to reap the harvest of his cultivation—a house of commotion. In his early days, the poor man thought he was doing well by building such a large household. But by the bitter lessons it later taught him, lessons which took his life, he would not be a breeding machine in his next world. The house was a war-zone. Barrow had survived by bullying, fighting and stealing. He either did any of those to someone or someone did it to him. At the age of twelve, he left the house, and fled into the ghettoes of Agbor, a neighboring town. But he only stayed in Agbor for two years.
He had celebrated his fifteenth birthday in a ghetto in Lagos, of course in the company of con men. He grew up in the streets and ghettoes of Eko, with all the Eko life, the Eko food and the pidgin and Yoruba language of Eko. At some point he told himself he was a Lagosian. He hadn’t seen reason to go back to Agbor. His mother had died not long after he was born—he was her only child, and his father died immediately after setting the commotion in motion. He was left with his stepmothers that had him starve after doing every child’s chores, so when he left he knew they wouldn’t care, and he too didn’t miss them. But someday he would go home, in elegant style.
Life hadn’t been fair to him as an orphan. At first, he had desired an honest and truthful life. But that didn’t work in the ghetto world. Good and honest life had only resulted in him starving for many days. While hawking things on the streets, he had twice escaped being kidnapped and had fallen victim of con men. He had left the genuine businesses and had taken to pick pocketing, practiced shortly as a con artist, stealing and eventually moved on to full-scale armed robbery.
In one of his long-distance robbery operations, he had discovered the federal capital Abuja and had relocated, establishing a new robbery gang. One day in an Abuja club, he had run into an aid of a politician. One thing had led to another and he struck the gold mine, the hit man business. To do that kind of business and live without being noticed, he needed a cover, and the university system was the best he could find. The University of Abuja ran a diploma program, so he immediately purchased the forms and enrolled, but as he always said, “A gold fish never hides.” He was discovered by the MX5 cult group, and his pedigree soon earned him the position of the Kingpin.
Within the past thirteen hours, Barrow had authorized two killings, personally executed three and had set in motion a thunderbolt rolling. The university had matriculated in the morning, and in the evening at about 11:30 p.m., he had organized the initiation of new intakes—new and recently matriculated students—into the cult group. The event had been held on a mountaintop amid tight security, away from human interference. The group had sung their war songs, performed the rituals, beaten up the new intakes, and given them scars — to make them tough. They had finished within the thick forest mountain and had ended up in a club for celebration, everyone taking a girl to himself.
When Barrow left the house, claiming he was going for a birthday party, he’d lied. He was actually going for the initiation party.
By tomorrow evening, he would be in Lagos to execute some top secret assignments, one for his cult group and some others for a top government clientele, coincidentally Annabel’s father. Neither Annabel nor her father knew how deeply Barrow had eaten into their family. Annabel had requested several times that she introduce him to her dad, but he had cleverly declined the invitation. Little did she know her young lover knew her father more than she did. Barrow had known the Honorable Minister years before he met his only daughter, and over the years he had won the old man’s respect, running all kinds of dirty errands for him—from arranging student flirts and executing kidnaps and blackmails to securing human parts for rituals and political assassinations. The cagey old man had made Barrow take oaths before very deadly shrines. He had always admired Barrow, but he also knew how lethal Barrow had become—the very virus he used to eliminate anything.
Chief Amah had put Annabel in the diploma program after she started complaining of loneliness at home. He had called the Vice Chancellor, and she was admitted, with a chauffeur and a guard following her wherever she went. Their agreement was that she would stay in the program for two years, and then move to London where she would study law at Oxford. Shockingly she had refused to go to Oxford. He had threatened to disown her, but the crook of a girl had remained adamant. She knew he loved her enough he wouldn’t do a thing like that. The old man knew from experience, his daughter was now a puppet in the hand of some boy—she was in love. That’s the last thing he would want to happen to Annabel, a daughter he so dearly loved. He had killed for her and he would kill again if need be. He would end the life of the brat. The spies he had hired to keep surveillance on her had found nothing, so he hired Barrow to keep watch on her. He hadn’t found anything yet, but he was sure he would. “The boy is too damn effective, and he knows his onions,” the old man said. He never knew Barrow was the one screwing him.
Before the initiation ceremony, information had reached Barrow that a leader of the MX5 at Lagos University was going to be attacked by another cult group. He had scheduled two of his butchers for the job. On learning that the group was lethal, he had decided to go himself. He could not bear a failed mission nor take any chances. In an interstate operation, swiftness was key. In most of such internal conflicts between secret cult groups within a university, the services of long distant assassins, much unknown and devoid of traces were always used to ensure a foolproof operation. “I will take this out myself,” he told his butchers. “You take care of the home front.”
Sequel to the plans, he had met with the top ranks of MX5 and had worked out a sketch for the attack. Within this time, he had shared home front tasks amongst his members. He had also put calls through to his contacts in Lagos and had been fed with some of the information he needed. From his informant, he had gotten the photograph of the leader, and he had been promised the house address and his entire itinerary for the coming week. It surprised him how secretive some people could be, and yet how easy those secrets could become public news.
Barrow was set to leave, but then he remembered something. He must have to settle that before leaving, he decided, and he must settle it himself.

SHADOWS by Tony Ekwoaba is a crime, legal and political thriller published in the U.S.A. The book is on amazon, konga, okadabooks and on sale on bookshops across Nigeria. As the chapters are sent here for free, I do hope you enjoy as you read along.

Chapter Seven
AT ABOUT 8:45 a.m., the same day, a black tinted, dazzle spinning, allure-wheeled Escalade jeep with covered plates pulled up at a building. The address: 13 Denmark Street, Festac town, Lagos. The building complex housed the Golden Cyber Café. In seconds, the rear door swung open, a guy stepped out with chills of AC cooling and heavy sound oozing along. Clad in a pair of Adidas sneakers, a Rolex submariner watch and a heavy sparkling gold chain around his neck, Abiodun looked at both ends of the road and then dashed to the entrance of the cyber café. At the entrance just slightly above the door, a big sign read:
“WE DON’T ALLOW SCAMS AND 419 IN THIS CAFÉ.
DO NOT USE E-MAIL EXTRACTORS OR SEND BULK
MAILS OR HACK CREDIT CARDS.
IF YOU ARE CAUGHT,
YOU WILL BE HANDED OVER TO THE
POLICE. BE WARNED, EFCC IS WATCHING YOU.”

