CHAPTER FOUR.

                    A LEVEL GROUND

Rotimi Magazo kept his hand to his chest all through the viewing of the tape. He could feel the dull and rapid palpitations. He was shocked that he was still breathing. The tape duration had been five minutes. A few minutes more would have been fatal. Rotimi kept blinking after the roll of the horrifying movie. He couldn't believe she was gone and was afraid to replay it lest he suffered a massive stroke. Yet his eyes were riveted to the cue of the only item on the USB. Blankly.

His PA had no idea of its origin aside from the fact that it was delivered by Express Delivery; a reputable courier service. Going to their office to make inquiries would be stupid and a waste of time.

One thing was clear to him even at this time of cranial befuddlement. Rotimi picked a few essentials and left his large office through a secret elevator.

Right on the roof of an opposite skyscraper, just by one of the huge ventilation units, a young man had the cross-hairs of his rifle's scope trained on him as he emerged and was making for the chopper on the helipad. The engine was running.

"The Nomad is about to fly." He said into his mouthpiece.

"Terminate his flight, Bravo-One." A croak.

Magazo never knew what hit him. The long bullet penetrated the Perspex and through his head. The belt held him from a slump. It was a killing shot.

"The Nomad has gone to graze. Permanently."

"Good. Report to base."

Lieutenant-General Mas'ud Sageer was the General Officer Commanding at the Army Base in Jalingo. A dashing officer and a gentleman as they say but for a certain peccadillo. His love for women. Other officers' wives. It was an open secret, after all, it was a norm widely accepted among the uniformed services. One of the perks of the job. As long as it was consensual.

He wondered why Aishat, his new catch, was rather unresponsive even when they arrived the guesthouse. They had settled in the room yet, she wouldn't allow a cuddle, she was too coy for an officer's wife. She said they just moved into the base, strange though, since he wasn't aware of the posting but he put it down to one of the irregularities of Army administration or perhaps he had missed the paperwork. Mas'ud made a mental note of a query to his secretary in the morning. She was too pretty to be passed. He could see the watermelon-sized protrusions on her chest even with her hijab. A very sumptuous meal about to be served.

With an alluring smile, she left the bed and suddenly moved to embrace him. And she whispered the Takbir. Like a song from the minaret. He never had the chance to blink or freeze. The explosion was instant. A three-star General just left the ranks.

Five days earlier, the State government had received some girls from one of the camps controlled by the jihadists. Incidentally, some of them found themselves homeless and couldn't locate families. They were housed temporarily in an abandoned school compound, supposedly secure. Ed and his men took note of a particularly pretty one amongst them. It was those eyes. They had a fierce fanatical glow to them. And the rest was simple. 

The girl was abducted and brought to him wearing a hood late that night.

"Don't be afraid, my desert dove. Ina ganinka da wutar da ke ci a cikin zuciyarka tana taba ruhina da ruhin Musulunci. Rike Din ku Al Janna naku ne. Allah baya sabawa alqawarinsa, yar kurciya." Ed nearly smiled but controlled himself. He saw how corny his lines were but something had to be said. These people are crazy anyways. The girl merely smiled and nodded. Her buxomness gave her the appearance of maturity. 

"What is your name, little dove?" He said, gently touching her head. Like a priest.

"Aishat." Her meek response. Ed ran his fingers through his false beard, a speculative look in his large expressive eyes.

From the visuals being relayed from the MQ-9 Reaper, a UCAV, they knew the bait was about to be taken … hook, line, sinker. The constant trail of cars to the white mansion hidden behind Neem trees. The arial view was amazing on the screen of the computer.

The operatives in the van made shooting gestures at the men as they came out of their vehicles.

"We've got the chickens in their coop, Ed." A man said into his mouthpiece, his hand on a red lever.

"Great, let them settle in and be done with it. Be back in time for dinner. You don't want to miss Tare's cooking. She's preparing rice and chicken stew."

The way he was being fawned over by the cabin crew, made the casual traveler to be curious about his identity and would want to take a second look.

Kazeem regretted not using his private plane but which wise politician attends a business summit in a chartered flight or with a personal jet? It suggests greed and arrogance. He thought as he sips a snifter of champagne on the plane.

He cleared the immigration counters very swiftly. They were all smiles, he had to smile too. Didn't want to appear too stiff. Kazeem was shocked as he broke out into the sunshine at the London Heathrow when several reporters accosted him with a barrage of questions rapidly being shot at him, he was momentarily confused. And he wondered where the famous British bad weather was. It would have deterred the newshounds.

"Sir, was the tape real?"

"I believe it had my face and voice," He returned swiftly.

"Did you leak it?" A female reporter, holding a recorder to his face.

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you should be the judge of that." Kazeem tried to hide his irritation.

"Right 'ere we call you the 'cleanup man', are you really going to bring the needed change to Nigeria?"

"Yes. With soap, sponge, and water. And we are throwing in the exterminators for good measure." He said and pushed through to the black Bentley a liveried driver had manoeuvred into position. The burly driver fenced them off.

On the podium, he surveyed the large conference hall, he was cautious of what to say because it could be used against him. On his desk back at the hotel, the front page of The Guardian, apart from the usual news in the UK read 'Would Candidate Kazeem Exterminate Corrupt Politicians?' Mischievously taken from his words at the airport.

He turned and seemed to read the huge sign behind him; Global Economic Crisis: The Place of Africa.

"Now, where do I start from?" He turned to the gentle laughter of the attendees.

"The objective of every responsible leadership is to fathom out ways of getting a country out of the doldrums, not to embezzle whatever the country could realize per year in terms of GDP. Such may be found in dealerships of whatever sort but shouldn't occur in leadership. The Western world has been able to tolerate African leaders for so 

long and there is no mystery to the reasons. Yet, the Western world must come to a place of resolution and tell us openly, in no unclear terms, why Africa must remain in a state of permanent infancy. Many African leaders would come to you without a clear plan of loan settlement yet, you grant them loans, most of which they steal and divert to your banks and you earn huge interests on such stolen money. I dare say, that the state of the African continent is as a result of the gross financial irresponsibility of the West since it had continually pandered to the child-like whims of reckless and cruel African leaders. Africa is the worst kind of dealership ever created by a white man. Did you ask for a collateral? And if so, what was the collateral? I put it to you that the West have always been given a terrible collateral; the land mass or the territories of the borrower-nations with the entirety of the resources therein. A collateral is usually an asset, property owned by the borrower. These grossly corrupt leaders have succeeded in trading their nations as collaterals for these crazy loans. The load of Africa's indebtedness is so overwhelming that it could suffocate and crush the destinies of generations yet to be born in that continent. Some of those loans are quite ridiculous. For instance, a loan to buy mosquito nets to combat malaria, to the tune of billions of naira. All the leaders consider at nights in their beds is what would be the next excuse for another foreign loan. These men must be held responsible even after leaving office to give account of how the monies were spent. Just like any good banker would. If their countries won't prosecute them, how about the creditors? Banks have the right. Let's start doing that and I'm sure these crazy leaders would think twice when they get into 

power. It must be clearly spelt out to them that such loans are being given on the individual's good standing and not the already impoverished citizens. By so doing, they 

will be forced to grow up and be financially responsible. You see, it is very clear why they want to rule. It is never a do-or-die affair for those whose intentions are honourable. No. Why would you want to kill others if you want to help your people? Nobody forces himself on the people he wants to help. You need help but if you refuse me, then I'll go back to my home. It's as simple as that. It is those with selfish motives that will do and undo just to get into office. It is appalling that Africa has succeeded in impoverishing herself right under the nose of the West. Those evil leaders retire in great affluence and their people remain in abject poverty. Permanently. Something is not right somewhere. I must thank the brilliant organizers of this auspicious event for their concern for the peoples of Africa and the 'Third World'. Thank you so much …. for the invite." He concluded with a bow and a sad expression and left the podium. The hall buzzed spiritedly.

Kazeem kept moving his campaign headquarters, the present location was in an expensive warehouse beneath a skyscraper on the Lagos Island. It was rented. He couldn't trust anyone. A skillful interior decorator had partitioned this address with Perspex and expensive carpeting. He wondered why the need since he most likely would shift again before the January elections which were three months away. His 

people thought he was suffering from paranoia.

"Why are the posters not bearing your pictures?"

"They are bearing our purpose. That's enough. The presidency is faceless, not until we give it a face based on our understanding of what it represents. Everybody knows what I look like anyway. Besides they can't deface a faceless poster. I told you guys that we're doing things differently." He said with a chuckle.

