STORMBRINGER

One: THE PACT
The Atlantic stretched before him like liquid obsidian, its surface fractured by moonlight. It was 4:37 a.m. That liminal hour when Lagos held its breath between night and dawn. Bar Beach lay deserted, save for the occasional ghost crab scuttling across wet sand and the persistent whisper of waves that had witnessed centuries of both prayer and profanity upon these shores.
A pair of headlights carved through the pre-dawn mist, moving with deliberate purpose along the coastal road. The black Toyota Prado's engine hummed with restrained power as it navigated the uneven terrain, finally coming to rest where asphalt surrendered to sand. For several moments, the vehicle sat motionless, a modern-day chariot awaiting its fallen warrior.
When the door finally swung open, it released Alaba into the night.
He emerged not with hesitation but with the calculated movements of a man who had rehearsed this moment for months. The sea breeze instantly seized his white agbada, billowing the fabric around his substantial frame like royal plumage. At fifty-seven, he carried himself with the wounded dignity of a deposed king. His face, once the darling of campaign posters and international summits now bore the harsh topography of ruin: deep-set eyes haunted by sleeplessness, prominent cheekbones sharpened by recent weight loss, and lips perpetually tensed into a line of barely contained fury.
Only his hands betrayed his uncertainty, fingers rhythmically clenching and unclenching at his sides as he approached the water's edge.
The tide seemed to recoil at his presence, drawing back as Alaba stepped forward, stopping where the wet sand met the dry. His Italian leather shoes sank slightly into the earth, but he paid it no mind. In his hand, the rooster squirmed and flapped weakly, its eyes wild with fear. With calm precision; movements honed through whispers and dealings with those who navigated the darker currents of society, he twisted its neck and tore off the head in one swift motion.
The blood flowed, thick and dark, streaming into the retreating surf like a silent offering. He watched for a beat, then hurled the lifeless bird into the waves, followed by a small bronze bell, no bigger than his thumb, which glinted once before sinking into the sea’s mouth.
The ritual had begun.
"I am Alaba Adeyemi, son of Alade," he announced to the indifferent sea. His voice, once commanding enough to silence parliamentary chambers now competed with the crash of waves. "They told me you would hear me. They promised."
He scattered the shells in a perfect arc before him, then unstoppered the vial. The acrid smell of blood; his own, drawn at midnight mingled with the salt air as he drizzled it across the shells.
"I searched hard and long for justice," he continued, voice gathering strength. "Through the courts where men in wigs proclaimed impartiality while their pockets bulged with bribes. Through ancestral shrines where priests promised intervention for envelopes of naira. Through the labyrinthine corridors of power where yesterday's allies become tomorrow's executioners."
The bell came last. Its single, clear tone seemed to stretch impossibly long into the darkness.
"And what did I find?"
His laughter was jagged glass. "Silence. Indifference. The gods of my fathers sleep while worms feast on my family. But I've been told there are older powers. Fiercer powers. That you listen to the brave and the desperate alike."
Another step forward. The water kissed his shoes, baptizing leather with salt.
"So I come, spirit of wind and deep. I come without fear because what you might take from me is nothing compared to what they have already stolen. It is not death I fear; it is the thought that my enemies will prosper while my name becomes dust."
The moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging the beach into deeper darkness.
"If you are real," Alaba whispered, "then answer me."
The world paused.
First came the silence, abrupt and absolute. The waves froze mid-crash. The wind died. Even the distant hum of Lagos fell away as if the city itself had been swallowed whole.
Then, the retreat.
The ocean pulled back with unnatural velocity, exposing the seabed in a widening path that stretched toward the horizon. Water towered on either side, suspended in defiance of physics, walls of churning sea revealing glimpses of ancient wreckage, darting fish, and unnamable shapes within their translucent depths.
From the exposed seafloor rose steam like the breath of a sleeping leviathan. Phosphorescent patterns ignited across the wet sand, tracing sigils in a language long forgotten by mankind. Each symbol pulsed with blue-green light, forming a pathway that beckoned toward the darkness beyond.
Alaba's heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat pearled on his forehead despite the sudden chill.
At the far end of this impossible corridor, something moved.
It began as a disturbance in the air; a rippling, as if reality itself objected to what was about to emerge. Then came the sound: not footsteps, but the deep, rhythmic percussion of planets colliding.
He materialized gradually, as if assembled from the elements themselves.
Ategula.
Seven feet of midnight-dark divinity encased in armor that seemed hewn from the very bedrock of creation. Obsidian plates interlocked across massive shoulders and a chest broad enough to block out stars, each edge razor-sharp and veined with crackling blue energy that mirrored the sigils below. His face, beautiful and terrible in equal measure bore features too perfect to be human yet too expressive to be stone. Eyes like twin supernovas fixed upon Alaba with the weight of eons.
In his right hand, he wielded a trident that dwarfed any mortal weapon. Its three prongs captured lightning without source, the energy coiling along its length like living serpents eager to strike. In his left, he carried what appeared to be a conch shell large enough to house a child, intricate patterns carved into its spiraling surface.
When he spoke, his voice was a symphony of contradictions; at once a whisper directly in Alaba's ear and a thunder that shook the suspended walls of water.
"Who," the sound rolled across the exposed seabed like an avalanche, "is the presumptuous mortal who dares summon Erebus, Lord of the Deep and Keeper of Ancient Storms?"
The very air thickened. Alaba's lungs burned as if he'd been submerged far beneath the waves.
Yet something in him, perhaps the same steel that had carried him from a dusty village to presidential palaces refused to buckle.
"It is I," he declared, "Alaba, son of Alade. A man wronged. A father bereft. A husband who has outlived his promise to protect."
His voice broke, then steadied. "One who is tired of the justice of men and the silence of lesser gods. And if you are indeed the power they whisper of in places where light fears to linger, then hear me, not as a supplicant, but as one willing to pay whatever price is named."
Ategula's eyes narrowed to slits of brilliant light. The lightning along his trident intensified, snapping and hissing like living things straining at a leash.
"Power?" The god's voice dropped to a dangerous purr as he took another step forward. The ground beneath his feet crystallized into black glass. "You come to me for power? Mortal, do you even comprehend what it costs to speak that word in my presence?"
Alaba's throat constricted. "People I trusted betrayed me."
"As you betrayed others." The deity's response was immediate, implacable.
"They killed my mother." Alaba's voice cracked. "And my son,--my only son executed like a dog in our own home while I was abroad. His future. His brilliance. Extinguished."
Ategula remained unmoved. "And how many mothers and wives and sons did you condemn to grief and ash in your ascent to glory? How many bodies lie beneath the foundations of your wealth? How many souls cried out as you stepped over them?"
"Damn you!" Alaba roared, fists clenched so tightly that blood welled where nails cut into palms. "I didn't summon you for judgment!"
The lightning on the trident surged in response to his rage, leaping from the weapon to coil around Ategula's massive forearm. The deity's expression shifted, not to anger, but to something more dangerous: interest.
"Damn your feelings, son of Alade." His tone was soft now, almost gentle, but thunder rumbled beneath each syllable. "I am no confidant to ease your conscience. No therapist to validate your rage. You played the game willingly. Nigerian politics, perhaps the bloodiest arena on this continent. You knew what it demanded."
Another step closer. The god now towered over Alaba, close enough that the human could feel the electric charge emanating from his armor.
"You won, again and again. But now you've lost. And you cannot stomach it."
Ategula raised one gauntleted hand, and in its palm appeared swirling images: a younger Alaba in military uniform overseeing an execution; the same man in business attire signing documents that displaced thousands; Alaba in traditional dress accepting envelopes thick with cash; Alaba behind tinted windows as rivals were dragged from their homes.
"Karma, mortal. Do you remember the journalist you had buried alive for uncovering your offshore accounts? The village elder who refused to sell ancestral land for your golf course? The young woman who carried your seed and disappeared when convenience demanded?"
The images dissolved like smoke between his fingers.
"Your allies have deserted you because you cultivated loyalty through fear, not love. Your enemies have outbid your protection because you taught them that everything has a price. You stand alone because you built your empire on shifting sand instead of solid stone."
Alaba's tears fell freely now, not of grief, but of pure, distilled rage.
"Help me," he whispered hoarsely. "Help me make them pay."
"And why," Ategula asked softly, "should I intervene in the natural order of consequence?"
Behind the god, the suspended walls of water rippled. Within their depths, massive shapes moved; creatures with elongated limbs and glowing eyes, ancient beings that had slumbered since before mankind first crawled from the primordial soup. They pressed against the liquid barriers, watching the exchange with hungry curiosity.
Alaba dropped to one knee.
But it was not in supplication. It was in covenant.
"I offer blood for blood," he declared. "Fire for fire. My name, my legacy, my very soul, whatever you demand, I will pay. But show me vengeance that will echo through generations. Show me that there exists in this universe a justice that cannot be bought or reasoned with. Show me that the wind and wave do not tremble like men in robes who dare call themselves judges."
For the first time, Ategula smiled. It was beautiful and horrifying, like witnessing a solar eclipse with unprotected eyes.
He raised his trident high above his head.
The sky split. A jagged bolt of lightning, brighter than a thousand camera flashes struck the weapon's tip with such force that the earth fractured beside Alaba, a fissure zigzagging across the exposed seabed.
The god lowered his weapon and studied the kneeling man as one might inspect a matchstick before striking it.
"Rise, Alaba. You who speak boldly even in your ruin."
His voice deepened, now resonating not just from his form but from the sea and stone and sky; a cosmic pronouncement.
"You shall have your request. Your enemies will know fear unlike any mortal terror. Their towers will crumble. Their treasures will turn to ash in their mouths. Their names will be spoken only as cautionary tales."
Alaba rose, face set in grim satisfaction.
"Name your price."
Ategula's eyes flared brighter. "I do not name it now. I collect it when the work is done. Know only that it will be more than you believe yourself willing to pay." He tilted his massive head. "You may still walk away. Return to your vehicle. Nurse your wounds in dignified silence. Start anew elsewhere. That would be... wiser."
For a heartbeat, something like doubt flickered across Alaba's face.
Then his expression hardened once more.
"Do what you promised."
Ategula inclined his head in solemn acceptance. He raised the conch shell to his lips and blew a single, sustained note that no human instrument could produce; a sound both above and below the threshold of hearing that nonetheless vibrated in Alaba's very marrow.
The sea answered.
The suspended walls collapsed with the force of creation itself. Water crashed inward from all sides, a tsunami converging on their position. Ategula remained unmoved as the deluge engulfed him, his form dissolving into crackling energy that danced across the churning surface.
Alaba barely had time to gasp before the waters reached him. But instead of drowning him, the sea parted around his body, touching but not consuming, leaving him drenched but untouched as the Atlantic reclaimed its territory.
When the chaos subsided, he stood alone on Bar Beach once more.
The pact was sealed.