He looked over at the sign, smiled and then stepped inside. The car drove off.
The interior of the cyber café was much like a banking hall with endless activity. The café was open twenty-four hours. In the open space, there were about fifty computers, all occupied. The systems were arranged in booth-like compartments open only at the top, such that it was not possible to see the screen of the next person. Abiodun searched the place for a while, then went through a small opening into another room, the VIP section. When he stepped into this area, there were about five boys already working on their laptops. They all sat up and he went around to each of them exchanging handshakes. Once the pleasantries were over, he sat down over a vacant table—his regular seat—and minutes later, a guy brought in his laptop. With a “thank you” he collected it, took out the laptop from the leather bag and started putting up the connections.
Once his connection was set up with a special wired chip that cut off his Internet connectivity if anything phony was detected, Abiodun ordered a Smirnoff Ice drink. He always had something to drink; he enjoyed being able to work relaxed—all of them in the inner section loved it relaxed. The big boys always got the inner section, with serenity and foolproof security. Unlike the starters or hustlers in the game—the boys crowded at the open hall working for a “chairman” that paid them stipends—Abiodun and those five in the inner section had paid their dues and were their own bosses. They had made fortunes out of scamming. His widowed mother and younger siblings lived the good life since he discovered the scheme. He had been their money-spinning machine, so much they had become lazy. Often times, he wondered whether the decision to keep sending money home was a wise one. Again he had shrugged off the thought—what was money for, if not to be spent? This was the thinking of most other scammers. The scamming business was a make-believe one that thrived on deception. They had to spend a lot to look good, appear good, and make people think they have got it, even when they knew deep down within that they had nothing.
“Abiodun, what’s the latest format you got? Anything new?” one of the guys started up.
“Not really, I got a few mails to check, and a couple to send. My latest victim hasn’t really dropped the pay. I’m still waiting.”
“Sometimes we just have to wait. They will drop, they always do. These people are greedy.”
“Yea, and also gullible, except that some of them are beginning to have sense.”
“No matter what sense they have, there will always be a way to get them.”
“You are right.”
“I’m working on a new format, seems it’s going to be a good hook. I am thinking of using this plane crash thing. It’s news everywhere, and I guess it’s going to be tight.”
“That’s true, but you have to wait for the manifest, so you’d know which names to use, at least to be authentic, in case your victim decides to check it out online.”
“Yea,” he said and went back to his work.
A while later, the phone of one of the guys rang, and he held it up.
“Guys o! Maga, maga is on the line. It’s plus one-nine-three-one-two, five-three-two…,” He was thrilled. The number ID didn’t appear on his phone, meaning the number hadn’t been saved in his phone contacts.
“America. By this time, it is 4 a.m. in U.S. You sure it’s not someone trying to scam you?” one of the guys stated.
“He might just be calling to annoy you real hard,” another guy interrupted.
“Hahaha…sure it’s not a scammer from Ghana, Benin, Togo, or Malaysia?”
“It could be a scammer here in Lagos, just across the street,” the earlier guy reiterated.
“Ssshhh. Whatever, let me take the call.”
“Yes”
“Mr. John Chukwu, the CBN Governor?”
“Yes, yea!” The guy called the attention of the others. Taking the phone away from his mouth, he whispered, “I think I know the Maga.” Into the phone he said, “Yes, this is the Central Bank Governor. Mr. Ben Fisher, it’s good you called. I had not heard from you, and I was worried something had happened to you. Hope you are okay?”
“Yea, I’m cool. Just had some issues with my wife. She was hospitalized.”
“So sorry about that. I have been busy with work. You know, we are trying to restructure our country’s fallen currency. Much of the work has been on me, or I would have called you.”
“I understand,” the American said.
“So are you ready to make the payment now? Because the time secured for the job has expired. But I managed to use my influence to keep the deal open for you. I even had to personally beg Mr. President so that the contract isn’t given to another company.”
“That’s good of you.”
“You are welcome. You know, all the while we have known, I see you as a brother now.”
Fisher giggled, “Good to know. I will have the money ready by next month.”
“Did you say next month? Too bad, Mr. Fisher. I think I have to go. I have done a lot for you, especially considering how much you are going to make from this contract. Ten million U.S. dollars, isn’t it? Yes, ten million U.S. dollars. I have a couple of companies from China, Germany, and India bidding for this contract; the machines are covering all the commercial banks in the country. You know, that’s thousands of machines. I want quality and efficiency. I don’t want to leave a bad legacy as a Governor, that’s why I considered you in the first place, but if you cannot pay just two hundred thousand dollars to oil up the contract, then you are not serious.” He cut the line.
“He will call back,” proudly he said to the hearing of the others.
“Are you sure he will call back?” someone asked.
“He will call back. He’s got the hook,” Abiodun affirmed from where he was sitting.
Minutes later, Fisher called back.
“Wow woo! This is blood in water! Guys, I smell cool dollars.”
The phone rang the three full times, before he picked. Changing his voice he said, “Hello. Who is this, please?”
“This is Mr. Fisher. May I speak with the CBN Governor?”
“The Governor is busy, sir. I am his Personal Assistant. You can drop your message.”
“Please it’s important that I speak with him personally.”
“Hold on.”
He took the phone away from his mouth for about two minutes. Then with another voice change, he said, “Yes, this is the Governor. Mr. Fisher, how may I help you?”
“Mr. Governor, I have reconsidered the proposal. I had wanted to discuss it first with my board of directors but as you have insisted, I think I would just go ahead and inform them later. I really wouldn’t want to miss this opportunity. I see it as a great opportunity to launch my company in Africa.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you are acting in that direction. Mr. Fisher, I really do not have time.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Please hold on. I will send it to you by Tuesday next week. Is that okay?”
“That’s okay. And perhaps, since you said your wife isn’t feeling okay, I was thinking…”
Away from the phone mouthpiece, he shouted, “Abiodun, Abiodun…”
“Yes?”
“Is your contact in the U.S. still legit?”
“Yea.”
Speaking back into the phone,
“I had to attend to something. I will be entering into a conference call with my Deputy Governors shortly. I was wondering. Oh! I just remembered, one of my aides is coming to the US for a meeting. I could send her to meet you up at your office, you know.”
“That is good.”
“I await your call. Wire the transfer through Gram wire, not Western Union. Remember, Gram wire. My aide will communicate to you via the same email, the details for sending the money.”
“Thank you, Mr. Governor.”
“And don’t forget to email him the MTCN and the SWIFT Code”
“What’s that?”
“The MTCN is Money Transfer Control Number. It’s a ten-digit number. And the SWIFT, he will explain all that to you in the email. Sorry about your wife. I have to go.”
“Thank you. Bye.”
He dropped the call.
With an aura of pride, he exchanged glances and smiles with the others.
“That was a cool one,” someone said.
“Boys, we don’t take last. I am no newbie in this job, so I can’t speak jargon.”
“Don’t blow the trumpets yet; wait and see if he will make the payment. In this business, you just don’t swallow everything. I know you know that,” Abiodun said from across his seat.
“And you didn’t ask him why he called you at 4 a.m., American time?” someone added.
“That’s none of my business. It’s not good to make him feel restricted access to me. And even though it’s 4 a.m., in the U.S., it is not odd hours for me. He wouldn’t call a Central Bank governor at my odd hours. You don’t expect a Central Bank governor to memorize all the time zones of the world. That’s occupying his head with shit.”
“Yes, as far as he drops you the evidence of transfer.”
Abiodun invited the guy that had just dropped the call, over to his desk.
“Can you spare a moment?”
“Yea,” the guy replied. He was confused whether or not to look at Abiodun’s laptop screen, so he asked, “Is it confidential?”
“It’s not confi. I am just trolling guest books, extracting some special emails of top company CEOs.”
“I just discovered a sweet domain for extracting mails.”
“I will get that from you later. I have this massive job I’m planning. It’s going to drop us about fifty million U.S. dollars.”
“That’s huge!” The guy winked.
“Yes, yes, it’s going to be huge, but it requires collaboration. It’s an oil deal. I’m thinking of pulling you into it. Are you tight—can you be in?”
“Depending on the terms, I am in,” he said rubbing his right fingers against his left palm.
“The terms are going to be good. This is me pulling this, and this isn’t our first colabo, so you shouldn’t think I will bust you.”
“Not you. It’s not you, but the other people involved,” he lied.
“Don’t worry about that. I am sure of the others—just some government officials, international links, and a few others.”
“Okay then. Keep me in.”
“I will do just that. I have to get in touch with my Abuja connection first. Then we will move from there.”
“Until then, I’m off for lunch. I’ll be back later.” The guy moved on to his seat to pack his things.
“Are you lunching here or out?”
“I will be eating out today. I have been eating their food here every day of the week. My belly demands I give it something else. I am doing real African soup at Mr. Biggs.”
“Ok, then. Maybe I should come after you. This weekend slow down isn’t really good. I wouldn’t want to miss this Friday clubbing, and I have to be home early for the Monday and Tuesday rush.
Remembering something, Abiodun started talking to himself, “A-a-a-a-a-h Oodua! I have to get through to Barrow de Executioner. He’s going to need the info as he comes into Lagos. The address and picture aren’t enough. I promised to fix up everything for him, Ah! I got to do it, I can’t fail him. I can’t discuss this oil deal with him if I don’t deliver my findings. I got to go now… this lunch thing should wait.”
Abiodun shut down his system and hurriedly began to pack. The same guy that had brought him the bag stepped forward and took it from him. He said goodbye to the others and left the VIP. Over at the open hall, he reached for his mobile phone and dialed his driver. In a moment, the black jeep pulled up. He slid into the back seat and then it roared off.