The team looked at the rather dismal collection of poster samples on the transparent walls and knew their fate in the elections hung in the balance.

One of them moved to a wall to read a poster. To him, it was bold and empty.

'This is a blank page, let's write history together.' It bore the party's symbol and the magical name; Kazeem!! They looked at each other, it seemed a hopeless cause. It showed on their faces.

The next day, they all received fat cheques and a summary dismissal.

"Your faces are depressing to my campaign. It's been nice knowing you."

The next day, it was in the news; 'Kazeem fired campaign team.' The print and electronic media had a speculative run of the episode, dishing out imaginative variations to the real incident. Some suspected the leaked tape issue, some even mentioned embezzlement within his camp.

The party leadership quickly summoned an emergency meeting to determine Kazeem's state of mind.

"You dismissed party loyalists and delegates. Yes, you paid them well but money is not 

the issue here. The issue is who will work for you now? Again, you failed to realize that you couldn't actually fire them from the party, they are card-carrying members." The 

National Chairman said as if in agony.

"It's all right. I don't want to see them except those who believe in my purpose, not bags of heavy rocks that will draw me backward. I want to travel as light as possible." Kazeem spat irritably.

"You don't own this party. You can't dictate to us." Honourable Modu Ali; the chairman shouted and clutched his chest as if nursing a heart condition.

"Ok, fine. You will hear from me then." And he left the table. And the media had another field day. 

Kazeem, in a surprising turn, contacted the opposition and automatically became their candidate, causing Alhaji Jidda Muhammad to step aside.

"On the, er... issue of the leaked tape, Mr. Kazeem, do you mean all the zings on the tape?" 

"Absolutely." He had replied simply. As far as the party was concerned, he was accepted for image laundry. No more, no less. They would resolve the rest later.

 There was so much uproar at this dramatic turn of events. Not to mention issues at the INEC and the judiciary. A last-minute change of candidate. And a serious grudge from the one whose sister-in-law would become Kazeem's running mate. One issue would take a few weeks to resolve while the other will take a lifetime.

Many people were of the belief that Kazeem had dealt himself a coup de grâce since 

women don't particularly like women in power but surprisingly, his image made the difference during the rallies. He allowed her to talk extensively to the women as they 

move from one region to the next on the campaign trail. She acted and spoke according to the script written by Kazeem. Sadiya was an accomplished actress. And mistress.

It was clear to everyone working closely with him that he was besotted to the Ijaw girl. Even with the rape incident, which he had witnessed briefly, Tare still managed to awaken his lost sexuality when it came to normal heterosexual relations. He had been possessed by the power of the girl's robust body and femininity. Ed was so confused that he wept as he came into her in the heat of an inexplicable passion. Since then, he had been protective of her. And every agent kept his hands off or the unexpected would happen. Tare, in her turn, became fiercely loyal to him since he wanted her despite having witnessed the assault on her. He was beginning to grow on her. Ed was the department's most efficient, most intelligent killer and field commander. He was dreaded and respected. His intentions were that he would bring her under his wings and train her to be an agent, that is if he didn't knock her up first. 

They lay cuddled against each other in bed watching the news on Channels in his hotel suite.

[The Sultan of Sokoto; Alhaji Ibraheem Turji, has passed on. He was said to have died of natural causes and would be buried according to Islamic traditions. He was loved and revered by all Muslims, especially of the north. He served meritoriously as a soldier in the Nigerian Army and retired as a Major-General. He is survived by four wives and twenty children among which is the presidential running-mate of the ...] she clutched his hand hard and sobbed silently. Her tears burned his bare chest and he looked down at her head.

"What is it, Sadiya?" He looked worried.

"My old man is gone, Kazeem." She said snuffling.

"Really? Oh, I'm so sorry. When did it happen?" He said, sitting up now.

"Just heard. On TV."

"On TV …... you mean the Sultan?" He frowned. She nodded.

"Didn't know you were connected to the Sultanate. I'm so sorry. May Allah receive him into the paradise of peace."

They both chorused. 'Ameen.' They cuddled. Again. Shortly, an agent pushing the laundry trolley past the suite could hear faint amatory noises through the door. The female agent passed a hand across her chest and made wistful eyes at the ceiling.

"I hope they won't kill each other at this rate." She mumbled and continued down the hallway.

Amid the stridulation of crickets and beneath a yellow moon, a black Toyota Camry XV70 drove silently into the grounds of an old bungalow. Two men came out and hurried to open the boot. They helped someone hooded out on the graveled drive. The figure was too weak to walk but tried to walk and was supported by the men. Ed met them at the verandah and ushered them into the house.

They dumped him roughly into a chair and yanked off the hood. The man blinked trying to adjust to the bright light in the living room.

Ed leaned over to whisper in his ears, the man turned, expectorated, and spat phlegm in his face. Ed seemed to freeze in time as the blob trailed down his long face. 

Right before the man's face, Ed's eyes mutated into red-hot coals and the man shat himself. Yet, the sound and attendant smell didn't deter Ed as he lifted him by the head and threw him against the wall to the left of the living room. 

"You will kill him, Ed." One of the men said fearing the worst.

Ed moved like a cat and was beside the prone man like lightning. He jerked him up and back into the straight-backed chair. The man shook his head as he tried to focus on the maniac now leaning towards him.

"Can we talk now, Colonel?" Ed hissed like a Velcro fastener. He snapped his fingers and a small brazier with hot coal and a hunting knife materialized on the small table beside him. The man blinked rapidly at the glowing blade and a dark patch slowly began to grow in his crotch.

"I will cut your fingers one after the other for every wrong answer."

The man nodded religiously. Penitently.

"Are you involved in the present Boko Haram raids in the north?"

"I do not understand, sir," he blurted.

"Wrong response, Colonel. Grab his hand!" Ed yelled. The man's eyes seemed to pop out of his head.

"I am aware of the perpetrators!"

"Good. You know them."

"Yes!" 

"It is true that you have established a conduit of arms and cash between the Army and the insurgents, right?"

"Yes, yes, sir." The man replied with an expression of sorrow.

"Kanar Garba Binji ka ba ni dalili guda daya da zai hana in kashe ka a daren nan kamar yadda na yi wa sauran hafsoshin Soja mayaudara" 

The man began to gabble. Ed suddenly moved to whisper in his ear. And his excitement stopped. He frowned, pulled back and looked incredulously at his interrogator as if he believed he had gone insane.

"But I'm not worthy." He managed. 

"You'll be. You're from Bafarawa town. We shall make history." Ed laughed maniacally. The other men expressed glee. The man was initially confused but soon caught on.

After the campaign at the Eagle Square, the crowd of supporters did not disperse but watched with anticipation as the stage was being filled with musical equipment. The band's name; Ulterior Motive, was meaningless to them but wait they must, as long as it was part of the party's effort at winning the election.

The band started on a sound that was a bit strange to them. A string and percussion thing. Like an intro. Not exactly the Doje. With weird hairdos and ragged denim. Crazy T-shirts and leather jackets. In midday heat. The skies rumbled. A flash of lightning. Then, it suddenly began to rain.

Still, Raymond Stone emerged on the stage, playing a guitar solo from backstage. In an orange shirt and loose sky-blue suit, a black scarf, wrapped and tied in a knot at the top of his head, to harness his dark and thick hair, he was like a light in the gathering dark clouds. A rock god on stage. The rain became torrential, still, they watched mesmerized at this strange music and the group producing it. But when the lyrics metamorphosed into Hausa, it was melodic, the crowd became ecstasized and feared for the band. Electric guitars in the rain. A possible electrocution. A wild female guitarist joined the ensemble of strings and seemed to accompany the lead guitar. The crowd went hysterical. MTV and Trace TV aired the footage in their celebration of Nigerian artistes. And the legend of Raymond Stone was born. The man became a pop icon in the continent. Rocking in the rain. His acceptance in the north was unprecedented.

Alhaji Musa Maina, the Magajin Garin Sokoto, sat before the others and seemed to stutter for the first time in his life. He was seventy. The name they gave him was like haram. Yet, he must deliver. The visions of what he could use the money for was a spur. Five hundred million naira. Cash in bags. Alhaji Maina had seen a lot of money in his seventy harmattans but not in this way. They wanted him to maintain the succession of the military in the Caliphate. He suspected this kind of inducement. It was the type that will be accompanied by prejudicial aggression if expected results are not achieved.

"But we don't know him, Magajin."

"You will, in due course," the old man said guardedly.

"What about Abubakar Rufai? He's next in line, his family is …."

"Alhaji Attahiru, he's not in the Army or retired from it. You see, we must always consider the security and the prestige of the Grand Caliph not to mention that of the people. That is why I'm suggesting Binji."

