by Olanrewaju Odesomi

 If the Governor was dead, politically, one man stood to gain the most – his Deputy. Or, maybe he was turning Paranoia like Michael, and the Governor was actually not murdered. But, he knew what he saw, and certain things do not add up.

-Read Episode 1 of this enthralling story [HERE]

-Read Episode 2 of this enthralling story [HERE]

 

EPISODE THREE
Kekere Baba, what’s up this morning, a street urchin screamed, both hands in the air, as he stamped his right foot on the ground in salutation.

“Am ok, my friend” Mufutau, aka Baba Kekere said. It was eight a.m, and they were at the sepe seller’s joint – which was a small wooden table at the roadside, on which her coloured concoctions, otherwise called sepe were placed in plastic water bottles. Beside it was a wooden chair where customers sat to down the drinks. Seated on it now were three people, including Baba Kekere. Baba Kekere was waiting for his friend Owo blow, and decided to take a shot of agbo iba in the process. It’s good for the body, he believed.

Seated beside him were men of his kind – touts, all stinking of cheap liquor already. Some even brushed their teeth with it. He ordered the woman to give the guy that just saluted him a shot, too. He raised his hands, and stamped his feet again. They respected Owo blow, and himself, and one way of keeping that intact is by buying them drinks once in a while. Their loyalty could be needed in the future.

Although small of size, and stout, Baba kekere’s viciousness was legendary – he once stabbed a neighbour for making fun of his bow legs, and then left him to drown in his own blood. He was known to be quick to anger, and quicker in starting a fight. While he was the brawn, Owo blow was the brain, and they complimented each other. While Owo blow came up with the ideas, it was Baba Kekere that usually had the nerves, and sometimes, the single minded stupidity to see it through. Owo blow seemed to even avoid brawls, and the likes, especially since one left him without two of his teeth.
They met on the streets, and cemented their respect for each other on, and off it. They were not the typical Lagos tout, as even though they can be found in the park, they got their money through other means.

They had clients – people too ‘refined’ to work in shadows, or be involved in certain dark arts. For an agreed sum, they help such people out. That was their speciality. They could avoid to be on the streets, but the streets was in their marrows, so they made it their office. Clients knew where to find them if needed. They were meeting this morning to discuss one such job.
Owo blow leapt off a moving bus popularly known as danfo, and jogged some paces in the aftermath before stopping, while simultaneously high fiving the bus driver. His presence at the bus stop where they were seated was greeted by a barrage of further foot stamping, and salutations.

“You will never die poor, my master” One said.

“Anyone that wants your downfall, a trailer will fall on him, and the dogs will feast on the body” another prophesied.
Mildly educated, Owo blow shook their hands, and bowed a little. One of the three on the bench stood up as Owo blow sat in his place. He leaned towards Baba Kekere, and whispered in his ears. Baba Kekere nodded ever slightly, and revealed his blackened teeth. He gulped his last shot, and stood up. They had a job to do.

 

The Organisation, COALITION FOR DEMOCRAZY was founded in 2003, months after the election. It’s founding fathers – three friends, of which ‘the boss’ was the most active started the civil society to serve as a bridging tool between citizens, and the government, and to serve as a medium to hold the government accountable.

Shola’s main job as an accountant was to marry income, and expenditures into a statement to help the organisation understand its financial obligations, and standing. His office, a small room, was almost bare, except for a table, the chair that seats him, and another two opposite him. He had a view of the Lagos skyline, the window framing its awesomeness.

A file was opened on his desk, but his mind was elsewhere, roaming into the past, and the happenings of the past fourty-eight hours. It was noon, and he knew the new Governor, who was the former deputy would be sworn-in anytime soon. He bought three newspaper on his way to work, hoping one of them might reveal the reason behind the Governor’s untimely death, but none did. All they had were his accomplishments, and a profile of the soon to be Governor.