CHAPTER SEVEN CONTINUES...


Divepen1, larrysun, repogirl, therock555, kayemjay, Viktormartins

* * * * * * *
PROF DICKSON WAS AT HIS desk preparing his lecture. He always took time to prepare his lecture notes. Prof, as he was fondly called, was one of the stringent lecturers students feared on campus: his attitude, straight face, and no-nonsense comportment earned him so much reverence. But he also had his alter ego—they all had theirs. His was his don’t-tell-don’t-get-punished secret dalliances with some of his female students. He wasn’t the kind that went after everything behind the skirt. He had his preference, and any young lady he chose, God help her!—she either gave him what he wanted or she never got to pass his course. This had been going on forever. His victims were terrified to the bone marrow—they dared not tell anyone. In fact, they would decline to admit that he flirted. They would tell you they hated the Prof because he didn’t socialize. That was what fear could do. Sadly, the restless thing between Prof’s legs would one day bring him trouble. He had made advances at Annabel. She had refused, and he subsequently failed her in his course. He even told her he failed her on purpose. He didn’t know the danger he had gotten himself into.
He was still in his office reviewing the lecture notes, when a smack came on the door, crashing it wide open. He froze; his reading glasses went crashing to the floor. He made to run but there was no point as the exit was already blocked by whomever—assailants or murderers or whatever, he didn’t know. Two guys wearing hoods hovered on the terrace, making sure they were where he could see them.
Barrow stepped further in and drew out his gun from his belt.
“Shut up!” he shouted. He wasn’t wearing any hood.
“I just hope you understand the situation here, and you don’t try something funny, because if you do it will get deadly worse for you,” he said to Prof.
“Professor, or whatever you call yourself!” He shouted. Prof didn’t respond.
“Prof, answer me!” He shouted. “I don’t like to waste my precious time on such trivial issues. And if you think you will waste my time, then I will waste your life right away. Prof!”
The Prof flinched. “Ye…ye…yes…”
“As I said, I don’t have all the time in the world. You either let it be by the easy way or we go by the rough way.”
“What do you want?” Prof finally muttered
“Now, you are talking.” He giggled maniacally. Over to his boys, he said, “You see, the man doesn’t want me to waste my bullet. He seems smarter than we thought.”
“Hahaha…maybe you just set his damn brain in motion,” the tiny-eyed guy stated.
Barrow gave a sarcastic smile. “Okay, okay, where did I stop? Oh, what the Bleep I want? Yeah, I want you to redress your actions. I want you to control that tingly thing in-between your legs, I want you…”
The Prof said, “I don’t get you.”
“Shut up! You don’t talk when I am talking! You don’t speak until I tell you to. Understand?
Prof nodded.
“Do you know Annabel Amah? Registration number 07938475?”
“I…I…”
“Don’t waste my time; do you know her?”
“Yes, I think I have come across that name before. She is a law student, and she attends my sociology classes for crime and delinquency.”
Barrow didn’t wait for him to finish,
“Yes, you don’t just know her. You tried wooing her into your filthy bed and threatened her with your crap of failing her, which you eventually did. But I tell you, you know nothing about that girl, because you failed to know the first thing you should have known about her. Do you know what that is?”
Prof shook his head.
“Your scum head and tingly thing wouldn’t let you; you should have known she was the wrong person to mess with.”
The sound of footsteps approached through the aisle, and Prof made as if to shout. Noticing that someone was coming, Barrow ordered his boys to walk to the other end of the porch and wait for him. He secured the door and then he went over to Prof, running the gun barrel on Prof’s neck. He waited until he was sure the person had passed.
“Do you feel this? It is an automatic silencer. “Arrow!” And you are dead even before you know it. And the sweet thing about it is that it makes no sound. So I would kill you and your next door neighbor wouldn’t notice anything. The next time someone comes through that way, and you try to raise alarm, I tell you, you will be long gone into hell. Do you get it?”
Prof nodded, and he began to shiver.
“Back to our talk,” Barrow smiled sarcastically. “You humiliated an innocent girl for not sleeping with you. You have been doing this to many others, and they left you alone. I heard your stories, but have waited for this day, this very day.
“You called the shots; you dictated the pace of their academics. But that’s history now.
Professor!”
“Ye ye – yes!” Professor nodded uneasily.
“You are going to apologize to Annabel. You will write her an apology letter.”
“Yes, yes I will,” Prof said much agreeably.
“You are going to give her the grades she deserves. She deserves an “A”. Don’t you think so, Professor?”
“Yes ye ssss – she – an ‘A’.”
“Good! You will give her an ‘A.’ Hmmm, a piece of advice, I heard you divorced your wife, or she divorced you. Get a wife and a life!”
“I –I will…”
“And now, let me warn you—I’m not one of your students. If you try contacting school security, or the Police or SSS or anything, just know that you are dead. You would be dead and in extinction. I don’t blab. I have the details of your entire household—your little daughter at the Gifted School just across the road, your first son in third year medicine at UNILAG, your second son studying law at the University of Ilorin. I have all their room numbers, lecture schedules and itineraries. You might not care for the boys, but I know your daughter is very dear to you. Be warned!
“Prof, do you UNDERSTAND?”
Prof mumbled, “Yes ye – yes. Please don’t hurt my family.”
Barrow slammed the gun barrel on his head, putting the man into unconsciousness and he was gone.













Have a lovely Sunday,

C.C SEUN LALASTICLALA FLIRTYKAREN TOSYNE2MUCH MIZMYCOLI BARCANISTA D9TY7 CHAIRCOVER NAIJASINGLEGIRL ANDYBLAZE safarigirl, Ishilove,therealmrstan, elantracey, Audreytymms, Naijaboiy kachis.barbie Kachisbarbie
Cococandy
Omenka
Sincere9gerian
Madcow
Jarus
Seun
Tallesty1
Babyosisi
Aisha2 Mr Cork?
Obinoscopy
Sienna
Mizmycoli

Nice story

Thank You Victor Martins, the story continues...I will try and make sure I make a post of the book each day. Keep following