"His family is not descended from Uthman Dan Fodio. And your suggestion is out of line, Magajin!" Attahiru replied vehemently.

"I see …." Alhaji Musa nodded, looking distantly.

When the riots broke after the announcement, the chants all over the state was that they would resist another Babangida-imposed Dasuki affair. The people saw it as a 

Military incursion into trado-religious tenets and they were ready to die for the cause.

The department was able to gather intel on Shetima Attahiru and decided on a new tactic. It was quite simple.

The scheme was legitimate. What could be more legit than the agelong Almajiranci; an Islamic system permitting the establishment of Quranic boarding schools to admit migrant boys required to obtain Islamic knowledge? The boys often wander off into beggary, impelled by the impoverishment attendant to the system. Yet, there is another aspect; the Almajira; the girls. What happens to them? Many were not betrothed and seemed to also wander. The girls were set up for shipment into slave labour, prostitution, and organ harvesting. Now, this scheme was not legitimate. They were crated like cargo and taken on a tortuous journey to Europe by ship and by air, depending on the urgent need of the merchandize. Some died in transit and often many fell ill. The goal was profit hence, it was a secret trend geared at making illicit gains, especially aided by prominent and powerful patrons.

When the operatives from the Nigeria Police and Interpol came through the gates, Alhaji Shetima Attahiru knew the end had come. He was resting under the parasol 

inside his compound, sipping from a glass of Fanta. He slowly lowered his glass and 

sighed. His rights were read to him and a hint of a possible deportation was dropped, he was led out into a waiting squad car. Leaving the ululation of his harem behind.

In a gloomy interrogation room, Attahiru was being quizzed by a team of men among whom were three white men from Interpol. He was already sweating rivers.

"Mr. Shetima, what is your involvement in this human trafficking and prostitution ring operating in Nigeria and Europe?"

"I'm Alhaji Shetima Attahiru, one of the kingmakers in the Sultanate. I demand to be addressed appropriately," he sniffed with a superior air.

"All right, Alhaji Shetima, but you must answer the question." The Interpol officer continued.

"I want to speak in the presence of my lawyer."

"It's all right, Alhaji," the man nodded to others and depressed a red button on the wall. The door to the room open suddenly and two hefty men entered the room and dumped a black hood down Shetima's head and bundled him on a huge shoulder amid his screaming and jerking. Others merely looked on with arms folded across their chests, silly grins pasted on their faces.

When they slammed him on a metal chair in one of their safe houses, he became quiet. A hand roughly pulled the hood, he almost fell out of his chair. He was confused, trying to adjust to the light in the large garage.

Right before his eyes, an operative lowered a crane from the high ceiling using a huge hand-held control. Shetima was looking at the hook of the crane the way a man sitting before a hypnotist would; considering a swinging object. Mesmerized. He watched with a certain dread as a loop of thick rope was fastened to his ankles. Even as the hook was connected. He watched dumbly. His scream, as he was being hoisted to the roof echoed stridently in the large space. Now upside-down like an African fruit bat.

Ed walked silently into the garage.

"I hope you like our great hospitality, Alhaji. I must apologize for our having to meet like this after almost a decade. We hoped you would cooperate with Interpol but you chose to be a smart-ass. We don't want you to own up to your operations. I want you to call off the protest you engineered or else, the people will have a fresh need for another protest. Your death. In that position, you will die in about twelve hours, your high blood pressure might make it sooner. Goodnight, Alhaji." Ed delivered without remorse. Shetima screamed again. The men laughed and left the garage. 

After he had been resuscitated with ice-cold water, Shetima sat across a metal desk from Ed. Alone. Shetima sighed heavily.

"You had him killed, didn't you, Shakir?"

"He needed to go." Ed said with an evil glint in his eyes.

"He was your lover and benefactor."

"Notwithstanding. He was evil. We want a change from the 'Old brigade.' He was a bad and selfish lover who treated me the way he treated his calves. You know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"Nigeria has had enough of people like him, he was so corrupt that it made me sick. Yet, he carried on as if he was a saint." Ed sneered.

"That was why you ran away?"

"Yes. Call off the protest and endorse my candidate."

"Or what?" Shetima said with a surprising show of spunk.

"You will join your old friend in the great garden, if you are both lucky."

"I will rather die honourably." In the same vein.

Ed hissed. "Suit yourself, Alhaji." He clapped twice and the door opened. The two men stepped forward.

"Inject him and deliver him to his family. He wants to go down honourably." He said and left the room.

Waiting in his hotel room after the final rally on the campaign trail, Kazeem dozed off for a few seconds and found himself flying over hills and mountains, across the creeks with a bird's eye view, over the large land mass that's Nigeria. 923,769 square kilometres of varying vegetation belts, rivers, streams, and lakes. He saw the various tribal entities; the Ijaws in the creeks and the thick oil spills destroying aquatic biomass, the Kalabaris and Ibibios during their Maiden virginity rites, the sexually suggestive dance of the Tivs, the female children with scarves tied to their waists in the North; conscious of a nascent femininity as they snap and undulate flat backsides to a doje music. The sound of the muezzin at sundry minarets, the chieftains, and the turbaned emirs sitting in court in their adobe mansions. The insurgents, terrorists at their preoccupation, kidnappers and bandits, and their collection of hapless victims. The Fulani herdsmen and their oppressive encroachment on farmlands, going about ravaging farmers' wives and daughters. Suddenly he was before a giant gateway with a great silver gate opening before him. A beautiful female, nubile, curtsied and ushered him through. Kazeem could see through her thin white garment. She was naked beneath it and he was enchanted by the roll of her buttocks. The shuffling of the cleavage was beguiling. She led him to a great door, a fresh female; with similar attire continued from there …... until he was led to the seventh door. It was painted white. He passed through the doorway and got entangled with the seventh female. A goddess, by the look of things. She was royalty; the height, conformation, beauty, crown, and raiment.

The lovemaking was intense and lengthy.

"You must not mate with another woman for the next twenty and one days," she whispered into his ear and bit the fleshy lower part of the right lobe. Her glossy and pearly-white teeth was stained with his blood as she smiled divinely. Her emerald-green eyes seemed to possess an evil gleam. She moaned and gasped with pleasure as if in a delayed orgasm. Her voice echoed until he came awake to find his bed surrounded by seven females. By their appearance, it was obvious that they were not ordinary humans. He sat up, gripping his loins and felt embarrassed by his wetness. They smiled rather mischievously at him. He shook his head in disbelief.

"It was real, Kazeem. You slept with our queen. Look, your ear bleeds. Do not forget her admonition," said one of them. And they touched his foot; one after the other. And vanished from the bedroom.

For the past three months, Ifenkili had been nursing an annoying issue; she hadn't had any form of physical closeness with her husband. It was like a troublesome boil in her armpit. The presidential election was just twenty-four hours away and she felt that she must do something about the problem or risk being celibate for another three months, what with the inauguration, travels, courtesy calls, et cetera. She knew she would be a mere decorative piece for months on end the moment the demands of the First Lady's office kicked in.

As far as she was concerned, Candidate Kazeem was already Mr. President. Even the incumbent had given him the nod. To say the least, she was ready for a quick "roll in the sack" as they say. With the Commander-In-Chief.

She was lucky, the next day, Kazeem had called in the morning to inform her of his intention to stop over at the Legend Hotel Lagos Airport. He would be moving out of town after a brief rest. He had voted earlier that day without his wife, something some observers had frowned at. Let Ifenkili see to the welfare of the kids undisturbed; was his line of thought. 

On his huge bed, after popping three pills, he could see and enjoy the dazzling night view of the airport through the tinted-glass panes. Shut out from the usual buzz of an airport, he began to slip into the depths of sleep what with the cool ambience of the suite. And the pills.

Thirty minutes later, Ifenkili was being cleared to see him by the operatives from the department. She walked down a long hallway and was granted access on personal recognition by the female agent leaning against the wall just by the entrance to his suite. It was 10:00 pm. Ifenkili could hear his faint snoring as she approached the bedroom. She smiled with mischief, her eyes twinkling. 

Kazeem woke up around 3:00 am to find his penis inside his wife. Ifenkili was busy riding him and didn't realize he was awake; her eyes were shut tight as she got close to 

her plateau. She suddenly gasped and moaned softly. It was her third release in a string of passion.

He couldn't restrain the tears as he watched her orgasmed.

"What have you done to me, to yourself, Ifenkili?" He wailed. She got off and walked weakly with a wobbly gait towards the bathroom. She placed her left hand on the door post to support herself and turned towards him.