In the distance, the first hints of dawn painted the horizon. Lagos was stirring to life, unaware that its darkest son had just unleashed ancient wrath upon his enemies.
Alaba turned back toward his vehicle, each step leaving a faint phosphorescent footprint that disappeared moments later. His agbada clung to his body, soaked through but unmarked by the violence of the sea.
As he reached for the car door, a sound made him pause, a whisper carried on the wind, in a voice both singular and legion.
"Three days. Watch and remember who brought this reckoning."
Alaba Adeyemi, son of Alade, smiled for the first time in months as he slid behind the wheel.
The engine roared to life. The Toyota Prado pulled away, leaving only tire tracks in the sand. Tracks that the tide would soon erase, just as it had erased all evidence of gods and pacts and promises of vengeance.
But in three days' time, Lagos would remember.



Two: THE DISGRACED FORMER GOVERNOR
The Toyota Prado's headlights sliced through the predawn gloom like twin scythes as it sped towards the city. Alaba Adeyemi gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white against mahogany skin, his heart hammering with something that was not quite fear, but not far from it either. The leather seat beneath him was still damp, and the scent of brine clung to his tailored agbada, an expensive reminder of where he had been.
The sea behind him had fallen quiet again, as if nothing had happened. As if no ancient god had risen from the depths to strike a pact with a desperate man.
Three hours earlier, he had stood ankle-deep in the Atlantic, the waters of Bar Beach lapping at his Italian leather shoes. Shoes that cost more than what most Lagosians earned in a month. The moon had been full then, impossibly large, casting silver light across the restless waters. The beach had been deserted at that hour, as he knew it would be. Even the most desperate of Lagos' homeless knew better than to linger there after midnight.
He had come prepared. Old ways for ancient powers. The ritual was older than Lagos itself, older perhaps than the Yoruba who had first settled these lands. A ritual whispered of in certain circles, in the places where power and desperation mingled.
Now, as he drove through the stirring city, the weight of what he had done: what he had promised sat heavy on his shoulders. Lagos at dawn was a paradox, half-asleep yet humming with nascent energy. Traders were setting up stalls by torchlight, silhouettes moving with practiced efficiency. Okadas zipped like mechanical ghosts between slow-moving trailers, their drivers hunched forward like jockeys urging on reluctant mounts. A beggar shambled across the street, half-clothed, half-conscious, a spectre of the city's inequities.
Inside the Prado, the air was tight. Heavy. Still damp with salt and promises.
Alaba exhaled slowly and reached for the radio dial, his gold Rolex glinting in the dim light of the dashboard. The timepiece, a gift from a Chinese construction magnate whose company had mysteriously secured three major infrastructure contracts during Alaba's tenure felt suddenly heavier than usual.
The sun breached the horizon, spilling gold across the sky.
The news jingle chimed a cheerful tone that felt grotesquely out of place in the tension clenching his chest. The voice of the broadcaster came next, calm and polished, seasoned with routine and expensive caffeine.
"Good morning, Lagos. It's five-forty AM and here are the top stories this hour…"
The headlines flowed, harmless at first. A boat mishap near Ikorodu; three dead, seventeen missing. Fuel scarcity at the Apapa depot; the third this month despite federal assurances. An upcoming conference on fintech investments; another Silicon Lagoon initiative that would inevitably line someone's pockets. Alaba let the words wash over hm until the voice shifted, deepened slightly, signaling something significant.
"In a breaking development this morning, the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission has reopened investigations into the case of former Lagos State Governor, Alaba Adeyemi, following new evidence linking him to over one trillion naira allegedly siphoned during his six-year tenure before he was unceremoniously booted out of office by a coalition of his party members and the opposition."
Alaba stiffened, his spine suddenly rigid against the soft leather seat.
The car swerved slightly as his grip jerked on the steering. A passing okada driver blared his horn in protest. Alaba regained control, but his breath came shallower now, the air in the car suddenly insufficient.
"According to sources within the EFCC, the funds were traced through a series of complex offshore accounts spanning Dubai, the Cayman Islands, Mauritius, and Singapore. The Commission claims this diversion was concealed through fraudulent infrastructure contracts, ghost firms, and misappropriated federal allocations."
His temples throbbed with the beginning of a migraine. The same headaches that had plagued him throughout his final months in office, when the whispers had first begun. When allies had started avoiding his calls. When his own party chairman had suggested, ever so delicately, that perhaps it was time to consider "legacy planning."
The voice droned on, dispassionate, clinical in its dissection of his alleged crimes.
"Alaba Adeyemi who was previously acquitted of similar charges in 2022 under controversial circumstances is expected to be summoned for questioning this week. The Commission has also requested international cooperation from Interpol to freeze assets linked to the former governor abroad."
The name repeated again. His name. Spoken in that practiced broadcaster's cadence. As if he were some chapter in a history textbook on corruption. As if he were already buried, dissected, and forgotten.
His hands trembled on the wheel, an uncharacteristic show of weakness that would have shocked those who had known him in the governor's mansion, the man whose calm demeanor had never wavered, not even when announcing austerity measures that would starve thousands, or when commissioning projects that existed only on paper and in offshore accounts.
He pulled the car into a quiet side street off Bourdillon, the affluent neighborhood where Nigeria's elite made their homes behind high walls and armed guards. He parked beneath a swaying palm, and turned off the ignition. In the distance, the towers of Lagos Island rose like jagged teeth against the lightening sky.
"Disgraced ex-governor…", the voice repeated, each syllable a needle under his skin.
He shut off the radio with a savage jab, the expensive sound system dying mid-sentence.
The silence returned, but in that silence, another voice echoedlower, ancient, with the rumble of deep waters and shifting tectonic plates. Ategula's voice.
"I will grant your wrath. But I will own your storm."
The voice felt more than heard had rumbled through his bones.
Alaba had not expected an answer. Not really. He had performed the ritual out of desperation, out of the maddening certainty that conventional options were closed to him. That money and connections would not be enough this time. That enemies too numerous and powerful had finally cornered him.
But Ategula had answered.
Alaba leaned back in his seat now, staring out at the dimming moon. The air felt colder suddenly. Not just from the AC but from something older. Something closer. Something that had followed him from the beach, that had perhaps been following him his entire life, waiting for this moment of perfect vulnerability.
The storm was coming.
And it would not be clean.
He sighed heavily, the sound filling the car's interior. The EFCC would be coming to either arrest him or invite him for questioning. The pattern was familiar. He had been through it once before. He'd set others up to go through it in fact. Public humiliation dressed as due process. Perp walks designed for media consumption. Lengthy remand while cases dragged on.
But he wasn't going to allow that anymore. He wasn't prepared to go through the former hassles in court again. Not with Ategula at his call.
No.
He would fight the battle in ways they weren't expecting this time around.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat; a custom ring tone that indicated his most private line, known to only a handful of people. The screen illuminated with a name: "Kola S."