Chapter Eight
THE SUNDAY SERVICE was incredible. The church building wasn’t entirely among the breed of the Saint Peter’s Basilica or the Westminster, though. It was a modest open hall filled with white plastic chairs and a moderate podium. After the service, the crowd faded out. Matilda remained bonded to the plastic seat. Uncertain what to do or where to go, she sat in the church premises—the only place that sort of reduced the flames in her heart, at least for the moment. Through the windows one could see the chattering crowd, kids running out of the children’s wing, and the home-rush for lunch. It had been another adorable Sunday service. Matilda didn’t notice the crowd; the downpour building up in her eyes wouldn’t let her.
In this part of the world, the people were very religious and so sought for solutions in walls of churches. While there were genuine children of God, self-acclaimed pastoring had also grown by the day, and only God knew those truly called by him.
Matilda was a Catholic until her second month in the University. Some exposure, a little influence and a few studies here and there, and she had begun to question the Catholic doctrine she was born into. She worshiped in NIFES after a friend invited her to fellowship just around the crisis period. She enjoyed the sermon that first day and so the second day she didn’t wait to be invited. She went all by herself. That was where she met Steve.
Prior to his graduation, Steve invited her to fellowship in the New Life Church of God Mission, where another preacher had mesmerized her with the sermon. That was how the church became her new church. It was too late when her parents discovered she was no longer a Catholic. That was the first time she disobeyed her parents.
After joining the church, she and Steve had grown even closer and fallen deeper in love. Against all threats and disapproval from her parents, they had eventually wedded in the church, and since then the church was family.
New Life Church of God Mission, headquartered in Abuja, Nigeria, was a “new generation” church. The General Overseer, Senior Pastor Ola Rotimi Ajasu, was a successful medical practitioner before he was called into the ministry. The little church which had started in his living room with just a few members was to become a mammoth congregation with hundreds of thousands of members in over forty parishes. Pastor Ola was a simple man. Steve had informed him he was going to run for the Senate and hoped that he would remember them in prayers.
“Be careful, make sure you don’t backslide in your faith, I will continue to pray for you, and the Lord is with you,” he had replied. That was like him. He was wise with words.
Before embarking on the trip to Owerri, Matilda had gone to the headquarters to inform Pastor Ola. She however met his absence. He was in London for a crusade, so she had traveled without seeing him. And here she was, completely distraught and confused for what to do. She wasn’t cut out for politics, and she and Steve had agreed to keep her out of it as much as possible. But this? This was crazier than politics. Steve had been missing for days now, and she wasn’t even sure he was alive. She could not wait to be pushed to make the trip. She just did. She had hurried to Owerri and had taken refuge in her aunt’s home, but kept Steve’s disappearance a secret to herself. It was best a secret for now, she thought.
While her aunt’s family had gone to the Catholic Church, she worshipped at the Owerri branch of the New Life Church of God Mission. The sermon was as if the pastor knew her predicament, and it had looked just so when he ended it all with a story.
“Once upon a time,” the pastor had said, “there was this famous painter putting a final touch on his painting. It was an astonishing painting. The painter was so obsessed and thrilled with his painting that he reluctantly began to take steps backwards to admire the painting from afar. As he walked backwards, he forgot to look back. He continued stepping backwards until he was just an inch away from the rim of the skyscraper. A single further move backwards and he would have fallen from the edge of the eighteen-story building.
“A man looking on from across an adjoining room saw as the painter faltered at the brink of falling. He wanted to scream out a warning, but realized that his cry would rather have startled the painter, causing him to step further back and fall to his death. The man just stepped over the wall, grabbed a brush he found at the foot of the painting and began to scrub the gorgeous painting until it was totally damaged. As he began doing this, the painter started running forward towards his painting. The painter was furious and took something to hit the man. At this point, some other person who had also been observing the drama from a distance, held his hand and showed him to the last spot where he stood, nearly falling eighteen stories down to his death, but for the man’s action which made him move forward.
“Every now and then, we paint our lives with such splendor and with hopes of glamorous moments we plan to spend with those we love. Then suddenly God seems to step in and destroy our beautiful paintings, knowing what hazard lies before us. We are irritated and angry by what God has done, but we must remember, God loves us, and He preserves only the best for us. God’s best appears like our worst!”
The homily had left everyone in the church awed. Matilda however had been confused as to how she felt even though the sermon was somewhat consoling.
“God, why?” she grumbled. Why me? Why us? We have served you diligently, why us?”
She kept muttering, “God, why?”












C.C


Divepen1, larrysun, repogirl, therock555, kayemjay, Viktormartins safarigirl, Ishilove, therealmrstan, elantracey, Audreytymms, Naijaboiy SEUN LALASTICLALA FLIRTYKAREN TOSYNE2MUCH MIZMYCOLI BARCANISTA D9TY7 CHAIRCOVER NAIJASINGLEGIRL ANDYBLAZE

* * * * * * *
LONG AFTER THE SERVICE was over, Matilda was still sitting in the church, questions swirling her mind. One of the church ushers, who had been busy arranging the offering collection boxes and plastic chairs, had seen her. At first, he didn’t bother her. But then he noticed she’d been seated there for over forty minutes, not moving at all. She didn’t appear to be praying either—most people who stayed back in church to pray knelt at the altar. It seemed pretty unusual, so he walked across to where she was sitting.
“Hello, madam?” he said. Matilda remained oblivious.
“Ma, can you hear me?” he almost shouted, but she wasn’t anywhere close.
He raised his hand to tap her by the shoulder, but she shrugged and again muttered. “God, why?”
“Madam, why what?” the man asked, tapping her by the shoulder.
At the touch of the hand, she jumped up and down on the chair.
“Sorry, ma. Sorry ma’am. I am sorry,” the usher quickly apologized.
“No problem. Where… oh, am I still in church?” She tried to get up as she said this.
“Madam, please can I help? Whatever it is, we are a family here. We could help.”
“No problem. I’m okay” she said wiping her nose and eyes with a handkerchief.
“Madam, please, can’t you at least see Pastor? Even if you can’t share it with me, I think you should at least pray with Pastor. You know, God can do all things. No problem is bigger than our God.”
“Okay, I’ll see the pastor. Where is his office? Is he still around?”
“Yes, ma. He always waits to see people after service. He is still around. Please come with me; let me show you to his office.”
Shakily, Matilda stood up, her feet unsteady, as if they both could no longer carry her body. Her heart was racing. She sat back.
“Sorry ma, should I help you up?” the boy said in shock, wondering what it was that could make a young, beautiful and agile looking lady become so weak.
“I am okay. I can get up.” Matilda pulled all her strength together and stood up. Holding on to a pillar like a baby learning to walk, she took one step, then another. Then she felt stable.
“Let’s go,” she finally said.
The pastor was done with counseling for the day. He had seen about twenty members and just when he felt he was done and was eager to go home, a knock came on his door.
“Come in,” he managed to say.
The pastor was wondering who it was, quite sure he had seen everyone on the waiting list. He had even informed the church workers that he wasn’t to be seen. He needed to say his prayers before leaving the church. He was done for that morning. The rattle on the door came again.
“Come in, please,” he repeated.
Slightly, the door opened, and the usher came in, Matilda trailing behind him.
“Sir, this Madam wants to see you,” the usher said.
“Welcome, ma. Please have a seat.” The Pastor drew a seat for Matilda,
“Thank you,” he said to the usher as he closed the door behind them.
“Madam, you look worried. Whatever it is, my spirit tells me I should tell you it’s over. God is in control. Our Jesus is on the throne.”
“Amen…Amen…Amen.” Then she added, “Pastor, my husband in missing.”
“Lord Jesus, your husband?”
“My, my husband has been missing, for…,” Matilda began to sob again.
The pastor drew closer to her, took out a clean serviette from a box on his desk and offered her to clean the tears.
“So sorry madam…so sorry.”
“Thank you, Pastor. He had left me in Abuja and come down here for campaign. Then he got missing in Owerri here, his own state.”
“Lord goodness, is your husband a politician or something?”
“Pastor, he wasn’t! We were content with the little God gave us. He has been a legal practitioner. It was only recently he started this politics thing. I told him, Pastor, I told him politics is a dirty and dangerous thing, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he was going in to make a change. One man. Tell me how one man can change a whole nation. See where it has brought me today. He was contesting for the Senate,” she said in-between sobs.
“Oh my God! You are Mrs. Obi?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Jesus!”
“Barrister Obi is missing? He is a very strong member of our church. We have been informed of his participation in the election from the headquarters. Even though we are nonpartisan, I got a call from our headquarters to organize a special prayer session on his behalf. The people of God rejoice when the righteous is in power. The leadership of the church believes his call was divine. Although I hadn’t seen him during the weeks before the election, I guess he must have been coming to church. I could remember the last time I met him one on one was about two months ago. But we have been praying for him.”
“Pastor, I can’t believe any of this is happening. The last time I was with him, I had driven him to Abuja airport. I regret not following him down here.”
“Don’t blame yourself, madam. Coming with him could have done little; he knows why he wanted you to stay back in Abuja.”
“No, he wanted me to come. I was afraid. Pastor, it was my fault, it was all my…,” The tears started pouring down her eyes again.
The pastor got closer. Holding her hand, he drew out his bible, opened it and began to read. “The Bible says in Psalms 9:9, that the Lord is our stronghold in times of affliction. In Psalms 55:22, it goes further to say that we should cast our loads on the Lord. Please don’t let this break you down. The weeping may tarry for the night, behold joy comes with the morning.”
“Pastor but…”
“Madam, you must not give up. You really don’t know how close you are to this miracle.
“Let’s pray. Father, we thank You for this moment. Lord, You said in Matthew 11:28 that we should come to You, all we who are heavy laden, that You will give us rest. And in Psalm 34:18, that You are near to the brokenhearted. Father, we are brokenhearted; we are crushed over the disappearance of our brother and husband, Barrister Steve Obi. Our heart cries. But we have come to You as Your children, thanking You for what You have done for us, and also asking that You grant freedom to our brother and husband Steve Obi.
“Lord, we walk by faith. In Romans 8:28, Daddy, You told us that You make all things to work for the good of those who love You. We understand that whatever plan the enemy has concerning our Brother Obi shall be turned to good. Thank You, Lord Jesus, for hearing us. Amen. It is well, madam.”
“Thank you very much, Pastor.”
“We will continue to pray for your family. Madam, I assure you he will come back. Please, this is my card. I will be expecting a call from you soon.”
“Thank you, Pastor. I will be going now.”
“May the Lord go with you, madam.”
“Amen.” With that, Matilda stood up and stepped out of the office.
She quickly got out, and riffled through her bag for her phone so she could store the pastor’s number. She had forgotten that it was switched off; she immediately turned it on. A couple of message notifications appeared on the phone screen. Most were from her friends in Abuja, trying to find out why she wasn’t in church. A couple were from Kunle. Still no news about her husband.
As she was going through the messages, a call came through.
“Hello Madam.” It was Kunle. “I have been trying to reach you for hours now. I was getting scared. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Oga Kunle. I am fine. I was in church, so I had to switch off my phone.”
“Allahu Akbar. I was agitated. So good to know you are okay. Have you heard from Steve?”
“No, I haven’t, I am so afraid. I hope he is alive.”
“Madam, don’t think a thing like that. He is alive.”
“I have heard stories where people disappeared like this and never came back, and looking at the circumstances…”
“Madam! Steve is alive, and I have no feeling he is dead. Don’t entertain unnecessary fears that will create health problems for you.”
“I hope so, I just hope so. I can’t bear the thought that my husband, my love, my world is missing. The thought of living without him is unbearable.”
“Your love is alive. Madam, where are you? I mean where do I see you? I am now in Owerri.”
“I am at the New Life Church of God at Wetheral Road. Did you just come into Owerri?”
“No, I came in very late last night. It was late and my phone was dead, so I couldn’t call. I came by ABC Transport. All flights were grounded in Lagos after the plane crash. Madam, just wait for me where you are. I will be right there with you.”
“Okay, Oga Kunle.”