"I don't understand what you are saying, K.O. Is it a crime to take what's rightfully mine?" She threw at him stubbornly. Yet, her features betrayed her confusion. She had a nightmare after she got back in bed next to her husband. It was portentous.

When she woke up in the morning, Kazeem was just coming out of the bathroom.

"I'm leaving for Abuja, the results have started coming in. I'll be staying in the campaign headquarters at Asokoro. Kiss my babies for me," he said with tears coming to his eyes as he considered her nudity on the bed. Ifenkili sat up and leaned against the headboard, clutching the bedsheet to her chest.

"K.O, you've been dramatic since you woke up to find me and it scares me. What's really the problem, baby?"

Kazeem moved to kneel beside her position. 

"I've been warned not to sleep with any woman until after twenty-one days." He 

snuffled.

"But I'm not any woman, I am your wife for godssakes," She said heatedly.

Kazeem shook his head sadly.

"It was a dream …... I made love to a strange woman. I'm confused myself but I'm afraid for you. Who knows what the consequence would be? I don't want to lose you."

"Tell me all about the dream, K.O." She said, pulling her knees high in bed.

In the streets, where he was raised, they called him Ghaddafi; a well-labelled thug, coke peddler, and loan shark. Yet, his appearance did not bespeak his true nature; he could have easily passed as a priest or a teller. Truth is, though a criminal, Ghaddafi had the heart of a priest and the mental facility of a crafty banker. The first attribute was born by his days foraging in the trash cans and refuse dumps of the rich around Palmgrove Estate and Ilupeju in Lagos. The dented and rusted cans of beef and vegetables found their way into his plate in his one-room apartment. Smoked sausages. Pickled peaches. Salad thick with cream. Baked beans. Mushroom soups. By Heinz. He thrived on these for years until he became homeless and traversed the state of Lagos begging and stealing to survive. He left Benin City for Lagos in a bid to change his fortunes but they didn't smile on him. The second trait was birthed by his foray into 

drug-dealing which was the preserve of the ruthless and vicious. He had to keep tabs on his debtors, maintain a decent record and calculate interests on loans granted.

This day, as he was wont to do, he walked through the beaded curtains of his favourite hangout; a joint famous for its 'bush meat' and ordered his usual. A loaded plate was 

delivered to his table. He was sitting with a stranger who stared with jealousy and greed at his plate. Ghaddafi noticed his glance and state of mind and smiled knowingly.

"My guy, I'm so happy to share this space with you," he said in perfect English despite his limited formal education.

"It's my birthday and I hate to celebrate alone. I don't have friends," he said dubiously, leaning across the table.

"Please, celebrate with me, help yourself." He pushed the plate of venison towards his companion at the table. The man was a tad shy but Ghaddafi was firm and persuasive. The man picked a chunk into his plate, with a slight show of irritation, Ghaddafi placed another piece of game into the stranger's plate. He turned towards the counter and called for bottles of beer without asking his 'birthday guest'.

In his mind, he had another recruit in the kitty. These recruits saved him a lot of legwork. He just couldn't be ubiquitous. He usually regaled them with stories from his early days in Lagos. Some of them were true, some were figments of his lunatic mind. That he was once a robber and had impregnated a street hawker with whom he sired a daughter was true. That he was a frontman for local politicians and a political party was untrue. The truth is he worked for the department. An agent provocateur and in-situ 

assassin if the need arose. Hits that the department would conveniently deny. If the need arose.

The moment she cleaned herself in the bathroom of the suite, Ifenkili started feeling funny. She remembered the dream she had after dozing off few hours earlier. Presently, Kazeem had departed for his Abuja trip that morning. The dream was a strong warning from her father and uncle. Now, about this feeling she was having between her legs. Her mind was seriously considering sex. Even after the heavy stuff she had had with her husband. Ifenkili was struggling with the heat and the amatory thoughts in her head, and after a while, she began to touch herself but wasn't satisfied. An idea then struck her. An inspiration. Forbidden. Like someone possessed.

She walked down to the door of the suite, opened it slowly and peeped into the hallway. Three minutes lapsed while she looked desperately into the hallway, then she saw a waiter coming out of the suite across from hers, pushing a trolley. She whistled softly to him as she loosened the tie belt of her toweling robe. The huge breasts came into view and the waiter stumbled pushing the trolley.

"Come in quick, handsome." She smiled coquettishly at Ghaddafi who felt flattered by 'handsome'. Her teeth gleamed the invitation. He could see the sudden increase in the size of one of her nipples. The trolley crossed the hallway into her suite. Ifenkili closed the door. Spiritedly. Ghaddafi couldn't believe his good fortune; he had never loved his job better than this moment.

"She's lucky. She took my sacrifice." The regal-looking woman said with regret.

"She is your sacrifice," another responded.

"Yes, but she has a powerful dibia in her village. Her paternal uncle. Ironically, she played a role in making him president but he will never know."

"Let's leave her, my queen."

"No. I will frustrate her. Again."

"How do you mean, your Majesty?"

"I knew her and chose her for him. She's very wise and I like her. Yet, she must feel the pain of abandonment." With a tone of finality.

That same day, Kazeem had an accidental meeting with an old friend within the GRA of Asokoro in Abuja as he was about to drive into the party headquarters in one of his Ferraris.

"Mega! My guy", he hailed excitedly and pulled up by the kerb.

"K.O! The knockout specialist!" The friend responded.

"Longest time," Kazeem returned.

"True talk, my brother." They both alighted and shook hands and hugged.

"I see you're still wearing a gold cross. Old habits, eh?"

"Now, I have a greater reason to wear it. I am a shepherd of a large ministry, K.O. I also have a growing congregation here in Abuja."

"Why am I not surprised? You've always had it in you, my brother. Look, let's do 

catchup tomorrow, we'll have all the time to talk." Kazeem said with his hand on the 

balding man's shoulder.

"I strongly doubt that, in fact, I should be calling you 'Mr. President' right now."

"What are you talking about, my brother?" Kazeem frowned.

"Oh, so you haven't heard? Only a few local governments left in three northern states. This is a meeting of destiny. I hope you will remember me in your new kingdom."

"Definitely. My numbers haven't changed, Mega. What is the name of your ministry?"

"Mega Zion City International with parishes in fifteen states." The man said proudly.

"I will reach you, my brother, Mega-Mega!" And they both entered their vehicles.

Ed grunted with satisfaction as he watched the tape. There were two segments of tape actually. One with her husband and the other contained graphic details of the sex she had with Ghaddafi. The one with Ghaddafi caught his fancy. Adulterous First Lady. He would finally accomplish what Susie couldn't. In'shallah.

With his usual load of wild pork and venison, Ghaddafi attacked his plate with gusto, temporarily abandoned was his plate of pounded yam. He suddenly began to cough with a hollow sound. It resonated in the 'bushmeat restaurant.' He started to pull at his 

Adam's apple and soon began to spew blood into his plate. Some of the diners were 

compelled to leave their seats to come to his aid except the attractive girls occupying a table to themselves, but he suddenly stood from his seat and fell on his table with a loud crash. And that was it. No one could tell if it was a bone from the venison or the lard in the pork that did him in. Ghaddafi was gone even before First-Aid could be administered. In the midst of the commotion, nobody saw the pretty ladies leaving the restaurant. They had looks of satisfaction as they walked to the freeway. 

The president-elect was reading an interesting four-day old editorial in LagosTimes back in his suite at Fraser Suites, Abuja when a message notification alert came in on his phone but his gaze was rivetted on the newspaper. The editorial content read: 

LAGDO DAM: The Floodgates of Hell.

'This is election year, the calamities wrought by this disaster is a wake-up call for all Nigerians to vote RIGHT!! It is an exposure of the extreme ineptitude and gross corruption of the present government. We should vote out this party because it has been clueless for the past seven-plus years. We've never had it this worse, not even in the days of the military juntas.

The National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) claimed that the relevant ministries had sent out warnings to state governors, months before this madness, the governors have become deaf-mutes. The president is calling for assessments of 

damage. Everybody is blaming everybody. This blame-game and worthless whistle-

blowing has marked the tenure of this president. It is hopeless. The peoples of Anambra, Katsina, Nasarawa, Rivers, Delta, Bayelsa, Kogi, Jigawa states, etc. are not smiling at the moment; over 612 people have died, more than 70,000 hectares of grain fields have been flooded, more than 45,000 houses destroyed, over 100,000 houses inundated. About 3.2 million Nigerians affected. Why? Simply because the Nigerian government has failed to broker appropriate treaties and deals with the Cameroonian government. Even though, the two countries have history of territorial dispute yet, the

Nigerian government ought to have been proactive enough to check this disastrous outcome. A conduit should have been constructed from the Benue River to the Atlantic Ocean or we could have constructed a dam on the river at our own end to reduce the surge of water into the Nigerian side of the river thereby reducing the flow down the river to a manageable volume as suggested by a consultant regional-planner.