Three: FRIENDLY ENEMY
Senator Kola Shomolu. Once his mentor. Then his ally. Now, if rumors were to be believed, among the architects of his downfall.
Alaba smiled thinly as he picked up the phone. The first test of his resolve had arrived sooner than expected.
"Senator," he answered, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "You're awake early today."
"Alaba," the gravelly voice of the senator came through, artificially warm yet threaded with tension. "I assume you've heard the news."
"Just now, in fact."
A pause. The senator clearing his throat.
"These are serious allegations. Very serious. I've spoken with the EFCC chairman. As a courtesy to your... previous position... they're willing to arrange a discreet voluntary appearance rather than..."
"Rather than dragging me out of my home in handcuffs for the cameras?" Alaba interrupted, surprising himself with the edge in his voice. "How considerate of them."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Alaba," the senator's voice dropped lower, all pretense of warmth evaporating, "be reasonable. This isn't like last time. They have the foreign accounts. They have the transaction records. They have witnesses willing to testify. Including..."
"Including you, Senator?" Alaba asked softly.
The silence that followed was answer enough.
"I see," Alaba continued, watching as the first true rays of sunlight speared through the palm fronds above his car. "And what exactly do you see as my options here?"
"Cooperation," the senator replied immediately. "Full disclosure. Return what can be returned. Implicate others where possible. It's your only path to leniency."
Alaba laughed then, a sound devoid of humor.
"Leniency," he repeated, tasting the word like something rotten. "And who would you suggest I implicate, Senator? Should I start with the three oil blocks allocated to your wife's company during my administration? Or perhaps the fifty hectares of government land mysteriously transferred to your brother's real estate firm? Or shall we discuss the educational fund that somehow educated only your children in British boarding schools?"
Now it was the senator's turn for silence.
"Be very careful, Alaba," he finally responded, each word clipped and precise. "You are not the only one with secrets, but you are certainly the one most exposed at present."
"A position you helped engineer, I imagine."
"Politics is survival," the senator said dismissively. "You know this better than most. You would have done the same."
Alaba closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of Ategula's presence around him, unseen but palpable. The cold had intensified, his breath now visible in the air-conditioned car.
"No, Senator," he replied, his voice distant even to his own ears. "I would have been loyal. But that time has passed now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Alaba said, opening his eyes to see frost forming impossibly on the inside of his windshield, delicate patterns like ancient script, "that I will not be attending any EFCC interviews. I will not be cooperating. I will not be sacrificed so that the rest of you can continue feeding."
"Don't be a fool!" the senator hissed. "They'll destroy you completely this time!"
"No," Alaba whispered, watching in fascination as the frost patterns on his windshield formed what looked distinctly like a face; ancient, terrible, beautiful. "They won't."
He ended the call, cutting off the senator's protests.
For a long moment, Alaba sat in perfect stillness, watching his breath cloud before him in the unnaturally cold car. The frost face on the windshield regarded him impassively, features shifting subtly with each exhale.
Then, decision made, he started the car again. The frost disappeared instantly as the defroster engaged, but the cold lingered, nestled somewhere in his chest where it belonged now.
He had preparations to make. Allies to secure. Resources to mobilize.
And sacrifices to offer.
Ategula was hungry, and Alaba now understood that the pact demanded more than just his future. It would consume his present, his past, perhaps even parts of himself he had believed immutable. Not even those would be enough to satisfy Ategula's hunger. Thousands of souls would likely become collateral damages.
But as he pulled back onto Bourdillon Road, merging into the thickening morning traffic, Alaba Adeyemi felt something he had not experienced in months.
Power.
Not the fleeting influence of political office or the hollow authority of wealth but something elemental. Primordial. A current running through him that connected to forces older than Nigeria itself.
He smiled as he drove toward his Ikoyi mansion, already planning his first moves in this new game with new rules.
The storm was gathering.
And Lagos would drown before it ended.


Four: WHISPERS IN HIGH PLACES
The call came at precisely 9:17 AM, as Alaba was finishing his breakfast on the east-facing terrace of his Ikoyi mansion. His housekeeper, Mama Chidi, had prepared akara and pap. Simple food that reminded him of childhood breakfasts before wealth had complicated his tastes. He found himself suddenly craving such simplicities now that complexity had become his unwanted companion.
The phone vibrated against the glass tabletop, displaying a number he recognized instantly though it wasn't saved in his contacts. Some connections were better left undocumented.
"This is Adeyemi," he answered, voice neutral.
"The eagle flies at noon," came the response, a male voice, deliberately pitched low.
Alaba almost laughed at the melodrama of it all. Code phrases seemed absurd in an age of encrypted messaging and blockchain transactions. But old habits died hard among certain generations of Nigeria's power brokers.
"The nest is prepared," he replied, completing the archaic authentication.
"Good morning, Your Excellency," the voice shifted to normal tones. Kunle Osinbajo, Deputy Director of the State Security Service and Alaba's former schoolmate from King's College days. "I assume you've heard this morning's news?"
"It would be difficult to miss," Alaba replied dryly, breaking off a piece of akara and watching a lizard skitter along the terrace railing. "The EFCC seems eager to make my acquaintance again."
"It's more than that," Dapo said, his voice tightening. "This isn't a routine investigation. The directive came from the very top."
"The President?"
"Higher."
Alaba raised an eyebrow at that. Higher than the President meant only one entity in Nigeria's complex power structure; the consortium of retired generals, oil magnates, and political kingmakers collectively known as "The Circle." A shadow cabinet that had guided or manipulated Nigeria's destiny since before the return to civilian rule.
"I see," Alaba said softly. "And why would The Circle suddenly take interest in my financial affairs? They certainly weren't concerned when I was funding the President's election campaign with the same resources."
Kunle's hesitation was audible.
"Something's changed," he finally said. "There's talk of making an example. The IMF and World Bank are applying pressure for visible anti-corruption victories. The Chinese are threatening to review their infrastructure loans. The President needs a sacrificial lamb, and..."
"And I've been selected for slaughter," Alaba finished flatly.
"Precisely," Kunle confirmed. "But that's not all. This isn't just about money laundering or embezzlement. They're preparing charges that could include treason."
Alaba's hand froze halfway to his mouth, the piece of akara suspended in air.
"Treason?" he repeated incredulously. "On what possible grounds?"
"Documents have surfaced suggesting you were negotiating with separatist groups in the South-South during your governorship. Allegedly offering financial and political support for potential breakaway efforts if it would secure you certain... advantages."
Cold fury washed through Alaba. This was a fabrication so blatant it would be laughable if the implications weren't so deadly serious. Treason charges in Nigeria weren't merely political; they were potentially capital.
"That's absurd," he stated flatly. "I've never..."
"The veracity doesn't matter," Kunle cut in. "The documents exist. They contain your signature, forged or not. They've been authenticated by experts who owe favors to your enemies."
Alaba fell silent, processing this information. The frost that had formed in his car earlier that morning seemed to spread through his veins now. He glanced at the swimming pool beyond the terrace where his grandchildren had played just last month. Would he ever see them again? Or would he end his days in Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison, another disgraced politician forgotten by a country accustomed to the rise and fall of the powerful?
Unless...
He felt it then; a subtle shift in the air pressure. The sky above Lagos remained clear, but somewhere distant, thunder rumbled. Not from any natural storm.
"When?" Alaba asked simply.
"Tomorrow morning. Six AM. They want to catch you at home, parade you before the media. The press has already been tipped off."
"I see," Alaba said, his voice distant. "Thank you for the warning, old friend."
"It's not much of a warning," Kunle replied regretfully. "Twenty-four hours isn't enough time to flee the country, especially with the alerts already at borders and airports. Even your private jet would be intercepted."
"Who said anything about fleeing?" Alaba asked, a new coldness in his tone that made Kunle fall silent.
After a moment, the security official spoke again, his voice cautious.
"Alaba... what are you planning?"
"Nothing that need concern you," Alaba replied smoothly. "But I would suggest ensuring your family is away from Lagos for the next few days."
"Why?" Alarm edged into Kunle's voice.
"Call it a precaution," Alaba said, ending the call before Kunle could press further.
He set down his phone and resumed eating, though he no longer tasted the food. His mind was elsewhere, calculating, arranging, preparing.
The treason charge changed everything. This wasn't merely about wealth or reputation anymore. it was about survival in its most literal sense. The Circle had decided not just to humble him but to destroy him completely.
They would regret that decision.
Alaba finished his meal methodically, then called for Mama Chidi. The middle-aged woman appeared promptly, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Yes, sir?" she asked, her Igbo accent still strong despite decades in Lagos.
"I'll need you to take the next seven days off," he told her, reaching for his wallet and extracting several large-denomination naira notes. "In fact, all household staff should leave. Here's two weeks' wages as compensation."
Mama Chidi frowned, confusion evident on her face.
"But sir, who will maintain the house? And your meals?"
"I'll manage," Alaba cut her off, gentle but firm. "It's important that you go. Today. Take your grandson to visit your sister in Enugu as you've been planning."
Understanding dawned in the housekeeper's eyes. She had been with him long enough to recognize when serious matters were unfolding.
"Is trouble coming, sir?" she asked directly.
Alaba appreciated her forthrightness�"a quality increasingly rare in his world of political double-speak.
"Yes," he admitted. "But not trouble you need to witness. Go, and tell the others to go as well. I'll call when it's safe to return."
She nodded once, accepting the money with a small bow.
"God be with you, sir," she said, a traditional blessing that suddenly carried uncomfortable weight.
"And with you, Mama Chidi," he replied, though he suspected divine protection was no longer available to him. Not after last night's pact. The kind of protection he sensed he had now seemed diabolical.
As she turned to leave, Alaba added: "And Mama Chidi? Thank you. For everything."
The woman paused, regarding him with shrewd eyes that missed little.
"You speak as if we won't meet again, sir."
Alaba forced a reassuring smile.
"Just precautions. Go now."
After she left, Alaba rose and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking out over his immaculate gardens and the high walls that separated his compound from the world beyond. Six years as governor had built this fortress. Contracts awarded to friends, kickbacks laundered through shell companies, public funds diverted through creative bookkeeping, the standard practices of Nigerian political economy that everyone denounced publicly while practicing privately.
He had been no worse than his predecessors. No worse than his successor would inevitably be. His only true crime had been losing political favor, becoming expendable in a system that consumed its own when necessary.