C.C


Divepen1, larrysun, repogirl, therock555, kayemjay, Viktormartins safarigirl, Ishilove, therealmrstan, elantracey, Audreytymms, Naijaboiy SEUN LALASTICLALA FLIRTYKAREN TOSYNE2MUCH MIZMYCOLI BARCANISTA D9TY7 CHAIRCOVER NAIJASINGLEGIRL ANDYBLAZE

Bro, keep it coming but, please, stop the ceaseless tagging. If anyone wants to read, s/he would.

Thank you OluwabuqqyYolowo. The more i'm sure people are following the posts, the more it makes sense to send more, knowing that it's followed.

Chapter Nine
KUNLE HAD ONLY visited Owerri twice, and both times he had fallen in love with the city. He wasn’t completely new in the city, only this time he was alone, and the circumstances were bizarre. He had hoped to come to Owerri in celebration of Steve’s election victory, but the tides were against him.
Owerri was not really a commercial city. It was more of a city in pursuit of learning than a commercial hub. So there were many educational institutions in the city and because of this, the city also had many young ladies, beautiful ladies.
Following his contact with Matilda, Kunle had taken a taxi to a few places round town. It was Sunday, expectedly most offices were shut. Later than night, he booked lodging at Hotel Royal, room 126. He would later discover the air conditioning system was broken. He had complained, and promptly he had been relocated to a new room.

* * * * * * *
KUNLE’S DAY TWO in Owerri was a Monday, a sunny Monday. He was relieved after the night rest. He left the hotel, wearing a blue suit. It was going to be his first attempt at manhunt; that wasn’t the kind of game he played. And while he stood by the entrance to the hotel waiting for a taxi, he noticed an unusual crowd across the road. There were cars parked on both sides of the road, realizing that those cars weren’t there the night before.
“Hello, what is going on there?” He asked a man coming from that direction.
“Nothing, just papers. They gather to read headlines every day,” the man stated flippantly.
“Headline readers? Those would be interesting to see.
“Can I go near them? I mean, will I be safe if I draw close?”
“Yes, there is no danger there,” the man said and continued down the road.
“Thank you.”
Kunle walked closer. The crowd was flavorsome and confident, evidently fearless. They weren’t looking hungry either. Most of them stopped over at the place, argued a little on the headlines, bought the papers and then darted off to work, in what seemed like a ritual. He approached cautiously, the chatter getting more audible as he drew near.
“I pity for the others. I am really touched by their deaths. If not for these innocent souls, I would have been celebrating the headlines.” someone was stating.
“Don’t celebrate the death of another,” a deep voice riposted.
“Sometimes some deaths ought to be celebrated,” another retorted.
“The gentleman would not understand. I don’t think he has read much of history,” a coarse voice reprimanded.
“Mister Gentleman, the most celebrated thing in history is the triumph of war or the downfall of another. Either way, it ends in death.”
“Then anyone of us could be the next man dead. We could have been on this headline if not –”
“My happiness isn’t in the fact that someone died, but in the kind of persons who died.”
“How do you mean?”
“The downfall of a wicked man is a relief to those he holds hostage, without which they may never find freedom. Mister Gentleman, you and I have been relieved again of some of our hostage keepers.”
“It is just an indication that we are all the same. When we fail to help others, when we fail to solve the problems that don’t directly affect us, as we remain indifferent to the poverty, the sufferings of people around us, we all perish one day,” the coarse voice argued.
“They say someone who lives in a glass house should not throw stones.”
“What are you two talking about?”
“Mister Gentleman, you still don’t understand? Let me explain, this manifest.” He took the paper closer, pointing at the list of names on the front page. “Do you see these names of passengers that died in the plane crash? They were released just today. The list includes the names of our oppressors. Topmost among them is Senator Johnson Ike who thought the Senate was his birth right.”
“He had continuously rigged his way into the Upper Chamber even when we never wanted him. So unfortunate he couldn’t bribe death.”
“God has unseated him finally,” the man with the coarse voice added.
“You remember that he was the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Aviation. When there was call for probe and overhaul of the aviation sector following the crash that killed the former governor, and other subsequent plane crashes, he killed the idea after he was bribed by the airline operators.”
Kunle kept dilly-dallying in the crowd, snooping into different discussions. At another spot, he heard what seemed to interest him, so he eased up to nosh his starving ears.
“See on page 14. I wonder why this didn’t make the headlines. Page 14, yes, the Sun Newspapers. It says that our state has got a new commissioner. Agene Ameh. Do you think he will make a good Commissioner of Police? I read he was transferred from Plateau State.” The question was not directed at anyone.
That name Agene rings a bell, Kunle thought. He listened on.
“Has he any reason to do well? The criteria to know whether or not he did well would be if he was able to meet up with the evils of those that put him there.” Someone stated.
“That man is particularly an honest man, one of the best we have in the force. He would have a lot of work with the rise in kidnap cases. And these days the kidnappers no longer release their victims so as not to reveal their trail afterwards.”
“That’s crazy. Now you remind me. I heard that Barr Steve Obi is missing.”
“What? Please don’t make me choke. Where did you read that from?”
Kunle came closer. The story was getting more interesting, he thought.
“Our Steve Obi or some Steve Obi from some other place?” someone asked.
“The Barrister Steve Obi that you know, the one that ran for senate.”
“No wonder! We were wondering why he went silent after the election. We didn’t hear anything about him. When it was obvious the election was rigged. We had expected a petition at the election tribunal, or a complaint you know, something like that—not the cowardly muteness. It was obvious he won the election. I said it! I knew he could never do a thing like that. For Steve Obi to keep quiet the way he did? Impossible!”
“There was even the rumor that he had been given some millions by the Senator; that he had fooled us, taken his loot and run back to Abuja.”
“He has been missing. I heard that his party is confused about it.”
“Wait! Was he kidnapped or something? How come we have not heard about it and none of the papers has reported it?”
“It is pretty confusing. I heard his party doesn’t want to make a statement yet. I also heard the ruling party doesn’t want it exposed. They feel it will cause some mass protest against them”
“Then the ruling party must have a hand in it!”
“They should have a hand in it.”
“How sure are you about this? Who is your source?”
“You do not expect me to tell you that. Anyway about being sure, I am very sure about it.”
“My God! We must do something about it then.”
“Something like what?”
The question got everyone thinking. They were silent, throwing glances at each other. After a long while, the coarse voice broke the silence.
“Let’s all enquire further about this.” He continued, “Then we meet here on Friday and discuss what we discovered. We must do something. Barr Obi was one of us. He used to come over here to read the papers with us. He listened to our views, and he took note of our discussions and he was going to use them at the senate. He was family. As family we should never let him down.”
“Friday, so be it then!” they all agreed.
A set of about seven men broke away from the crowd. Some got into their cars, two others trekked down the road. Obviously the information was enough for Kunle. He would come back to the group. He bought The Sun, The Punch and Thisday News papers and left to get a taxi. He would read the papers in the taxi.
“Taxi,” he called.
“Please take me to the State Police Headquarters.”