That would have at least given this corrupt regime another avenue for borrowing and embezzlement but this dreadful outcome would have been averted.

Ten years ago; in 2012, Nigeria experienced its worst flooding in recent times. Total losses were put at US $16.9 billion; this year's flooding is worse in dimension and economic loss. The same excuse was given as the last occurrence. The pressure on the dam was severe it could destroy the dam in Cameroon Republic. Ironically, whichever way it goes; the water would still be emptied into the Benue River. This is based on reports from the UN's International Organization for Migration (IOM). Many have been 

rendered homeless; destitutes in their own terrain – farmers, artisans, peasants, etc. 

but hardly the rich and wealthy. All they need do is move to any of their several homes in Nigeria and abroad.

The fate of the hapless and hopeless Nigerians affected by this catastrophe hangs in the balance as I write. The miserable disaster palliative sent to the state governments by the federal government will invariably be embezzled by the state officials. So, there seems to be no way forward for the destitutes whose assets and relatives were consumed by the floodgates. Of hell.'

A heavy sigh of despair and empathy was expressed by him as he slowly shook his head. This wasn't what he could have discussed yesterday with the former president at the council chambers of the Villa while receiving the Handover Notes from him. He gazed at the ribboned large green case of the notes on the coffee table with disinterest. Kazeem's mind suddenly went back to his iPhone. The message was a video file. He tapped and swiped on the phone. The gasp of a terrible shock escaped from his mouth. The betrayal brought instant tears to his eyes. He was beset with a lot of questions. Was Ifenkili still mad at him? But they had settled and gone past that point. Could this be the consequence of their coupling several nights ago? Yet, one thing is clear, the sender has a weapon against him, the question is; what would they require of him and the consequence of a refusal?

From the corners of his eyes, he could sense their presence in the room. Kazeem was getting used to them by now. Their beauty was beyond this world, and strangely, only 

him could see them. The night before was like a coronation night with their queen, she 

had told him that the twenty-one days were over and he was free to 'mate' with any female he desired.

"Welcome, my friends," he said smiling warmly at them.

"How's our wife?" They teased with snickers. They became serious when they saw his mood change. And blue-green glints passed slowly across their eyes; like a sign between them.

If ever there was a day in which the sun shined cats and dogs; this was it. The reflections from the black boots were astonishing. Even the bayonets shone like vengeance towards the cloudless sky.

"Parade!!!" The parade commander barked like thunder, it resonated through Eagle Square, Abuja. 

Martial, highlife and folk music were the order of the day. Members of the National Assembly, the Diplomatic Corps, ministers and their aides, notable civil servants, governors; present and out-going, and their wives were seated to watch the parade and the transition. The Presidential Inauguration was underway.

The Host/Master of ceremony announced the procedures for the lowering of the flags; the National and Defense flags. And all rose for the process. Of change. Kazeem could be seen standing imposingly on the special podium, looking presidential indeed. All 

white. Even his Franco Benvolio leather loafers. He stood tall like the 'stained-saint' 

every nation needs. At the moment of a desired change.

The flags were folded delicately by four soldiers. Two of the servicemen marched briskly to the RSM, saluted and made their presentation to him and the flags were placed in a case being held by the RSM who in turn made his own presentation of same case to the Commander of the Brigade. The case was finally presented to the Chief of Defense Staff; General Hassan Shinkafi. The general marched to the podium and presented the case to the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, namely President Kazeem Aborishade Olanbiwonnu for "retirement." He saluted, the president shook his hand and a case containing a new set of National and Defense flags were handed to the president by his military aide who in turn gave same to the Chief of Defense Staff. 

The parade commander barked his orders to the Infantry. Soon, the process was reversed, and the flags were hoisted at the same speed, signifying the commencement of a new dispensation. All rose at the hoisting of the flags with the attendant loud fanfare. At the summit of the flagpoles, the infantry began the 21-gun salute. The shots echoed into the infinity of the rocky hills.

The parade band afterward, went into the rendition of 'Nike Nike' by E.C Arinze and the Empire Rhythm Orchestra. The highlife tune is popular among the military.

The commander, on horseback, invited the president to inspect the guards. President Kazeem boarded the open-back vehicle to embark on the slow ride along the line of 

guards. Several men of the DSS and SSS were seen creating a screen around the car as it moved slowly.

"How come you're here K.O?" Ed jumped from his seat in the living room of the safe house in the Federal Capital Territory. He appeared to be following the proceedings at Eagle Square on a large smart TV on the wall.

"I have been given the right and power to be wherever I choose to be in Nigeria. Anytime I want. You are a brilliant operative, Ed, but you have outlived your use, your expertise and misplaced importance are overbearing in the extreme. I'm shutting down the department, Ed. I need to create a new unit and you are not deserving of its membership." It must have been the strange look in Kazeem's eyes that triggered Ed's defense mechanism and he reached for his gun placed on the glass stool beside the lounge. Kazeem merely smiled. 

"You're welcome," he said with spread arms. The three bullets hit him with deadly accuracy; the forehead, the right eye, and the left side of his chest.

"You've just shot yourself, my brother." Kazeem's raucous laughter rang through the house. Ed looked confused just for a few seconds. He fell to the rug. Dead. His left eye appeared fixed on the TV screen as President Kazeem moved from one dignitary to the other shaking hands. He finally went to his wife and they were escorted to the black Mercedes Benz car resting at the foot of the podium, a red carpet leading to it. On the 

ride back to the Villa, he stole a glance at Ifenkili who he had felt ashamed to look at directly for some days now. And he saw one of the spirits instead. She smiled knowingly and winked at him. Kazeem returned the smile. Ifenkili frowned slightly.

"The smile of accomplishment, K.O?"

"Yes, Ifenkili." He said with a clipped tone and the smile vanished.

In his office, alone, he was drumming speculatively on the gleaming oakwood of his desk, wondering what next. The year's budget had already been drawn by the previous leader except the need for a supplementary budget. He found that it would be wasteful at the moment. He needed to do a few cleanups first and plan a courtesy session at the National Assembly. He was thinking about his impending shocker. Kazeem knew it was appropriate he apprised them of his intentions; like kite flying.

He suddenly became aware that he was not alone in the office. Seven pretty women dressed in white gowns were in the office lounging on the sofas and divans in the sitting section of his office. They made a perfect blend with the blue and white decor.

"Responsibility and rulership are heavy burdens for you to bear except you want to be like previous leaders who came to this office to loot the treasury and because of the vanity of being called Mr. President." One of them began. Kazeem walked to his chair behind the desk and sat.

"My exact sentiments." He said calmly as he laced his fingers. 

"Yes. We know your state of mind, but are the people worth it? Is it not easier to be a talker and be busy doing nothing?"

"Is that what you want from me?" Kazeem frowned at them from his desk.

"You've not answered our question, Kazeem," one of them stated nastily.

"They are worth it," The president said rather calmly.

"That's what you think. It's all right. Yet, it is clear that you do not know these people. They are so evil and worthless; it makes me want to vomit. You're going to be the ruler, in the next four years, over the scum of humanity. The leader over witches, kidnappers, baby factory operators, swindlers, drug and human traffickers, murderers, smugglers, harvesters of human organs, ritualists, and so on." One of them walked around the office with a modicum of fascination.

"The worst of them all are the filthy witches who have arrogated to themselves the power to destroy destinies; the politicians seem loyal to them since apparently, they were placed in power by these evil females. They steal and destroy human destinies for those favoured by them to live good lives. By creating dreams when their victims are asleep; people with great destinies; they use them as fertile fields upon which they sow the seeds of their selfish desires and greed. These dreams are never the types that will exalt your country but for personal enrichment. The dreams are like tapes or videos recorded in the human brain which they later remove and keep depending on the time frame they choose. They later plant these tapes in the brains of those they want to bless. These tapes go through playback and the manifestations would begin. If the 

dream is for good, the recipients enjoy wealth and greatness; those who are not even related to the victims. If it's evil, you can imagine the rest. Need I tell you that your father benefitted from such largesse? You can now see why other people are jealous of 

your family. The question is this; what happens to those whose destinies have been stolen? Nobody cares, they were simply weak and unfortunate." she was saying as she stood before his portrait in an elaborate gilded frame.