Alaba looked up at the perfectly blue Lagos sky. Not a cloud in sight, yet he could feel pressure building somewhere beyond normal perception. It was a gathering power, drawing from depths Alaba could barely comprehend.
Inside, he felt a peculiar emptiness where fear should have been. The hollow space was filling with something else, something ancient and terrible. Something that whispered of vengeance not as an emotional indulgence but as a cosmic balancing.
His phone buzzed again, another call. This time, the screen displayed "Lola," his eldest daughter's name.
Alaba stared at it for five rings before declining the call. What could he possibly say to her now? None of them had anticipated the current trouble engulfing when she had brought her husband and two children to the wedding anniversary he and his wife had lavishly celebrated last month. How could he explain what he had now set in motion?
Some bridges had to be burned so completely that not even memory could cross them again.
He turned back toward the house that had been his sanctuary and prison. He had preparations to complete before nightfall. Before the storm broke.
Before Lagos learned just how dangerous a cornered man could be when backed by powers older than Nigeria itself.


Five: A BACKROOM CONSPIRACY
The chairman's office loomed in shadow on the uppermost floor of the EFCC building in Jabi, Abuja. Heavy curtains smothered the floor-to-ceiling windows, denying the capital its rightful view. Only a single blade of late afternoon sunlight dared intrude, cutting across the obsidian conference table where two men faced each other like chess grandmasters contemplating their final, fatal moves.
Senator Kola Shomolu stood with the rigid posture of a man accustomed to command, his palms pressed against the table's cool surface. His royal blue agbada, embroidered with threads of silver that caught the meager light, draped perfectly from his broad shoulders, a carefully curated image of respectability masking the weight of what he had come to orchestrate. Despite the room's arctic chill, perspiration beaded at his temples.
Across from him, Chairman Bala Idris sat motionless, head cocked slightly, studying the Senator with the calculated patience of a practiced hunter. After seven years spent pursuing Nigeria's most sophisticated criminals, the irony wasn't lost on him that he now found himself entangled in a conspiracy far beyond the boundaries of the law he had sworn to uphold.
"Adeyemi," Kola finally broke the silence, the name hanging in the air like a death sentence, "is granite. Unyielding. Immovable." His index finger tapped the table once, the sound sharp and final. "And like granite, he must be broken to be removed."
The quiet that followed amplified the soft mechanical hum of the building. Somewhere below them, a phone rang and went unanswered.
Bala uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, his expression professionally detached. "He's already finished," he countered, his voice cool and measured. "We have mountains of evidence. Financial trails spanning three continents. Witness testimonies from his inner circle. Full Interpol cooperation." A flicker of professional pride crossed his face. "We've constructed a cage so thorough that not even Adeyemi can slip through its bars."
Kola's responding laugh was devoid of any warmth, a brittle sound like shattering glass in an empty room. He pushed away from the table and began a slow, deliberate circuit, his handmade Italian leather shoes making no sound against the plush carpet.
"How many years have you occupied this office, Mr. Chairman?" He paused at a framed photograph. Bala accepting his appointment, the President's hand resting on his shoulder like a blessing. "How many 'finished' men have you watched walk free? How many 'airtight cases' have disintegrated the moment they touched the courtroom air?"
He turned, fixing Bala with a stare so penetrating that the chairman unconsciously straightened his spine.
"Adeyemi has outlasted three administrations, two military coups, and countless investigations." Kola's voice dropped to a confidential whisper that somehow filled the room. "He doesn't just know where the bodies are buried. He conducted the funerals."
Bala's jaw tightened, the only betrayal of his composure. "What exactly are you suggesting, Senator?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Kola replied, his tone hardening to steel. "I'm telling you that Adeyemi possesses evidence that would bury half the cabinet, three Supreme Court justices, and..." he paused, allowing the weight of his next words to gather like storm clouds, "your wife's brother in the Bayelsa oil terminal scandal."
The chairman's meticulously maintained façade cracked. A muscle twitched beneath his eye as he instinctively glanced toward the door, confirming it remained closed.
"That's absurd," he whispered, but the tremor in his voice undermined his denial.
Kola returned to the table, placed both hands on its polished surface, and leaned forward until their faces were separated by nothing but unspoken truths.
"Stop the charade, Bala," he said, each word precise as a surgeon's incision. "Order 33 has been authorized. From the highest office. You're protected. Completely." He straightened, adjusted his gold cufflinks with practiced nonchalance. "It must appear natural, of course. A man of his age, with his... documented health complications."
The weight of the unspoken settled between them like a funeral shroud. Bala's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as resistance drained from him, replaced by the cold clarity of a decision already made.
"And if I proceed with the arrest as planned?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Kola's expression hardened to granite. "Even behind bars, he remains lethal. His network stretches into shadows we cannot illuminate. His influence seeps through walls we cannot fortify." He shook his head slowly. "No, a man like Adeyemi doesn't simply face justice. He twists it into a weapon against those who sought to wield it."
Silence stretched between them, pregnant, suffocating.
Finally, Bala exhaled, a sound like surrender. "The cardiac medication he takes," he said, his voice barely audible. "A significant dose increase would trigger an event clinically indistinguishable from natural causes."
"It should be straightforward," Kola assured him with practiced ease. "Our intelligence confirms he's dismissed his entire household staff, including security personnel, in anticipation of tomorrow's arrest."
"That simplifies matters," Bala acknowledged, relief and shame warring in his voice. "Minimizes witnesses and potential collateral damage."
Kola nodded once, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "Dawn tomorrow," he confirmed. "Before your officers arrive to serve the warrant."
"The assass..." He caught himself on time. "$orry, I mean the operatives will have come and gone by then," Bala continued mechanically. "My agents will find nothing but his corpse."
"And dead men tell no tales," Kola finished, straightening his immaculate agbada with manicured hands that had never known honest labor. "Nigeria thanks you for your patriotism, Mr. Chairman."
Bala couldn't meet his gaze. "Will there be anything else, Senator?"
"No." Kola moved toward the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Except to remember that once this path is chosen, there's no turning back from it."
When the door closed behind the Senator, Bala remained motionless, staring at the shaft of light that bisected his table like a moral boundary now irretrievably crossed.
Five hundred kilometers away, Lagos throbbed with chaotic vitality, okada drivers weaving through impossible traffic, market women calling out prices, schoolchildren in neat uniforms streaming homeward. None aware that in a climate-controlled office in Abuja, high above the city's reach, two powerful men had just traded Nigeria's future for their own survival, and condemned a man to death in whispers when the law had failed to do so in the light of day.