The story continues...

Great....
Following you man....
Just it seems like I am reading political news rather than reading a novel..... Its too real
Good job tho

Congrat my guy,keep it up

Chapter Ten
KUNLE RELAXED ON the back seat of the moving taxi. He had taken off his suit and undone his tie. The newspaper was spread over his face while the driver steered the taxi here and there every now and then. Kunle was buried in his thought. Could it really be true that the senator is dead? But how else could one explain his name on the manifest? Could he have survived somehow? He searched through the story again, just to make sure. “It says there were no survivors,” he muttered to himself. He dropped The Sun and picked up Thisday, then The Punch. They all said the same thing. No difference!
The deaths would have been very devastating for these families, he thought. Some names had the same surname: Bernard Osuchukwu, Ogechi Osuchukwu, Kingsley Osuchukwu, and Ifeoma Osuchukwu. That was an entire family gone!
“What a pity!”
He searched further on the list to see if there were more names he knew, maybe an unfortunate friend or colleague. But there weren’t.
As he read on, he wondered why he wasn’t particularly saddened by the ugly event. Why would he be strangely indifferent over the death of someone? All his life, he had never felt such weirdness, maybe because it had to do with Steve’s opponent. But who could be sure that the Senator was involved in Steve’s disappearance? Even so, he wasn’t the only one on the ill-fated flight. There were innocent people who lost their lives, too. He remembered the look on the lady’s face at the airport. How pathetic she had looked!
The car swerved, branching off from the main road onto a mud-spattered path, thick forests bearing dust-powdered leaves and trunks on both sides.
“Hey, where are you going?” He shouted at the taxi driver. His thoughts had been wandering, and he had forgotten to look out through the car window all the while. “Driver! Where are you taking me? Why are you driving me into the bush? Stop!”
“Oga, are you talking to me?” the taxi man asked over the rearview mirror.
“Allah, please have mercy. Who else would I be talking to? Where are you taking me? I said the police headquarters, not some thick forest! Stop!”Am I being kidnapped too? He wondered. Was this what happened to Steve? Allah have mercy, don’t let it happen to me.
The taxi stopped. Kunle ran out, and the driver jumped out, running towards him.
“Oga, give me my money. I don’t know what is wrong with you, and I don’t care. Give me my money,” the taxi man shouted as he ran toward Kunle.
Just then, a vehicle approached from the bush. Kunle waved to the driver. “Please stop. Help! Please stop! Stop!”
The car stopped.
The driver was in police uniform.
“Mr. Man, what is the problem?”
“I asked this man to take me to the State Police Headquarters, but instead, he was taking me into this bush. I think I’m being kidnapped”
“Did you say the State Police Headquarters?” the man was laughing.
“Yes, what’s funny about it?”
“This is the right way. The main entrance is blocked by a construction company expanding the road. Everyone has been taking this road for over a year now.” The taxi driver was muttering behind, “Officer, tell him. He doesn’t know where he is going.”
“The taxi man had no intentions of kidnapping you. Just a little ahead, you will see the police headquarters office, okay? And if I may ask, what are you going to the head office to do?”
“I am going there to see the new Commissioner of Police.”
“Whatever,” the officer said. “I am Officer Martins. Just take it easy, okay? There is nothing to be afraid of. Owerri is a peaceful town.” He shook hands with Kunle and drove off.
Kunle calmly slipped into the taxi and sat as if nothing had happened. The driver also got into the driver’s seat, but because he didn’t start the taxi, Kunle said, “Sorry, driver, please. You may continue driving.”
“Continue where?” the taxi man shouted. “I will not go anywhere. You call me kidnapper, thief, ole? I am not going. Pay me my money.”
“But I said that I am sorry, please.”
“Sorry koo, na sorry I will eat? Please pay me my money now.”
“Okay, I will increase your money.”
“How much?” the taxi man asked, curls of smiles forming on his face. It seemed Kunle had just spoken the language he understood.
“I will give you an extra two hundred naira.”
“No! You have wasted my time, and you called me kidnapper. You go give me three hundred naira extra.”
“Okay, extra three hundred. Let’s go.”
The driver smiled and said, “Oga, Oga. Ogami. No problem.” He drove off in style.

* * * * * * *
THE STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS was exactly as one would expect—a beehive of activities. Kunle had been awaiting his turn to see the Commissioner. Every so often, he yawned, holding his left palm across his mouth. The hunger in his stomach grew with each minute of waiting.
He had been in the office for about five hours. He was first in the waiting room, but while others were allowed in to see the Police Commissioner, he was told to wait. From time to time a sergeant would walk into the room, have a little chat with someone and then off he went with the person. A man had come in with a black suitcase just minutes before and was immediately asked in. Kunle stood to follow tail on the next person, but the sergeant that manned the door ordered him to sit back, that it wasn’t yet his turn. Was there something he wasn’t doing right? He wondered. Whatever happened, he would wait.
But then he found his nerves, and jumped to his feet. “Hell, no! I can’t take this anymore.” He started for the door again.
The sergeant held the door against him. “Excuse me, go back! You can’t go in there,” he said. But Kunle didn’t move back an inch.
“Go back to your seat ‘til you are called. You have to follow protocol!” the sergeant yelled.
“What protocol?” Kunle snapped back. “Damn your protocol. I have exhausted my patience. I am seeing the Commissioner right now!”
“You cannot see the Commissioner!” the police sergeant barked.
“Then you must tell me why I can’t see him. You must tell me why I have to wait for five hours and yet you don’t let me see him. I have watched as you took people in and out of that office, yet you refuse me entry.”
Kunle’s body was shaking now. One of the gentlemen, who had been seated, seemed to savor the drama. He rose and walked toward the police sergeant. He slipped some naira notes into the Sergeant’s pocket, and then he whispered to him.
He turned and said to Kunle, “Gentleman, you can go in now.”
It looked like magic. The sergeant drew the door ajar and looked away, avoiding the slightest eye contact with Kunle.
“Go on in. It’s your long damn turn, Mister. You can go in,” the man urged.
“Thank you” Kunle stuttered. He gave a sheepish stare at the others in the room, then an angry one at the sergeant. And he went inside.