It seems no one knew better. They all echoed the rhetoric coming from the Governor’s office, which stated that he died in his sleep. The papers lie on his desk. By now though, he was pretty sure there was more to his death than meets the eye. Surely, the Governor was murdered, and he was part of the whole plan, although unconsciously. But if he was murdered, why would they derail their whole plan by engaging him, an outsider, making him privy to details, and then revealing the eventual results to him. Why him? And why Michael before him? If Michael after being ‘the Chosen one’ could disappear, who knows what fate awaits him too, especially considering what he knew.

Coming to work this morning, he decided the only way to get to the bottom of this was finding the reasons behind the disappearance of Michael.

Michael knew what was brewing, thus his acute paranoia before his disappearance. But firstly, he needed to see those files. It might just be an eye opener that would reveal the intricacies of Michael’s involvement in any other affair besides his job description.

A knock on the door brought him back to the present. He instructed the person to come in, and the door opened, and vomited a co-worker, Ngozi. She was in charge of the media, and was the one that wrote and submitted the organisation’s press releases. She greeted him, and stood above him, her chubby frame towering.

“Been trying to reach you, but learnt you were not available.” She said, smiling. She tended to flirt with him, but now was not the moment to encourage that.

“Sorry, I came late today.” He replied flatly. He had a sleepless night, only able to sleep around four-a.m.
“Well, it was the boss that asked after you in the morning. I think he wanted to see you.” Her smile was still in place, as her chest tilted forward, making her already huge bosom take on himalayian proportions. She was leaning forward, and he could see her cleavage.

“Why was he looking for me?” He was getting pensive.
“I don’t know, but I think he was on his way to the state house, and decided to check on us.”
“State house?” He asked

“Yes now, have you not heard that the deputy Governor would be sworn-in today?”

“I have, but why are we going there? We don’t do this, do we?”

“I know we don’t, but there’s always a first time for everything.” She winked, and wriggled her body from right to left, her boobs slapping at each other seductively.

He ignored the imagery, and insinuation, and said “He doesn’t go for swearing ins, at least, not since I’ve been here”
“I don’t know, maybe you should call, and ask him why he’s going to his friend’s swearing in ceremony.” She snapped, stood upright, her head held high, and shoulders squared, as she turned, and stormed out. The banged door spelt her anger.
He knew she had eyes for him, but that’s the least of his troubles currently. Another time, he might have encouraged it, but at the moment, his mind was a whirlwind of conspiracy theories. At least, she gave him another angle from which to see things. Ngozi, most often than not, knew what she was talking about, especially when it comes to people. Gossiping was a craft to her. So, if he’s truly friends with the deputy, then it only makes sense why they would want the Governor out of the picture. If the Governor was dead, politically, one man stood to gain the most – his Deputy. Or, maybe he was turning Paranoia like Michael, and the Governor was actually not murdered. But, he knew what he saw, and certain things do not add up.
Busola’s neighbourhood had to be one of the least developed part of the state, and also, one of the most populated. The roads were bad, and the noise level was of the maximum volume you could expect anywhere. Shola swore again as he turned into her street, and his car’s fender hit the ground for what seemed like the hundredth time during the short journey from his place of work to her house.

It was an old area, with old houses, and black roads, irreversibly darkened by dark smoke from burning tires, a result of the numerous vigilante efforts by the youths, and men in the area. He was having to snake between both sides of the road, trying to avoid pot holes that riddled every part of it. His car, he knew, would tell the tales of this misadventure. He had called to tell Busola he was coming, and she had informed him she was at home.

Screams of children playing, shrieking of babies crying, and a shop blaring loud fuji music all combined to make for the commotion of noises almost unbearable. He got to the front of her house, and parked. The fenced one story edifice was the only decent building on the street. He met her outside, just in front of the gate, with hands akimbo. She was as he remembered her – tall, and beautiful.

He got out of his car, and greeted her, only noticing for the first time, the frown on her face. He asked if everything was fine.

“I was burgled.” She released a breath, and shook her head. Shola was taken aback momentarily. He offered his condolences, and she thanked him, and said they should go inside.