Six: DAWN SHADOWS
It was 4:17 a.m. when the matte-black Lexus LX570 rolled silently into the cul-de-sac at the edge of Centuryview Estate, headlights extinguished for the final approach. The waning crescent moon had retreated behind a bank of storm clouds, plunging the affluent neighborhood into near-perfect darkness. A fitting shroud for what was to come.
The estate was eerily still. No private security patrolling the perimeter. No dogs disturbing the pre-dawn hush with territorial barking. No telltale blue glow of surveillance monitors from the gatehouse, which stood empty and dark. The cream-colored mansion, once the buzzing epicenter of political machinations sat silent behind its ornate gilded fence and meticulously shaped hedges, windows like vacant eyes staring out into the gloom.
Just as their intelligence had promised.
The vehicle came to a stop fifty meters from the main gate, engine purring almost inaudibly. Inside, four men performed final equipment checks with practiced efficiency. Their breathing was controlled, heart rates steady. This wasn't their first time.
"Comms check," whispered Alpha, the team leader, his voice barely audible even within the confines of the vehicle.
"Tango, operational." The weapons specialist adjusted the silencer on his custom Sig Sauer.
"Delta, operational." The extraction specialist tightened the straps on his tactical vest.
"Romeo, operational." The driver's gloved hands remained on the wheel, ready.
All four wore matte-black tactical suits of advanced composite material that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Their faces disappeared behind sleek visor helmets equipped with military-grade night vision, thermal imaging, and encrypted communication arrays. Each carried a silenced sidearm, a ceramic combat knife, and specialized equipment for their designated roles.
But the most valuable items were secured in Alpha's insulated pouch: two slender vials containing an undetectable nerve agent developed in a laboratory whose existence no government would ever acknowledge. One drop in a sleeping man's mouth, and heart failure would be the official cause of death. No autopsy would find evidence to suggest otherwise.
"Mission parameters unchanged," Alpha stated, his South African accent clipped and precise. "Subject is isolated. Security systems neutralized as of 2200 hours. Domestic staff dismissed yesterday afternoon. No external monitoring. Window of opportunity: thirty minutes."
He paused, studying the tablet displaying the mansion's blueprints one final time.
"The subject must not see morning light. He dies before he talks. Clean execution, no traces."
The three other men nodded silently. They knew the stakes. Former Governor Alaba Adeyemi had been a titan in West African politics, untouchable, or so it seemed, until the regime change six weeks ago. Now he was a liability to powerful people, a repository of damning secrets. Tomorrow, he was scheduled to meet with international prosecutors. That meeting would never happen.
"Move out."
Alpha, Tango, and Delta exited the vehicle like wraiths, barely disturbing the pre-dawn air. Romeo remained behind the wheel, engine running, escape route already programmed into the navigation system.
The three assassins approached the gate, their movements fluid and synchronized from years of operations together. The gate stood slightly ajar, another confirmation that their inside source had fulfilled his part of the arrangement. They slipped through the narrow opening without touching the metal, aware that even the slightest sound could travel in this dense silence.
As they moved up the curved driveway, the mansion loomed larger, its neoclassical façade a pale specter against the darkness. Palm trees swayed slightly in the breeze coming off the nearby lagoon, creating shifting patterns that their visors automatically adjusted for, distinguishing between natural movement and potential threats.
The front entrance, a massive double door of carved mahogany beneath a columned portico was their designated entry point. Alpha approached first, testing the handle with a gloved hand.
Unlocked. As promised.
He pushed it open just enough for their bodies to slip through, one by one, into the cavernous foyer. The interior was cooler than the humid night outside, the air conditioning set to a precise 68 degrees. The marble floor stretched before them, reflecting faint ambient light from distant streetlamps filtering through tall windows.
Alpha gestured silently with two fingers. The team moved forward in practiced formation, boots making no sound on the polished stone. Their visors painted the world in ghostly green and grayscale, highlighting heat signatures and movement. So far, nothing but the subtle thermal traces of the house's electronic systems.
They passed through the grand sitting room, an evidence of Adeyemi's extravagance. Italian leather sofas arranged around a massive center table carved from a single piece of African blackwood. Crystal decanters still half-filled with imported liquor. Artwork worth millions adorning the walls, now just shadowy rectangles in their night vision.
Delta took point as they approached the sweeping staircase, checking for any signs of disturbance or unexpected presence. Nothing. The house was as lifeless as a mausoleum.
Alpha consulted the blueprints in his visor's heads-up display. The master suite occupied the entire east wing of the second floor. According to their intelligence, Adeyemi always slept alone, especially since dismissing his mistress back to her home country when the political winds began to shift against him.
The team ascended the stairs in perfect silence, weight distributed precisely to avoid creating the faintest creak from the hardwood. At the top, a long corridor stretched before them, lined with closed doors, guest rooms, studies, private cinema, all dark and still.
They moved toward the east wing, passing beneath a massive skylight that cast weak moonlight onto the corridor floor whenever the clouds momentarily parted. The team kept to the shadows along the walls, invisible even if someone were to glance down the hallway.
Alpha held up a closed fist as they approached the master suite's antechamber. The team halted instantly. He pointed to his visor, then to the door ahead.
Temperature differential. Something was off.
The door to the master bedroom should have shown a warmer signature if someone was sleeping inside. Instead, it registered as unusually cool. Colder than the surrounding walls.
Alpha signaled for Tango to approach from the left while Delta covered the right flank. They would breach simultaneously, eliminate any possible threat, and complete their mission with the nerve agent. Quick, clean, professional.
They positioned themselves on either side of the ornate double doors. Alpha counted down with his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
The breach was textbook perfect. Doors swinging open in unison, weapons raised, bodies moving in fluid coordination as they entered the spacious antechamber that preceded the actual bedroom.
And then, everything changed.

Their equipment malfunctioned simultaneously.
Visors flickered violently, night vision cutting in and out, thermal imaging distorting into meaningless patterns. Static burst through their communication systems, a harsh electric whine that made all three men wince inside their helmets.
But through the electronic chaos, they saw it.
At first, it seemed like a failure of their vision systems; a hole in the rendering, a black spot where data should be. But as their equipment stabilized, they realized the darkness was actually there, physically present in the room with them. Not a shadow cast by an object, but something that seemed to consume light itself.
It hovered near the bedroom doors, a coiling mass of what looked like black smoke but moved with deliberate, conscious intent. It had no defined edges, its form constantly shifting and rippling like ink dropped in water. And within its amorphous center were two points of deeper blackness, not glowing, but somehow more intensely void than the mass surrounding them.
Looking at it felt wrong, a violation of natural law.
"What the..." breathed Delta, his typically steady voice pitched higher with instinctive fear.
Alpha's training took over, pushing down the primal terror clawing at his throat. "Unknown entity," he reported coolly into his comm. "Possible chemical weapon deployment. Switching to oxygen supply."
All three men activated their helmet's closed breathing systems. But even as they did, each knew this was no gas or chemical agent. They had encountered those before. This was something else entirely.
Tango, ever the pragmatist, raised his weapon. "Engaging," he announced, and opened fire.
The silenced Sig Sauer spit three rounds in rapid succession, the bullets traveling directly into the dark mass. There was no sound of impact, no visible reaction from the entity. The rounds simply disappeared into the blackness as if fired into a bottomless pit.
The darkness... shifted. Not retreating, but changing its configuration, elongating vertically. Growing larger.
"Incendiary," ordered Alpha, and Tango immediately switched to his backup weapon, a modified pistol loaded with white phosphorus rounds designed to ignite on impact.
The incendiary round struck the mass and detonated, a brief, intense flare of chemical fire that should have illuminated the entire room. Instead, the light seemed to collapse inward, absorbed completely by the darkness, which remained utterly unaffected.
That's when they truly understood they were facing something beyond their experience.
Alpha made the call. "Abort. Immediate extraction. Fall back to..."
He never finished the order.
The darkness moved.
Not the lazy drift of smoke or the passive billowing of a cloud, but with the focused, predatory intent of a hunting animal. It surged toward them with impossible speed, crossing the ten feet between them in the space of a heartbeat.
. Delta screamed; a sound none of his teammates had ever heard from the stoic veteran of a dozen high-risk operations. The darkness engulfed his right arm first, the limb simply ceasing to exist where the blackness touched it. Not severed, not dissolved. Just gone, as if that portion of reality had been erased.
Tango grabbed Delta's other arm, trying to pull him away from the entity, but the darkness flowed like liquid up Delta's body, consuming him inch by inch. His screams twisted into something inhuman as half his face disappeared into the void.
Then silence. Delta was gone. No blood, no remains. Just absence where a human being had stood moments before.
The remaining two assassins broke into desperate flight, all thoughts of stealth or mission protocol abandoned. Pure survival instinct took over as they sprinted back down the corridor toward the stairs.
Alpha risked a glance over his shoulder. The darkness was following, not rushing now but moving with unhurried confidence, like a predator that knows its prey cannot escape.
"Romeo!" Alpha barked into his comm as they thundered down the stairs. "Start the engine! Emergency extraction! NOW!"
Only static answered him.
They burst through the front door and into the night air, their breath in ragged gasps. Lungs burning, hearts hammering against their ribcages, they ran like the devil himself was after them. Maybe he was.
Moonlight cast long shadows across the immaculate lawn as they made for their extraction vehicle. The midnight-black Lexus LX570 sat idling at the curb, its engine's soft purr belying the power beneath its hood.
They hurled themselves inside, bodies colliding in desperation.
"Drive! Now!" Tango shouted, his voice cracking.
Romeo didn't ask questions. He slammed the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward with a guttural roar, suspension groaning as it careened onto the private road. The wrought-iron receded behind them.
But in the rearview mirror, something impossible emerged through the gates and followed.
Not headlights. Not pursuers. Something... other.
A darkness deeper than the night itself, a liquid shadow that moved with terrible purpose. It flowed across the pavement, faster than any earthly thing, closing the gap with unnatural speed.
"What the hell is that?" whispered Romeo, twisting in his seat.
The gate was twenty yards away. Forty. Fifty.
The darkness struck. The car vibrated with the impact.
And then the black mass washed over the vehicle like a midnight tide, extinguishing all light. The headlamps flickered once, twice. A final, futile protest before surrendering to absolute blackness. The engine's confident rumble stuttered, choked, and died.
For three heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then came a sound, not quite a scream, not quite a whisper; something ancient and hungry that no human throat could produce.
And then, nothing.
Dawn broke gently over the estate hours later, painting the sky in watercolor hues of amber and rose. Birds resumed their songs. Dew glistened on perfectly trimmed hedges. The mansion stood serene and undisturbed, as if the night's violence had been merely a passing nightmare.
No bodies. No vehicle. No signs of struggle.
Only the faintest metallic tang lingered in the morning air. And the unsettling certainty that something primordial had awakened after centuries of slumber.
Something that had remembered the taste of fear and would hunger for it again.