"They rob Peter to pay Paul. These vile bastards are the foot soldiers used by the demons to rule mankind. The principals of the Nigerian territory are essentially evil and want to exalt your people in wickedness. They play gods over mankind by using the witches. As you sit right there, the duplicate-spirits of members of your household; your family, who do not want you occupying that chair, are with you, they are in this room as we speak. Even your family's wealth, they believe, was a mistake, and prefer you go back to the poverty of your forefathers. They are evil to the core. Your every breath, your emotions, speech, thoughts, even ailments are constantly being orchestrated by them. They are not alone, Kazeem. They operate by recruiting others into their satanic camp; the more the merrier, and the more effective at what they do day and night; the destruction of Nigerians, and by extension, mankind. They are mindless of the fact that they also self-destruct as they go about what they do." She sighed and moved away from his portrait.

"Now, Kazeem, that is only your case, reason the cases of over 200 million other Nigerians and you will begin to understand the scope and gravity of their wickedness. 

To make matters worse; they use religion so effectively as a cloaking device, like a hood to disguise themselves. The Church is worse since it proclaimed that there is no hope for mankind except through their Christ. The Great Deity is thoroughly vexed, 

extremely. He prefers that these people were completely wiped out of existence." "Obliterated. Yet, there is a time for all things," said one of them coming to place her fat backside on his desk.

"Their women are behind it all, especially the ones you love to fuck, Kazeem." She trailed a long finger down the side of his face. Kazeem froze as if trying to resist the temptation. His eyes were rivetted on the transparent fabric of her dress. He could practically see the cheeks of her backside.

"They seem weak, helpless, they even sacrifice themselves. Yet, they are grossly evil in nature. They make themselves sacrificial lambs for the men. Still, they set men up for destruction. They mindlessly enjoy wickedness," she said teasing his lips with the same finger. Kazeem shifted his face. She laughed. Others joined in.

"Someone might walk in." He swallowed. In confusion.

"They would knock first, won't they? Besides, you are the only one permitted to see us. You're the president, remember? You can fuck anyone or anything you want, even us." She laughed again and looked at others. They all laughed.

"Think about it, Kazeem. We will talk once more about this issue tomorrow. Let's have your decision by then. Remember, they are all worthless!" Her voice and expression became mean.

"Your Vice and bedmate is coming. Be careful with that one." And they all vanished.

Kazeem heard someone knocking at the door.

"Come on in," he said, still looking confused. Sadiya breezed into the office. All smiles 

and looking rather exultant. 

"The consortium from Germany is waiting in the Conference Center, they are expecting your presence," she said brightly, coming to rest by his chair.

"You are my presence, Sadiya. Take them through the plan, you have the regional planner to guide you on the terrain. We want the conduit right from the Benue River down south to the Atlantic." He said patiently as he groped her backside.

"Careful, Honey. We might be on tape."

"Damn the cameras, I will have this place swept clean very soon." He said huskily, leading her towards the door. 

The session had been at the instance of the President and Commander-in-Chief. He had billed it as a courtesy call on the National Assembly. Kazeem had vulpecular plans laid concerning the meeting. It was plenary. Every ear was pricked and every eye peeled and glued on the president. What had started with vivacity finally had smiles frozen on the faces of the lawmakers. 

"It is so shocking to even consider how far we have come to this point." His voice mirrored the despair in his face.

"The combined budget of the two arms of the National Assembly could adequately run any 'banana republic' you could name. 169 bn. naira last year. Just among 469 members of both houses. It has been a damning drain on the Nigerian state. Aside 

from this stupendous sum of money, cases of graft among members while approving contracts were rampant. It is on record that Nigeria's National Assembly is the highest paid in the world. The Presidency has decided to cut off the said budget from the overall national budget for next year. I will make this point very clear ... succinctly. The gross expenditure the nation has endured for decades of democracy is to be eliminated. The National Assembly's secret budget will become non-existent effectively from next year." The house roared with outrage.

"The expenditure on housing, transportation, medical vacations, entertainment, junketing of all sorts, will become non-existent," he continued undeterred.

"These weights will be shed by this presidency. Members will, effective from next year, be responsible for their personal transportation, housing, feeding, and refreshments except for bills incurred on health within the country. Salaries and allowances will be made public by the Federal Ministry of Budget and Statistics and the National Library." Kazeem paused and gazed at the honourable members like a teacher would look at his students; products of poor and indulgent parenting. He felt they lacked discipline. 

"Enough of the financial impropriety that existed before now. My regime needs these misappropriated funds. The level of your decadence is best left in nightmares, typical of the US $12 million brassiere once owned by a minister in this country. It must stop!" 

His expression presently is one of great peeve. He fixed his gaze on the two helmsmen; the President of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives, who were looking at him with consternation. Looking from one to the other. They were sitting 

close to each other.

"Muzzle your people. This is not a motor park with vehicles going on different routes. We must make the right changes where necessary." The Senate President hits with the gavel.

"Order!! Mr. President, we will deliberate on the issues raised at this joint assembly in the separate houses and, vote accordingly, but I must speak my mind …. my personal opinion on these budgetary cuts. It will be inhuman and unjust if the cut will only affect the National Assembly. The wheel of progress and law-making would be stopped and dashed. As lawmakers, we are mandated to approve the appropriation as it affects our country unless you intend to use an executive prerogative; which would be undemocratic in its entirety." He said rather dubiously and with a level of vehemence.

"Mr. President of the Senate, your personal opinion is noted and would be considered."

"Pure anarchy. You will destroy this country, sir!" Someone shouted from the floor.

President Kazeem turned towards him.

"What has been destroying this country …. eating her up like termites, is not this membership of law-makers but what it all stands for; the innate and consummate greed of democracy. It is a cancer we must excise! With all due protocol and respect for this assembly, I must take my leave of it," President Kazeem concluded gravely.

"This country will not and must not be governed by this idiot!" Someone said quite audibly. Kazeem merely looked in his direction and smiled. He smiled because just beside the man, obviously from the North, was one of the beautiful women. She 

seemed to be curiously interested in his chest. Her hand penetrated it. As the president's feet landed on the broad, green-carpeted aisle of the floor, the man slumped and was a tangle of brown brocade on the floor. And there was instant pandemonium and a call for the medics. The president exited with his aides and bodyguards amid the confusion. 

Berat emerged into the hot sunshine, but enjoyed the breeze as it teased his thick curly hair; he has a mane of it. He also loved the red beeps as they popped up on the screen of his Tecno Camon 19 Pro. On face value, he had just performed the Asr; the third of the mandatory five times. The thing was, while the faithful were praying in the Sultanahmet Mosque, he had succeeded in placing tiny transmitters close to each pillar; secreted in the folds of the carpeting. These little devices link with their phone bank Apps, scan essential details and the rest was easy. Just like the summer breeze. And the rest was history in his little attic close to the Topkapi Palace; where the signals would be incredibly strong. In the underground of hackers, he was known simply by his first name; Berat. Meaning 'the night of forgiveness.' He had the small vanity of posting a laughing skull, and the meaning of his name after you've been hacked. The damned 

skull and 'pay off' will keep beeping on a victim's phone and computer screen irritatingly. Out of principle, he would do the Isha every night without fail, kneeling by his workstation. Not for easy hacks but for the forgiveness of his sins. No wonder he 

preferred working at night. His genius was from the devil himself and there was always a victim to hit, but Allah's mercies were never in quantum, especially since his sins were constant and intentional. Yet, to him, Allah had been most beneficent judging by his bank balance: ₺190,000,000. His last night in Turkey came with a near-heart attack. Berat was so cocky and never expected a bust by the Polis Teskilati. In his confusion, he was sure no one could have dialed 155 at that time of the morning. 2:55 am. All he could remember was that there was a loud crash down the skylight into the interior, someone cuffed him and another slammed a hood down his head. They crashed down the glass like vengeful demons. In his confusion, he felt the leather straps of the harness and heard the clink of the hook and realized he was being hoisted up through the skylight into a hovering chopper.