The story continues...

Follow my Official author website on:

www.tonyekwoaba.com or like the facebook page.

www.fb.com/tonyekwoaba

Please drop your comments.

Shadows is on sale on amazon, okadabooks, konga and bookshops across Nigeria.


Picture Credit: a young Man, reading Shadows inside Awka Ibom e-library, Uyo, Akwa Ibom State Nigeria.

Chapter Eleven
IT WAS FIVE MINUTES past 10 when the march began. It was as though a war had begun.
News had spread that the famous Steve Obi, was not truly dead. He was held in some cell by the Police. All jaws had fallen; everyone hurried to see for themselves. It was like a million-ton magnetic bar, crowd-pulling everyone in the city. The people came in Lorries like a swarm of bees, each running back to refill. The pedestrian traffic was jammed. Men, women, young boys and girls, each running, holding placards hoisted up as high as their hands could reach. Some of the placards were printed, some handwritten; some others had cartoons sketched on them. Indeed it did look planned.
The truth was that it had been planned.
Kunle’s visit to the Commissioner had yielded some fruit. The new commissioner had denied knowledge of the arrest. The arrest was made before he resumed office and had been kept secret from him. He had yelled at everyone in the command until he was told the orders had come from the Assistant Inspector General, Zone 12.
“Hell, no! This is my command, and I will not allow such injustice. Keep a man locked up for days? For no reason? Hell no!”
He’d decided to dare the powers that be. Yes! He would release Steve Obi and that was final. Let whoever wanted the young man punished follow the lawful means and charge him to court.
He soon discovered the cell where Steve was held, and Kunle was offered an opportunity of a phone conversation with Steve. This was to confirm that he was okay, but it had afforded Steve and Kunle the opportunity to plan the march.
There had been a tipoff to the press. The market women, the All Peoples National Party, the New Life Church of God Mission, a few public interest organizations and of course the Readers Club, led by the man with the coarse voice, whose identity would soon be revealed as Michael Eze. Kunle had limited it to these few he contacted. But it turned out that he had ignited a thunderbolt. The few invited a few, then the few in turn invited another few, and soon everyone was inviting everyone.
The Readers Club and the APNP organized the vehicles that carried people in torrents. It was a march for justice. The crowd came rolling from their rendezvous spot two miles away to the police station. It was a tsunami.
The initial chants were:
“Release Steve Obi!”
And the ground shook.
In a little while, the crowd was at the station, scaring the shit out of the officers. The Police men had rushed out with their guns, but what they saw overwhelmed them.
The crowd kept shouting and the placards read:

“STOP THE ARRESTS. SAVE OUR LAND FROM INJUSTICE.”
“WE SAY NO TO ELECTION RIGGING.
RELEASE OBI NOW!”

Every now and then, they hoisted these placards above their heads, and a rhythmic chant followed.
The crowd pressed together. By now the police officers had formed a barricade around their superiors, leaving very little opening. The cameramen parked nearer.
The lead speaker was Barrister Michael Ike, the man with the deep coarse voice. And he and those that spoke after him had all called for the release of Barrister Steve Obi. It was mesmerizing. The police had responded with a promise to release Obi, but the crowd would not take any of that, they wanted him released immediately.
When Obi finally walked out of the cell, he looked beaten and shabby. He had insisted on coming out wearing the same thing he wore in the cell. He had lost lots of weight during the few days, and his unshaven beards and roughened underwear and singlet made him look even worse.
At the sight of him, the crowd cheered on.
His looks stunned most people in the crowd. Someone had demanded he speak to be sure he was the one they were here for. The crowd followed with the demand, as more people struggled to get a glimpse of him.
Obi climbed upon a heap of scrapped vehicles nearby. It would form a makeshift podium, at least so those at the back could see and hear him.
Just then, Matilda who had been ducking behind saw him. Tears of joy gushed out of her eyes. Kunle had asked her to stay back home and pray. He didn’t know what would become of the march. There could be fights, a stampede, or even the crazy policemen could initiate shooting. She had agreed, and had been home cleaning, and making the meals so Steve would have something to eat when he got home. But she had finished all that and could not stand it anymore – sitting at home while her love was released. She would go there, duck and watch and only come forward when she was sure the coast was clear. She could not wait to be told the story.
Finally Obi began the address.
“My people, fellow Imolites, fellow Nigerians…,” and after the salutations, he continued.
“While it is obvious that I was kidnapped by the same people that should have looked after my safety, I will leave all that for another day. I will also leave the election issue till I meet with my party. Permit me to address you as a fellow countryman. Over the years in my law practice, I have spent most of my time pursuing justice, filing suits, doing my best to stay on the path of moderation. I have tried to secure freedom for people here and there. But over the past few days, I have learnt that all I ever did was far from enough. What have I learnt? I have learnt that the path of moderation I had followed wasn’t enough. There are hundreds of thousands of our people whom my moderate methods could never help. Yes, hundreds of thousands of our brothers and sisters, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, wives and husbands, suffering in police cells and prisons for no just cause, many of them innocent, blameless. Daily, we have more than 1600 people thrown into these cells, for different trivial offences, ranging from wandering and hawking to alleged prostitution. Some of these people get to spend months, even years in custody without trial. Some even stay longer than their sentence. Worst of all, our security agents don’t have any evidence before they make these arrests, and it is usually after the arrests have been made that they begin to look for evidence, often torturing the inmates just to get evidence.”
He paused so the crowd would respond. Then continuing, he said, “Like in other police stations, inside there.” He pointed towards the cell. “There are lots of our people awaiting trial, innocent men and women suffering when they shouldn’t. That is what our moderation has given us. I have learnt that my moderate means aren’t working. I have answered that question for myself. Let me ask you, what has your own moderate method brought you? What has been the benefit of ‘suffering and smiling’? Is it the electricity you don’t have? Is it the bad roads? Is it the unemployment? Is it the poverty? Is it the corruption? What is it?”
A thundering shout followed.
“Our struggle has reached its peak. For so long we have waited, hoped for and anticipated freedom, justice, and good governance. The time has come for us to go the full length in full speed. There are three routes we could take. There is protest, there is sabotage, and there is guerrilla warfare. I would have suggested the guerilla warfare, but our soil is already flooded with the blood of our people. So we will take the first. So we march. We march for the freedom of our people.”
“Now if you must incarcerate anyone, you then must follow the legal means. Charge them to court if you have a case against them. And if you will not do so, then release them! They are innocent.”