Seven: THE IMPOSSIBLE ARREST
Dawn fractured the Lagos sky in shards of amber and gold as the convoy of black Toyota Hilux trucks glided into the Centuryview villa in Banana island. The vehicles moved with predatory purpose, their engines hushed as if in conspiracy. The crimson vests of the EFCC operatives (Economic and Financial Crimes Commission) burned like fresh wounds against the muted colors of early morning. Each face beneath a black cap was carved from stone, eyes scanning the manicured lawns of one of Nigeria's foremost elites.
Behind them, media vans careened around the corner, tires protesting against asphalt. The reporters had been tipped off; they always were. Cameramen spilled out, equipment balanced against shoulders, their movements choreographed from years of chasing scandal. Anchors adjusted earpieces, smoothed down clothes, rehearsing opening lines for what promised to be the season's most spectacular arrest.
"This exclusive NDTV footage shows the EFCC raid on the compound of Alaba Adeyemi, disgraced former governor, political kingpin and billionaire financier accused of embezzling forty billion dollars from the Federal Infrastructure Fund..."
The convoy halted before a mansion rising like a white citadel behind ornate gates. Bougainvillea cascaded over high walls, their fuchsia brilliance a jarring contrast to the gravity of the moment.
Then, collectively, they saw him.
Alaba Adeyemi stood at his gate, not cowering behind it. His kaftan of hand-woven aso-oke gleamed impossibly white in the strengthening sunlight, gold embroidery catching fire at the collar and cuffs. At fifty-eight, his face was a landscape of quiet authority; deep-set eyes that had witnessed empires rise and crumble, a mouth set in permanent, knowing amusement. His hands were clasped before him, adorned with a single jade ring passed down through four generations of Adeyemis.
He waited, patient as the ancient iroko trees that surrounded his family's ancestral lands in Ife.
Inspector Danladi Lawal, who had led three presidential corruption task forces and brought down ministers and governors alike, felt something cold slide down his spine. He had expected to haul his stone cold corpse from the master bedroom, not confront a man who stood with the untroubled dignity of one awaiting afternoon tea.
His fingers trembled slightly as he punched the number.
"Chairman," he said, voice lowered to a whisper. "The quarry is alive."
Chairman Bala Idris, whose appointment to the EFCC had been celebrated six years ago with promises of "a cleansing fire through the corridors of corruption," sounded as if he'd been startled from a nightmare.
"You're certain?"
"He stands before me, sir. Twenty feet away at most."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. Then the Chairman's voice, suddenly aged: "That's... impossible. We received confirmation three hours ago that..." He stopped himself. "There are protocols for this contingency. Proceed with the arrest. We'll... adapt our strategy."
Lawal pocketed his phone and squared his shoulders. The weight of his bulletproof vest suddenly seemed inadequate protection against whatever waited behind those serene eyes. Cameras whirred, capturing his hesitation, the moment stretching taut as a wire.
"Maintain the perimeter," he ordered his team. Six officers fanned out, hands hovering over holstered weapons.
Lawal approached the gate, stance wide, authoritative. "Mr. Alaba Adeyemi," he projected his voice for both the suspect and the rolling cameras, "by the authority vested in me by the Federal Republic of Nigeria, you are under arrest for crimes against the state including embezzlement, money laundering, and conspiracy to defraud the government."
Alaba's expression didn't change. Only his eyes, dark as wet volcanic stone seemed to deepen somehow, to recede into some internal distance. When he spoke, his voice carried the quiet resonance of a temple bell.
"I don't think so, Inspector." A smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes. "Some men are beyond your jurisdiction."
The air changed.
Later, witnesses would struggle to describe what happened next. Some would speak of a soundless explosion. Others, a ripple in reality itself. The technical explanation from university physicists would reference pressure anomalies and localized gravitational disturbances.
What the cameras captured before they shattered was simpler:
power.
A concussive force erupted outward from Adeyemi in an invisible wave. EFCC officers lifted from their boots as if gravity had momentarily abandoned them, then slammed back to earth with bone-jarring impact. They skidded across pavement, equipment scattering. Weapons discharged accidentally, bullets embedding harmlessly in the ground.
Media personnel tumbled like leaves in a hurricane. A celebrated news anchor from Galaxy Television found herself sprawled across a flower bed, designer blazer torn, microphone twisted beyond recognition. Camera equipment worth millions of naira lay in smoking ruin, lenses cracked and useless.
Inspector Lawal struggled to his knees, blood trickling from his nose and ears. His men groaned around him, disoriented and injured. The air smelled of ozone and something older, something that reminded Lawal of his grandmother's warnings about powers that predated colonial boundaries and government commissions.
Through dust and confusion, he watched Alaba Adeyemi turn unhurriedly back toward his house. No hurry. No concern. The white kaftan remained pristine, as if the chaos had parted around him like water around stone.
At the threshold of his front door, Adeyemi paused and looked back. Their eyes met across the devastation.
"Tell your Chairman," he said, voice carrying clearly despite the distance, "that some debts cannot be settled with handcuffs."
The massive carved door closed behind him with quiet finality.
Lawal's radio crackled with panicked voices demanding updates, but he couldn't find words to explain what had just happened. How do you tell Abuja that you've encountered something that shouldn't exist in a world of fingerprints and court orders?
On a nearby lawn, a forgotten camera continued to record, its lens cracked but functional. The footage would be broadcast across Nigeria by nightfall, sparking debates about special effects and government conspiracies.
But in the pit of his stomach, Inspector Lawal already knew the truth. They hadn't come to arrest a man today.
They had come to arrest a legend.
And legends have their own rules.

Eight: THE FOOTAGE
By midday, the footage had detonated across Nigeria like a digital bomb. KKTV aired it first, the anchor's voice tense with barely contained excitement:
"The Untouchable: EFCC Officers Blasted by Invisible Force."
The footage; grainy but unmistakable opened with Alaba Adeyemi standing at the wrought-iron gates of his compound. Six officers from the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission approached with the mechanical confidence of men who had done this a hundred times before. Their navy-blue tactical vests gleamed in the morning sun, weapons holstered but visibl, "a calculated show of force.
The lead officer, a square-jawed man with dark sunglasses, thrust a document toward Alaba. His mouth moved, though the audio captured only distant traffic and the anxious breathing of whoever held the camera from across the street.
Alaba, impeccably dressed in a tailored white agbada with gold embroidery didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply extended his right hand, palm facing outward, as if offering a greeting.
Then it happened.
An invisible concussion wave erupted from nowhere. The air itself seemed to ripple like heat rising from hot asphalt. The six officers combined weight easily exceeding 1,000 pounds of trained muscle and tactical gear were hurled backward as if struck by a speeding bus. Their bodies arced through the humid Lagos air, limbs flailing helplessly before crashing onto the dusty road. Papers scattered. Weapons clattered against asphalt. The cameraman's panicked breathing intensified as the camera jittered, briefly pointing at the ground before refocusing.
When the lens steadied again, Alaba remained unmoved. Not a thread of his agbada displaced. Not a bead of sweat on his forehead. He turned, unhurried, and walked back through his gates, which closed behind him with the soft pneumatic hiss of expensive automation.
The clip ended with a frozen frame of the stunned officers trying to regain their footing, their faces masks of disbelief and something more primal. Fear.
By sunset, the footage had been viewed over twelve million times. By nightfall, every major network in the nation had picked it up. AIT, Channels, TVC, NTA; all running special segments. International outlets began to take interest: BBC Africa posted it with the cautious headline "Unexplained Incident During Nigerian Anti-Corruption Arrest Attempt," while Al Jazeera framed it as "Mysterious Footage Raises Questions About Nigerian Political Protection."
CNN International's correspondent in Lagos appeared on a split-screen with a visibly skeptical Anderson Cooper, who kept asking, "Are we certain this isn't some kind of publicity stunt?"
The country went silent for a moment--collectively stunned before the eruption began.

Nine: THE DIVIDE
Nigeria fractured along familiar fault lines, but with new intensity. The response revealed more about the viewers than about what they had witnessed.
"The media and government are playing us like fools," one online commentator raged. "It’s all theater."
In air-conditioned offices across Victoria Island, executives dismissed it as "obviously fake, CGI nonsense." On university campuses, tech-savvy students debated frame rates and video artifacts, posting extensive breakdowns on Reddit and Discord. "The shadow movements don't match the light source," one viral post claimed, circling grainy portions of the video in red. "Classic deep-fake indicators."
WhatsApp groups exploded with competing theories. Government officials maintained rigid silence, while opposition politicians hinted at "disturbing questions about who truly controls power in this nation."
Twitter/X spaces hosted hour-long debates, with hashtags like #AlabaTheMystic, #GhostForce, and #DeepFakeNigeria trending simultaneously. TikTokers remixed the footage with music--everything from somber violin instrumentals to upbeat Afrobeats, some turning it into comedy, others treating it as a revolutionary moment in Nigerian history.
In the sprawling markets of Mushin and Oshodi, vendors sold hastily printed t-shirts featuring a silhouette of Alaba with his palm extended. Street preachers incorporated the incident into sermons about spiritual warfare. In beer parlors and pepper soup joints, heated arguments broke out over palm wine and Star beer.
"Is this not what our elders have always warned us about?" a gray-bearded man at a roadside bar in Surulere proclaimed. "Power that cannot be seen with ordinary eyes?"
"It's all camera tricks and special effects," countered a younger man in a tech company polo shirt. "Like that Black Panther movie."
"Then why haven't the EFCC denied it?" a woman interjected, adjusting her headwrap. "Not a single statement from them. Why?"
Indeed, the EFCC's silence was deafening. No press releases. No Twitter statements. Calls to their public relations office went unanswered. Their usual bold anti-corruption rhetoric suddenly muted.
In the vast reaches of northern Nigeria, where internet was spottier and traditional beliefs held stronger sway, the reaction was more uniform. Market women in Kano nodded knowingly. Fulani herdsmen watching the clip on shared phones under acacia trees exchanged glances without surprise. This was merely confirmation of what they had always known: that there existed powers beyond the visible world, powers that some men could harness.
"Allah permits some mysteries to remain mysteries," an imam in Sokoto told his congregation during Friday prayers, neither confirming nor denying the event's authenticity.
Children across the nation played a new game during recess, one child playing Alaba while others pretended to be flung backward by invisible forces. Parents found it both amusing and unsettling.
Yet beneath the spectacle, a current of unease rippled through the collective consciousness. If real, what did this mean? If a man could repel armed officers with a gesture, what were the implications for law and order? For democracy itself?