Kachalla Bukar was in Turkey on vacation; his mother's roots were embedded in the soil of Istanbul. She was a singer and dancer hired by the Underworld 'to toss the belly' in private nightclubs. Dilara was a gӧbek atmak. She lived deep in the dens of vice and bizarre entertainment. That was where Kachalla's father found her with the promise of a world of freedom in Nigeria. She was their plaything. Sex-food for the crime kings of 

Istanbul. The Nigerian was a politician touring Turkey after the first one hundred days in office; an interesting landmark of achievement in his country. They had discretional sex; each knew what the likely gains were. Yet, they fell in love, and she ran away to Adiyaman when she realized she was pregnant. The Kurds and the mountains would protect her for a while. So she thought. And a son was born. A love-child. Threatened by the kingpins, Alhaji Nasir Bukar had to put an end to his regular junkets in Turkey even when he got information from Dilara's cousin; Doga, that she was delivered of a beautiful baby boy. Years later, he proved not to have forgotten his son, he made several efforts at getting custody of his boy but failed repeatedly until his death. A codicil stated that his son must be repatriated from Turkey. Alhaji Bukar's other son was an imbecile whose only interest, aside from food, was the nether regions of the women in Purdah, even his father's harem. The administrator of Alhaji Bukar's estate did intensify efforts at recovering the lost child.

They found him in the streets of Istanbul, doing backup to his mother's songs; Agha, was a brilliant guitarist with a wild dream of fleeing to America. Dilara kept herself well but was aging, yet a favourite of the underworld, and still had patronage. 

Alhaji Bukar's man succeeded in exporting them in a cargo plane down to Nigeria by a diplomatic courier service. And Kachalla Bukar was christened.

When his mother later died of natural causes, he was devastated and felt the only way he could expend the hurt and despair that tormented him was through rock music; his chosen genre, he thought, typically ran the gamut of sorrow, hate, love, violence, 

anger, and hell. The departure of Dilara meant all his music could express. And Raymond Stone was created from the ashes of Agha; a child of pain, abandonment, 

and violence. Somehow, he had managed contact with his native Istanbul; he ran a small ring of gangsters and street hustlers as a teenager and still pulled their strings even in Nigeria these past ten years.

Tonight he's back in Istanbul as Agha; the man of the streets. He had put the word out for a good hacker and found Berat. 

He yanked the black hood off his head in the kitchen of a local bistro near Kumkapi. He had used it as his base of operations in his heyday. In the trenches.

"Senin için bir işim var, Berat," he pronounced his name with a sneer.

"Ne?" He spluttered. Agha and his men laughed.

"Classified. We are embarking on a journey."

"Where?" This man loved mono-syllables.

"Nigeria."

"I don't have a passport," he said shaking his head.

"Good. Let's crate him. We go by air," he said looking at his Patek Philippe. Grandmaster Chime; an expensive gift from President Kazeem.

Alone in his office, he walked slowly to the coffee table in the lounging area and picked a green-ribboned case. He loosened the ribbon and opened the case, Kazeem brought 

out a huge volume and wondered why the idiotic former president didn't have the report summarized. He sat gently on a divan and began to peruse the content of the volume. Someone knocked lightly on the door, but he was oblivious. Another tap. Still, he was engrossed in the report, until he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

"You should knock next time, Tinuola," he said, smiling boyishly.

"But I did, Mr. President. Seeing you like this reminds me of a poem I once read; 'The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling onwards through the night.' " 

"Didn't know you were the literary type. Who wrote that?" He asked looking at her with one eye closed.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Mr. President." She said cheerfully. 

"Good. You're the fellow I need right now. Give me areas of this report dealing with constitution amendment and reforms, and the last national conference. I know they wasted a lot of money at the time on both, so let it be as concise as possible."

"You will get it in the morning, sir." 

"We are already in the morning. So, when today?" He handed her the report.

"7:00 am, sir." 

"Sit by me, Miz Williams," he said patting a place beside him. She sat, the volume on her lap.

"Let's talk as friends, after all, you are my Chief of Staff. I need to face the National 

Assembly in a week, my budget meeting with them is a serious issue, what do you advice?"

"Ensure compliance and cooperation."

"How?"

"Get records on the major opposers, and use them to achieve your purpose. Also, use the masses; emotional blackmail. Expose them as the enemies of the people."

"Records of past misdeeds as leverage, I see …"

"Exactly." She said with a yawn.

"Go home, my friend ….. no, you better sleep here within the Villa. It's safer. Even the Three Arms Zone may not be as safe as Downing Street at this hour." He laughed. 

After her departure, one of the spirits appeared in the office.

"Can't retire for the night at the moment. Let's talk." She guided him back to the divan.

"Sure," he sighed.

"My name is Isra, I'm your guide. Whatever your decision is, please, know this. Your wife appears the only person with your interest at heart. She wanted you to be president and made moves to that effect. My sisters would be mad at me for telling you this, but it's the truth. You must not eat seafood of any kind and must not have children by any other woman."

"What if I did? I mean the children." He asked in confusion.

"Then you die. At least let it be after you've retired from active politics." 

"So, what you're saying is that only my wife can be trusted completely." He appeared 

amused. Suddenly.

"She has your best interest except if ….."

"What?"

"You know what they say about hell having no fury as a woman scorned."

"I understand."

"I don't think you do when you let your desires govern you. She will catch you making out with your Vice President, and she will take a terrible decision. I've said too much already. Oh, I almost forgot; Kazeem, they've decided to take the one you love the most. Your father's time is up. Goodnight." She disappeared.

".... I must commend you, Mr. President for sustaining the tradition of presenting this annual budget estimates before the joint session of the National Assembly as part of the Appropriation Bill. I welcome you once again to this joint assembly." The Senate President was saying through a nose mask. Even with the mask, a baleful expression was obvious in the exposed part of his face. The man was disgruntled. Yet, some of the members clapped. There was a palpable air of odium.

"Your Excellency, the Vice President, President of the Senate, Speaker, House of Representatives, and honourable members of the National Assembly, Executive governors, members of the Executive Council, Party Leaders and officials here present, senior government officials, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is my pleasure to present this 

year's Federal Budget to this distinguished joint session of the National Assembly. Let me start by thanking you for the expected compliance and expeditiousness in the passage of the Appropriation Bill for this year, this underscores your commitment to the common goals and ideals of this administration. My hope is that the National Assembly will continue to partner with the Executive branch, especially considering the uproar during my last visit. This budget being a special one, as we consider the reforms contained therein, is designed to deliver on prior-stated goals and aspirations of the Executive pertinent to the national development plan of this year. This new dispensation is saddled with the grim realities of our present times. This budget is dependent on the dollar rate and conversion in Nigerian Naira. This administration will not sustain the tradition of supplementary budgets which the presidency perceives as poor planning and an avenue for financial improprieties. Based on last year's fiscal framework, the total revenue of 8.12 trillion naira is budgeted to fund aggregate Federal expenditure of 14.45 trillion naira. The projected fiscal deficit will be financed mainly by domestic and external borrowings ….. it is obvious that we have a deficit budget since the recurrent expenditure is higher than the capital expenditure. Nigeria is about to emerge from an extremely difficult economic challenge. We must continue to cooperate and ensure the realization of our common goals toward economic recovery so that we can achieve prosperity and deliver our promises to Nigerians …..."

President Kazeem ended his presentation and was guided by the officials of the House and was given two boxes containing the submissions on the Appropriation Bill. He 

shook hands with the Senate President and the Speaker of the House of Representatives and went back to his seat to await the Senate President's response.

"Tomorrow, we will worship at Mega Zion City Dome, Jabi; Phase 2. Ten sharp." He whispered in her ears with an air of mischief.

"Official?" Miz Williams whispered back.

"I'm visiting a childhood friend. It's a surprise."

"That would be great. Good for the tabloids, sir," she said cheerily. They rounded a corner in the long corridor, and in one brief moment, their hands brushed. They both felt something electric and looked at each other at once.

"Don't go there, Tinuola. See you tomorrow, don't be late."

"How about logistics, sir?" Her voice became thick with the heat of emotion. She stopped walking.

"Taxify. I expect you to be creative, let's go without Secret Service," he said brightly and continued to walk on the marble floor.

Swiveling around in her chair, Miz Williams nervously drummed on the blotter of her desk. She wanted to do her darndest at impressing the president besides she wasn't sure the idea was an ingenious one. She kept moving like someone in a barber's shop until her desk phone buzzed.

"Yes? Oh, yes, I sanctioned it. Let them through." She sighed, It's now or never. The die is cast.

When they arrived at the church, service was already underway. Four persons emerged from the Taxi. They made for the broad steps of the edifice and were ushered into the large auditorium. The congregation was seated, and the solo coming from the choir stand was akin to that of Ada Ehi. Talent was obviously present here. They were showed seats in the middle of the first row to their right. One of them insisted on taking the aisle seat. He was obliged. He was wearing dark Ray-ban Aviator sunglasses, T-shirt and a black pair of Versace jeans. The gold head of Medusa was obviously displayed on the leg of the pants. Soon, as the church rose for a hymn, a female usher came down the aisle and asked the man to follow her.