Once inside, Shola discovered the room to be tidy, and everything in its place. He couldn’t see any missing property.
“When did it happen?” He asked.

“Today. When I came back from work, I met my door ajar, and I know I closed them before leaving. The funny thing is, nothing seem to be missing.” She frowned, her eyes roaming about the room again, checking. Shola joined in. She stayed alone in a one room flat, and the sitting room had three cushion chairs, a center table, where a laptop was, and a flat screen tv stood against the wall opposite him. Below the flat screen was a small shelf that housed the DVD player, a DSTV decoder, and remotes.

“Is everything also intact in the room, he asked?”

“Yes. Nothing is missing, and am wondering why they didn’t take anything. Maybe am missing something.” She was still frowning. She still had on her work cloths – a knee length skirt, and jacket of the same colour.
“I was confused, thus why you saw me outside.”

Shola nodded. “And you’re sure you closed the door after yourself this morning?”

“Very sure. They picked the door.” She sighed, and seemed to suddenly remember why he was here. “Well, let me go and get you the files.” She stood up, and disappeared into the only door in the room.

Shola was still checking out the room for anything out of place when she came back.

“Can’t find the files again.” She said wasting no time.

“Thought you said you had it.” Shola said impatiently.

“Yes, and in fact, I even saw it this morning before leaving for work. I removed it from where I used to keep it, and left it on my table in the room, so I could retrieve it easily when you come for it.” Her frown deepened. Shola suddenly understood what went on. The burglars probably came for the file. He kept that thought to himself though. She seemed suddenly agitated, and restless. “Could they…I mean…the burglars…have come for the…” She pointed towards the door where she returned from. “…file.” She stammered through the question.
Shola starred back, not knowing what to say.

“But, if so, why? And how did they know you were coming to get them?” She sat down, and Shola discovered she was shaking, and there was an obvious jerkiness to her.
“Maybe the file was the reason Michael got missing.” She echoed his thoughts out loud.

“Maybe you don’t know where you kept the file.” Shola tried to dissuade her from the angle her thoughts were straying. She starred at him angrily, and blinked. “Please Shola, don’t abuse my intelligence.” She whispered, the words barely audible. “I left for work this morning, sure I locked my door, came back to meet it open, and the only thing I find missing in my room is a file I was to give out that evening, and belonging to my disappeared ex-boyfriend. It’s not rocket science you know.”
The silence in the room was suddenly choking. Saying Shola was scared by the turn of events was an understatement. He looked at Busola, and she just starred straight ahead, body motionless as If in some sort of religious reverie. She snapped out of it with a start. “You know I’ve moved on, and that was the reason I wanted to get rid of everything that reminded me of him. Thought of burning the file, or throwing it in the thrash, but then thought since your organisation’s logo was on it, it might still be useful, thus my deciding to give it to you.” He pitied her. She wanted out of the whole Michael debacle, but now, it seems she was been plunged back into it, head first.

“I should have read the content, shouldn’t I?” She starred at him for confirmation. He starred at the flat screen.
“Or maybe it’s best I never read it. Who knows what would happen if they thought I’ve read the content. Should I report to the police or what do you think I should do?” She was still staring at him. He didn’t know what to tell her. He was beginning to feel as if the walls in her apartment had eyes that were fixed on him. He didn’t want to know what was in the files again. If they could go to this length to retrieve a file, only God knew what length they might go to stop someone who they thought was privy to its content.

“I won’t ever feel safe here again.” Busola was shivering now, as if accosted by a bout of cold.
Shola stood up, and said it’s past time he left, and waited a bit for her reaction. She remained seated. His phone rang, jolting him momentarily. He retrieved it from his jean pocket, and stared at the screen. It was a new number. He picked it.
“Hello, it’s Muna.” Did he just hear right?
“Am at your house. Been there for some time now. Am waiting for you, please be fast. We need to talk.”

To be continued…

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Olanrewaju Odesomi is an accounting graduate, and a Certified Customer Care Professional. He is a dreamer who dances to his own music, and whose peak is yet to be conquered. Guilty of writing.