Ten: THE EYE OF THE STORM
Inside his walled compound, Alaba Adeyemi watched it all unfold on multiple screens. His study, a high-ceilinged room with mahogany bookshelves and leather furniture had been transformed into a monitoring station. Three large television screens tracked different news channels simultaneously. A laptop displayed social media trends. His phone buzzed constantly with messages he had no intention of answering.
For two days straight, he observed the circus he had unleashed. His face remained expressionless throughout�"not a smile, not a frown, not a raised eyebrow. Just the steady, calculating gaze of a chess player several moves ahead of his opponents.
Occasionally, Dapo, Alaba's ever-loyal assistant, stepped quietly into the room bringing fresh tea or slipping over intelligence briefs gathered from their sources across the country. Each time, he lingered a moment, hoping for a word, a nod, anything. But Alaba remained silent, his gaze fixed on the television screen, where analysts on Channels TV stumbled through speculation, caught between disbelief and paranoia, unsure how to explain the unexplainable.
Finally, Dapo could hold back no longer.
"Sir..." he began cautiously, voice tight with concern. "Maybe it's time to�""
Alaba raised a hand gently, muting the TV. He turned, his eyes calm but resolute. “You want to say I should run.”
Dapo hesitated, then nodded. “Sir, they won't let this go. Whatever happened here yesterday… it frightened them. They’ll pull every string they have. Deploy every asset. They'll crush you, sir.”
“I know,” Alaba said, his voice low and even. He took a measured sip of tea, then added, “But I’m not going anywhere.”
Dapo stepped forward, his composure cracking. “With respect, sir, you’re brilliant and resourceful and maybe even supernatural, but you’re still one man. And this… this is the state. You can’t win.”
Alaba offered a quiet smile. “Maybe not. But I’m not trying to win their game anymore. I’m changing the rules.”
Dapo stood there a moment, torn between admiration and dread. Then he bowed his head slightly and left the room.
Alaba turned the volume back up. The analysts were still guessing. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the guessing stopped and the killing began.

As if confirming his thoughts, his secure phone, used only for his most sensitive contacts vibrated once. The message was brief: "Special Forces mobilizing. Authorization from above."
Alaba closed his eyes for a moment. So it began.

By Dawn of the Third Day, the Transformation Was Complete
The once-quiet, palm-lined street in Banana Island had transmuted into something otherworldly, a media-infested amphitheater. It was as if someone had dropped a Hollywood premiere in the middle of elite Lagos suburbia, minus the glamour and with tenfold chaos.
Satellite vans from Arise, Channels TV, TVC, and foreign outlets like CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, and CGTN now formed a disorderly procession along the paved road. Portable generators growled with relentless hunger, flooding the air with the throb of electricity and intermittent plumes of diesel exhaust. Cables snaked across previously pristine lawns like industrial pythons. Reporters conducted breathless live standups at the top of every hour though they rarely had anything substantive to report. Speculation, rumor, and repetition had become the prevailing currency.
Local entrepreneurs quickly recognized opportunity in chaos. Within hours, makeshift stalls materialized on the sidewalks like mushrooms after tropical rain. They hawked bottles of water at triple the going rate, sizzled skewers of suya on smoking grills, and rented access to folding chairs sheltered under beach umbrellas. Someone had even begun selling knockoff "I STAND WITH ALABA" T-shirts, the screen printing still tacky to the touch.
The police made perfunctory rounds, but never intervened. Their wary glances toward Alaba's estate gate betrayed quiet uncertainty, perhaps even fear. No one wanted to be the first to test the unseen force again.
Then came the drones; mechanical mosquitoes that hovered like technological spirits or digital spies. They attempted to peer over the compound's high walls, capturing aerial footage that revealed nothing of substance. The house remained stubbornly inscrutable, its secrets closely guarded.
Inside, Alaba prepared. Steam from his herbal bath clouded antique mirrors, carrying scents of crushed lemongrass, bitter kola, and something older. Something ancestral. He had taken to these baths with increasing frequency since the last health scare. The specialists called it a cardiac incident. He called it a warning.
When he dressed, it was with ceremonial precision. A white kaftan, hand-woven in Oyo, with embroidery so delicate it only revealed itself when struck directly by sunlight. On his wrist, a beaded bracelet; Yoruba, pre-colonial in design clicked softly as he adjusted his sleeves.
At precisely noon, the compound gates parted.
The crowd surged forward as though summoned by divine command. Security personnel in obsidian uniforms braced themselves, arms extended to contain the human tide.
The media lunged with microphones like weapons.
"Mr. Adeyemi, did you weaponize traditional spiritual practices?"
"Is this advanced holographic technology?"
"Sir, did you train under Chris Angel or David Blaine?"
"Are you communicating with extraterrestrial intelligence?"
"Are you a witch doctor in disguise?"
"Was the blast a psychic phenomenon? Have you trained with Eastern masters?"
"How do you respond to allegations that you're a danger to national security?"
The questions came fast, breathless, most of them absurd.
"Will you demonstrate your abilities again? For transparency's sake?"
Pandemonium reigned. Boom microphones dipped perilously close to his face. Camera operators collided with one another, blinded by their own desperation.
Alaba didn't flinch. He moved like a specter, gliding through the mayhem, gaze fixed forward, his expression an unreadable mask of preternatural calm. He neither hastened nor halted. He acknowledged no one.
Then, as he reached his vehicle, an older-model S-Class Mercedes, silver, immaculate but understated, he paused. His personal assistant, Dapo, held the door open.
But Alaba turned slightly. His gaze swept over the human sea and fixed upon a woman at the periphery. She wasn't shouting. She wasn't filming. She wore unremarkable attire: a grey blouse, black jeans, dark glasses. Yet something about her stillness spoke volumes. She observed him, not as a journalist, but as a predator assessing potential prey.
Her hand touched her ear. Fleeting. Subtle. Just enough to betray the communication device there.
Military Intelligence.
Alaba's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
He slipped into the vehicle. The car pulled away deliberately, reporters still pursuing, hammering on windows, hurling questions that dissolved into the heat and exhaust.
Inside the car, blessed silence prevailed.
"They're already here," Alaba said, breaking the stillness.
Dapo, positioned at the wheel, needed no elaboration. "Yes, sir. I noticed her. MID. Military Intelligence Directorate. They've abandoned pretense."
"They have no need for it," Alaba replied, his attention fixed outside as they merged into Lagos traffic, the cacophony of horns and voices like distant thunder. "By sunset, they'll have their directive. They'll arrive with personnel. Firepower. The kind designed to erase."
Dapo's concerned eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "Escape routes are prepared. The boat is fueled. We could reach Cotonou before midnight. Benin won't grant extradition."
Alaba shook his head. "Flight would send an unintended message."
"With all respect, sir," Dapo said carefully, "remaining might not communicate any message whatsoever. It might simply... end you."
"I've finished playing by their rules," Alaba said. "I'll proceed on my terms. No further compromises."
Momentary silence descended. Lagos flowed past them. Vbrant danfo buses, street vendors pressing gum and sausage rolls against windows, women in elaborate headwraps announcing prices.
They crossed the bridge where murky waters churned below, the current dragging foam and debris toward the open lagoon like forgotten memories. Each turn of the wheel took Alaba further from everything familiar, everything he loved. The bridge's rusted railings bore the desperate graffiti of a city crying out in silence.

GOD IS WATCHING.
UP MAN-U.
BURN LAGOS, BURN!
DEY PLAY!
TO HELL WITH TRUMP!
VLADIMIR, GO HOME.
I NO DEY FOR THIS MOVIE.
# JUSTICEFORHALIMA
E NO GO BETTER FOR NEPA.
BRING BACK FUEL SUBSIDY.
I STILL DEY WAIT FOR 30BG.
LOVE IS A SCAM.
GHOSTS LIVE HERE.
YAHOO YAHOO IS NO ROBBERY.
BURNA BOY FOREVER.