In what appeared to be the inner chambers of the minister, she asked him to have a seat, and left him alone. After ten minutes, Onohworemu Oghenemega Francis; the General Overseer, Mega Zion City International Inc. made a grand entrance in a pastoral robe. All smiles and the air was thick with expensive Paco Rabanne Calandre. Both friends embraced fondly.

"Where are they, my friend?" Kazeem asked business-like, removing his glasses.

"They are in the lodge behind the tabernacle, including the man from Turkey. They await your instructions." Mega responded in the same vein.

"Remember, you're to keep and train the rest for the ministry, good image for your 

church. White preachers are a plus for your calling. The Turk comes with me." Kazeem was saying as his friend led the way. His glasses went back in place. Behind them, Kazeem could still hear the ministrations of the inspired choir.

"You've done well for yourself, my friend. Expect my next package."

"Let God receive all the glory and praises, K.O. Thank you so much for the contributions," Mega said, clapping his friend's shoulder. 

The mouth of the tunnel was clustered with herbs, shrubs, and climbers, it was hidden to the casual passerby besides, the area was marked as a military zone warning intruders off. Kazeem and Berat moved through twigs and vines to the square panel, Kazeem depressed the relevant five-digit code, and the circular entrance opened with a muffled grating sound. They brushed off cobwebs as they push through into what seemed a tunnel. Berat smiled and scratched his beaky nose watching the deft movements of the tall man with him. To him, he was a stranger and thought he was a Secret Service operative. He punched another set of codes when they arrived before a large steel door, Berat watched with eagle eyes and wondered whether the codes were the same while coming from the opposite direction.

The door swooshed open at once and that gave the uniformed guards at the end of a corridor a jolt. Their rifles were instantly cocked. The door closed behind them. Both men raised their hands in surrender.

"Your Commander-in-Chief, passkey HGDSK 78651. At ease. This is a drill." Kazeem removed his sunglasses.

The men froze and saluted immediately. 

"Alert! Alert! Eagle One approaches," One of them spoke into a Walkie-Talkie. Berat now began to have a clear impression of his guide's identity. Several Secret Service men gathered and led both men toward the inner recesses of the premises. They both went into the President's residence, and into an apartment created specially for the foreigner. Aside from the Eastern European décor, the ICT workstation was a little similar to his pad in the attic only this one has the taste of wealth to it; a far cry from the one in Istanbul. There were several stylized Apple desktop computers and four Apple laptop computers placed on the stainless-steel tables.

"Be my guest, my friend. I must apologize for the manner you were extracted from Turkey. You are going to help me spend the budget for the internet in the Presidential Villa. Trust me, it's a huge one. I know that you have a few million dollars but I will make you richer. I will give you the details later. Your section has four rooms, and should in case you decide to change your lifestyle, I have made arrangements for female entertainment. You only need to press that green button. My people told me you don't do alcohol, drugs or women." Kazeem smiled reassuringly.

"Am I a prisoner here, sir?" Berat said with a frown and a badly disguised fear.

"Far from it. You and I will be going out for strolls from time to time, and if I can't make it, then my Chief of Staff will make good company. She knows all the great spots in 

town. You just give the word. Here, take this phone, it's a bat device. Call me, it's the only number in the phone. Let me leave you to settle in. Expect the kitchen staff, they know you are a Presidential guest." He walked toward the door, but stopped suddenly.

"By the way, they told me your invention; the B34S scanner works like a dream." With that, Kazeem vacated the apartment. 

The well-wishers at the funeral emerged from the hall at the Vaults and Gardens, Ikoyi, Lagos, where eulogies had been read. The breeze played with the Royal palms that lined the red-tiled walk down to the vaults, the perimeter walls were lined with manicured creepers. The ceremony was very colourful; family, friends, government officials, governors, and members of the National Assembly were garbed in various shades of red. The traditional twill from the looms north of Lagos was made into many designs for the occasion. They moved in solemn procession in the direction of the SLDV area of the cemetery where a mausoleum was ready to receive the body of the great man.

As the gates to the black and grey marble allotment is being opened, five persons; Caucasians wearing black suits broke through the security cordon and approached President Kazeem. Immediately, Secret Service men closed in on them from all sides.

One of them; a female, slowly removed a black envelope from her breast pocket and nodded toward the president. Kazeem saw the shuffle from his peripheral vision and 

waved a hand. They let her through, and she proffered the envelope.

"Accept our deepest regrets, Mr. President. The US government will sorely miss him," she said rather tight-lipped.

Kazeem nodded. "Thank you, ma'am. My regards to the American government," he said and moved into the enclosure.

Kazeem understood their concern. Otunba had died on their soil. In New York. Two days earlier. Some members of the family had wanted the body interred in the US but, he insisted they brought it home. The mausoleum had been purchased years before Otunba's demise. Hundreds of millions in naira would have gone to waste. He; Kazeem would also be laid to rest here when his time came. It was large enough. He smiled at his father's portraits already hanging on a marble wall.

Three weeks earlier. Four significant deliveries were made in the Asokoro area of the FCT, Abuja. Around 7:30 am before the National Assembly opened their chambers for the morning sessions, four FedEx personnel simultaneously; working in an organized, premeditated synchrony, delivered four parcels bearing presidential seals to the offices of the Senate President, Deputy Senate President, Speaker, and Deputy Speaker, House of Representatives.

Their secretaries signed after receipt and their respective P.A.s carefully placed them on the desks of their bosses and left after a brief exchange. Each boss, in turn, broke the 

seal and dived into the contents of the box.

Each box contained a flash drive, a load of pictures, and a brief introductory note on expensive stationery. The words were replicas of the notes in other boxes.

{In the spirit of this new democracy, the Presidency has deemed it appropriate and within sacrosanct legal sanctions to accord you the respect your office deserves; the fiat for exemption from the planned budgetary exclusions in terms of housing, paid travel, and other necessary allowances. As a ranking officer of the National Assembly, your perquisites are hereby returned. Best wishes. Kazeem Olanbiwonnu, President Federal Republic of Nigeria.} The signature was written with a flourish in green, using a felt pen.

Human nature in a lot of cases is similar in its expression worldwide. They all gawped at the incriminating contents of the boxes. They all rushed to their personal computers to check the contents of the flash drives. With goggled eyes, they watched the details on:

Pederasty. Bestiality. Rape. Drug deals. Financing terrorist cells. Murder. Incest. Adultery. Occultism. Blood money rituals. Human trafficking. Organ harvesting. Illegal bunkering. Scenes at Strip Clubs. The catalogue seemed endless.

The visuals were most damning. There were no doubtful identities. They all made for their mobile phones and jammed the networks with calls in a bid to tidy up their operations and be on the denial. They all simultaneously decided it was a waste of time and call credits. How can you defend yourself against the Presidency? Unless ... They made for their phones again. And a perfect plan was hatched between them. It was 

also agreed that they must play possum. Hide their aces. 

They met at a private Guesthouse in Lagos. Fresh from the funeral. Even with the air-conditioning, the honourable members were sweating. Not because of the fear of detection but the nervousness of a possible failure. They could also remember the sudden death of a member after insulting the president right on the floor of the assembly. 

"His tenure has become dictatorial too soon. We cannot allow this arrogant bastard to deprive us of what is rightfully ours, my leader." Hon. Yinka Akanni; Senate Majority Leader spurts out his grief.

"You're correct, yet, we have to tread with care. Can we effectively invoke the provisions of Section 143 of the 1999 constitution? And if so, how certain are we that we can achieve the mandatory two-thirds majority from each house?"

"We seem to be forgetting an important aspect of this whole affair." The Speaker House of Representatives submitted rather calmly.

"And what would that be, my dear Speaker?" The Senate President said with a tinge of disdain. Suspicion. Perhaps long-lived rancour between both men.

"Do we want a female Commander-in-Chief?"

"I see. You have a point there. A president who was his lover. That is unacceptable!"

"Aaaah, we are back where we started," the Deputy Senate President sighed pitiably.

"A solution of today might become tomorrow's problem. What do they say about women in power, and the effects of the well-debated PMS?" They all sighed their agreement.

"Supposing we get rid of her, that would make me the President for three months until the election, and ..." the President of the Senate was saying.

"Out of the question!" Two honourable members said in unison. The Senate President gaped at them.

"Why not?"

"We know about your personal ambitions, and what stops you from manipulating the electoral process in your own favour?" The Speaker put in with irritation.

"I see. Let's adjourn for another day, gentlemen. Let's sample for opinions on this please, I mean the impeachment thing." They all walked to their cars in silence.