A siren blared in the distance. Five police trucks filled to brim with armed officers, approached the venue. The crowd stood stiffly, refusing to let them pass. They had to park the trucks a distance away and walk to the venue. The state police commissioner led the way. He must have been watching the live coverage of the event. It seemed he had come just to make sure it did not escalate. But his presence aroused the people even more. The uproar became louder.
“Release them! Release them!
Release them! Release them!”
Obi continued. “Sections 17 of the Criminal Procedure Act and Section 27 of the Police Act mandate the police to discharge my clients upon entering into recognisance, or be made to appear before a competent court. By law no arrested person is supposed to be held more than 24hours without being charged to court, but we have been held for days, weeks and even months. It is their rights to be released!”
“Release them now!”
Sharply, the camera men drifted to the fierce crowd, as they hoisted their placards further up, every one of them shouting at the top of their voices. Then they zoomed to the Commissioner of Police as he approached Obi.
“Thank you, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Obi, and all of you that have gathered here today. It’s appalling that you were made to suffer for several days in detention. I must say, it was never right.”
Someone shouted, “Liar!”
“A few of you here know well enough that I am not a man of injustice. I shall never allow injustice be done to anyone as long as it is within my power. I shall look into the cases and…”
The crowd shouted.
“No o! Release them now! Release them now!”
Obi cut in.
“Thank you, Mr. Commissioner. While I hold you in high esteem for the impeccable integrity you have shown, I would like to hand you the written application for the release of my clients.”
Kunle stepped forward and handed the Commissioner the Bail Application.
Obi continued, “I would like to also remind you that section 35 of our Constitution guarantees the right to personal liberty of my clients. By 36(5) of same constitution, every accused person is presumed innocent. Yes, my clients, just like every one of us here, are innocent until proven guilty by a court of competent jurisdiction. It is a great violation of my rights to hold me and all others in detention beyond 24 hours, and you people have held some people for months. You have starved them, deprived them of communication with their family. Some of them are even believed to be missing. I was a missing person too, while others were considered dead. Haven’t you noticed the emotional trauma these people and their families have gone through? I know this because I have been one of them. I am waiting to see if you will turn down this application in front of cameras. I am waiting to use it as evidence. If you must detain them, first go to court and obtain the requisite order.”
Looking a little puzzled, the Commissioner stepped aside with the Officer in Charge. The crowd kept shouting.
“Release them! Release them!”
“Release them! Release them!”

Minutes after, the inmates listed in the bail application were released. The crowd jubilated.
Obi continued.
“Yes, freedom! We shall continue to march for freedom. We shall call on our brothers and sisters to join us. The International Community shall join us. This march which you have all started today has no going back. Our freedom, our joy, and justice for all is not negotiable.
“I will conclude with the words of Nelson Mandela in his 1964 trial, where he said:

‘I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society
in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal
opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve.
But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.’”

He grabbed a placard from someone, jumped down and started running, shouting. The new inmates followed first, then the leaders and the entire crowd. They headed for the highway.


Chapter Twelve
KUNLE POURED HIMSELF another glass of wine. He was staring at some tiny birds playing hide and seek at the banana orchard nearby. He and Steve were sitting on the verandah of Steve’s country home. Because they hadn’t chatted since Steve was released, both had a lot on their minds. They were already tired. The house had been busy with people coming to welcome Steve. And finally after the entire rollercoaster, here they were, all by themselves.
“I have been wondering, how did you get to survive the cell?” Kunle began.
“I had wondered, too. It seemed I adapted, you know. Kind of fit in, after all, most people there weren’t different.”
“The food, the toilet, hmmm, those…”
“Those moments were not something anyone would want to remember. Of course, you already know that, bathing was out of it. For the food and toilet, we did it all together. The anus and the mouth seemed the same. Someone could be defecating at one corner, while others ate at the other.”
“Hmm that’s…”
“That’s not the bad part. The really disgusting part was that people got to evacuate these excreta with their bare hands.”
“Gosh…Allah have mercy. Did you do any of that?”
“I should have, but somehow I got a little lucky.”
“How do you mean?”
“When I got into the place, I got the worst beating of my life and…”
“I forgot to ask, the beating, the ‘hey, kneel down thing…’ I watched something like that on a Nollywood movie. Was there some boss in there?”
“Yea, there was a Boss. That was the thickly bearded guy amongst those released today,” he said smiling. “Those guys beat me until I almost fainted. If not for some miracle, I would have died there.”
“What miracle?”
“Someone discovered who I was, and that was it.”
“How do you mean?”
“I kind of transformed from a punching bag to a celebrity prisoner. They got to discover that I was Steve Obi. At first I was afraid. I thought they would lynch me. But they didn’t. Instead, they loved me.”
“Loved you how?” Kunle winked.
“They were first surprised that I was there, but the surprise soon gave way to happiness. I didn’t know they knew so much about us, about our efforts at Rodshield. Immediately when they discovered who I was, they opened up. They said we had been their only hope of freedom. At first, the sight of me was like their hope was gone, but along the line, it brought back their confidence.” He finished the glass and poured another. “They knew someday I would be allowed to leave, and I would ensure they are granted freedom.” With smiles all over his face he added, “It was so sweet to learn that our efforts were appreciated.”
Matilda brought them steaming fresh-fish pepper soup. The moment she left, Steve whispered,
“How did she get on with my disappearance? My fear was that she would breakdown.”
“She almost did. Not just her, lots of us were going nuts because of you.”
Kunle took a sip of the pepper soup.
“Madam,” he shouted over his voice. “This is just like the old school days. This is too sweet.”
“Thank you, Oga Kunle,” Matilda shouted from across the kitchen. “That is the appetizer. I will soon bring the ofe Owerri and fufu.”
“Fantastic, I thought that was Igbo native soup. When did she learn how to prepare the soup?”
“You will see. That’s what I have been missing. This woman is an angel. She just knows what’s good for me, and she would go any length to get it for me. I think she learned it for me.”
“Ehm, ehm…,” The pepper soup was hot and heavily spiced. “This is so sweet ehm…ehm, my phone, my phone is ringing.” Kunle struggled with his clothes until he got the phone from his front pocket.
“It’s the Lagos office…Hello Shola, ehm… how is Lagos going?”
“Fine, sir. We are doing good. Sir, we got a call from Makamala & Co., counsel to the defendants in the HIV discrimination case.”
“I am listening.”
“They requested to speak to you urgently.”
“Did you give them my cell phone number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay then. That’s good. I’ll be expecting their call.”
“Sir?”
“Uhuh”
“Please, how is Barrister Obi? We haven’t heard from him for a long while. Let him know we miss him.”
“He is okay. He will hear. Thank you.”
He dropped the call.
“It was Shola. He says the counsel to the defendants in the HIV case would like to speak to me on the case.”
“Hmmm…Makamala & Co, those bullies?”
“What could they be up to?”
“You never can tell. I know them; those guys would win at all costs. They will go any length to win. The only thing I haven’t heard them do is bribe the judges,”
“Who could tell if they weren’t already doing that? You know I am wondering what will make them want to talk to me by all means.”
“Because they want to win, you are talking as if you are not in the system. They want to hear from you, read your tune, just anything, bully someone maybe.”
“It does not look so. The last encounter we had in court didn’t look like they would be bullying us. They rather looked bullied.”
“How do you mean?”
“Our appearance was splendid. All our evidence was admitted, and the witness was just wonderful. At some point, it was like the whole court was crying.”
“Hmmmm, tell me something. Was it their kid lawyers that appeared or something?”
“Not at all, one of the partners in the chambers, the tall, fair SAN. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, Ade Fasheun. He appeared? He was there and all that happened?”
“Yes.”
“You must have crushed them then. That guy is their Pele. None of the other partners is as good as he. If you crushed him, then you crushed the chambers. If he could not handle it, no other lawyer there could. They are just a bunch of dumb bullies. Ehhm, did the press show up?”
“Yes, they did—lots of them. You know how sensitive the case is. The papers ran the story for days.”
“Then they are finished. It has been long due for someone to bully those bullies.”






The story continues...