The words were scrawled in ink, etched in keys, sprayed in angry neon across faded concrete. Anonymous howls and whispered hopes. They blurred past, a tapestry of fractured voices, as if Lagos itself had something to say but no one to hear it.
Alaba’s phone vibrated in his pocket again.
Ronke.
Her name glowed against the screen like a distant lighthouse blinking in a storm. Four missed calls now. She’d be pacing the living room of their apartment in London by now, switching between prayer and panic, calling their daughters, old friends, perhaps even the pastor.
He stared at her name, thumb hovering over the screen like a man hesitating at the edge of a cliff. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from grief wrapped in guilt.
How could he tell her the nightmare they had barely survived was only the prologue? That this wasn’t about the stolen position, the scandal, or the smear campaign. This was deeper. His very soul, his dignity, was the new offering on the altar. And he had walked willingly into the fire.
They had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary last month. Candlelight, laughter, the memory of younger days. Now, every second felt like a cruel countdown to the last anniversary they would ever share.
Ronke believed in him with a faith that terrified him. Her voice would crack with worry, yes but beneath it, that unshakable foundation: You always fix things. You’re my miracle man.
And if he heard that belief right now, it would crush him. Because for once, he didn’t believe it himself.
He silenced the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
Dapo glanced at him in the rearview mirror, concern flickering behind his steady eyes.
"Everything alright, sir?"
"It will be," Alaba said. The lie glided easily on his tongue, like an old habit. "Once we finish this."
He closed his eyes and leaned back on the seat as the car left the bridge and joined the traffic spilling towards Brimms square. He didn’t need another message screaming from metal or concrete.
He had already seen the writing on the wall..
The car halted before RASMUSS, a discreet, upscale establishment that served Lagos' elite without media intrusion. Security personnel at the entrance bowed deferentially. Dapo followed, surveying the vicinity with vigilant attention.
Inside, Alaba ordered a personal favorite: peppered snail appetizer, jollof rice with tender goat meat, and chilled zobo infused with hibiscus and ginger. He encouraged Dapo to eat. The younger man prodded his grilled chicken, appetite diminished by apprehension.
"Is this intended as a final meal?" Dapo inquired.
Alaba smiled faintly, savoring each bite. "Eat. You'll require strength for what lies ahead."
"You're attempting to dismiss me."
"No. I'm dispatching you in advance."
"Because you anticipate something momentous."
"Because I trust you'll recognize the appropriate course when events unfold."
After their meal, they drove back. An inconspicuous black Toyota maintained a measured distance behind them. Dapo observed but remained silent.
As the Mercedes turned onto the street, the media deluge resumed--cameras elevated, questions shouted. Alaba emerged. He didn't glance back at the vehicle but studied the Toyota that had trailed him back as it idled nearby. He offered no acknowledgment. Only when it vanished from sight did he turn and reenter the throng.
Again, he disregarded them all.
Inside, the house was silent. Unnaturally so.
Cool air ghosted against the walls, interrupted only by the measured cadence of an antique grandfather clock.
Alaba stood at the center of his foyer. Eyes closed.
He listened.
And waited.

Eleven: THE WIND KEEPER
At exactly 6:03 p.m., they came.
The silence before their arrival was deceptive, an unnatural calm that settled over the street like a shroud. Heat shimmered above the asphalt, warping the horizon into liquid mirages, while the sun hung low and blood-orange in a sky stained with the first bruised hints of dusk. Not a single bird called. Not even the persistent mosquitoes that plagued Lagos dared to buzz. Nature itself seemed to hold its breath, as if sensing the violence to come.
Then came the roar. Engines revving in synchronized hunger, tires screaming against pavement, metal frames groaning under the strain as a convoy of dark green Hilux vans barreled onto the street. The peaceful neighborhood trembled beneath their weight.
Five vehicles in total, armored behemoths fitted with sirens that remained deliberately silent, their purpose made infinitely more menacing by the calculated absence of warning. Each bore the insignia of the Nigerian Mobile Police Force, stern eagles flanked by lightning bolts, the emblem partially obscured by hastily applied mud, as if the vehicles themselves were ashamed of their mission. The lead van halted thirty feet away from Alaba's wrought-iron gate, its tires grinding against the gravel with the urgency of death on a deadline.
Men in midnight blue-black fatigues erupted from the vehicles like a plague of locusts. Twenty-three of them--Alaba counted through the gap in his curtains. Their faces hidden behind obsidian riot masks that reflected the dying sunlight in grotesque distortions. Their bodies were encased in heavy tactical armor, fingers already curled around the triggers of their rifles with the casual intimacy of lovers. They formed a perfect semicircle around the gate, boots crunching on the manicured gravel in a syncopated rhythm that sounded like bones breaking.
Inside his home, Alaba took a long, slow breath that filled his lungs completely, tasting the sweetness of the hibiscus that grew along his garden wall. He stepped into his handcrafted leather sandals and walked deliberately through his home. His movement was fluid, almost serene, each footfall measured and silent. The white kaftan, hand-embroidered with indigo thread in exotic patterns hung from his tall frame with dignified elegance, still crisp despite the humid air.
By the time Alaba stepped through the gate of his compound, the Mobile Police had already fanned out across the street, barking orders in clipped English and rough-edged Pidgin. Behind them, television crews edged closer like vultures drawn by the scent of blood. Harsh camera lights sliced through the growing dusk, casting jagged shadows that turned men into silhouettes of menace.
The officers held their ground, thirty feet away, close enough to strike, but far enough to respect the unknown. They remembered what had happened to the EFCC team. No one wanted to be the first to test whatever force Alaba had unleashed that day.
Alaba studied them calmly, hands at his sides, his face unreadable. These weren't the elite special forces he'd been told to expect. Perhaps cooler heads had intervened, pushing for a quieter approach before things spiraled out of control. He could already see the plan unfolding; a quiet arrest, followed by his death in custody. A footnote buried beneath a hundred narratives.
But Alaba wasn't going to make it that easy.
"Honorable Adeyemi Alaba!" a commanding voice boomed through a megaphone, belonging to a captain whose medal-adorned chest suggested he had earned his rank through bloodshed rather than merit. "By the authority vested in us by the State Security Council, under Section 4 of the National Security Act, you are hereby ordered to surrender yourself for immediate detainment on charges of sedition and spiritual terrorism!"
Alaba stopped, hands resting loosely at his sides, white kaftan fluttering slightly in the evening breeze. His face, weathered by decades of Nigeria's unforgiving sun and political storms betrayed no emotion, though his eyes glittered with an unnatural light.
"No," he said quietly, but the word carried across the space between them with the weight of mountains.
The captain hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing what little was visible of his brutal and unpleasant face. Something in Alaba's voice, its unnatural calm, perhaps, or the complete absence of fear triggered an atavistic warning in the officer's mind. But orders were orders. He signaled to his men with a sharp downward slash of his hand.
A pair of canisters arced through the air, tracing gray contrails before hitting the ground with metallic clinks that echoed like funeral bells. Then a hiss, harsh and venomous. Tear gas erupted in thick, choking clouds. Not one or two canisters but dozens, launched in rapid succession, the kind of assault reserved for full-scale riots. The smoke blanketed the compound, swallowing up the carefully tended bougainvillea and palm trees, erasing the lines of the house, spilling into the street like a vengeful spirit.
Newsmen scattered, coughing and stumbling, eyes burning red and streaming. Some abandoned their equipment in panic, while others tried desperately to capture what was unfolding through watering eyes.
The boiling cloud of smoke parted suddenly, swirling violently before drawing back as if in reverence revealing Alaba, standing alone at the center of the maelstrom.
He didn't move. Didn't cover his face or shield his eyes. His breathing remained steady, unaffected by the chemicals that should have seared his lungs and blinded him instantly. His eyes remained fixed on the advancing officers, the smoke curling around him like mist around a mountain, never quite touching his skin.
A single bead of sweat traced a path from his temple to his jaw, not from exertion or fear, but from concentration. Then, with a single flick of his index finger---elegant, effortless, like a conductor beginning a symphony, the unnatural happened.
The smoke obeyed.
It twisted unnaturally, molecules reversing their dispersion patterns, defying physics and chemistry as it surged backward like a living, breathing force. It didn't drift. It charged, gathering speed and density, transforming from formless vapor into something with purpose and intent.
The officers barely had time to shout warnings before the tear gas they had deployed turned on them with savage precision. Masks were ripped from faces by sudden violent gusts that seemed to target buckles and straps with intelligent malice. Men gagged and screamed, their training forgotten as they stumbled over each other in primal chaos.
"Impossible!" the captain choked out, his eyes bulging and bloodshot as he clawed at his throat. "He's just one man! Shoot him!" But his orders were lost in the cacophony of suffering.
The media crews caught it all. Until their cameras were engulfed too, lenses cracking as the mist twisted and slammed them against tripods with unnatural force. Some fell, blind and choking. Others ran, abandoning the story of a lifetime because survival instincts trumped professional duty.
In the center of it all stood Alaba, unmoved and untouched. He didn't flinch when a stray bullet whizzed past his ear. He didn't run when one officer, more persistent than the rest, crawled toward him with a stun baton extended. He simply watched, eyes glowing faintly with an amber luminescence, as if lit by something deeper than defiance. Something ancient and elemental.
And above the chaos, his voice finally rang out, quiet but unignorable, carried by the same winds that now did his bidding:
"You brought fire," he said, each word resonating with both sadness and power, "And expected the wind to bow."
Then he turned and walked slowly back into his compound, his sandals leaving perfect imprints in the gravel. Each step deliberate, unhurried. His shoulders straight but not rigid. His hands now clasped before him in the traditional gesture of an elder who has made a difficult but necessary decision.
The gate closed behind him with a soft click, the sound incongruously gentle amidst the continuing havoc outside.
Inside, all was quiet once more. Alaba walked to his small study, where a well-worn leather journal lay open on his desk, its pages covered in beautiful handwritin. With steady hands, he dipped a carved bone pen into indigo ink and began to write the final chapter of his testament.
Outside, the unnatural wind continued its punishment, teaching men who wielded power without wisdom the cost of their arrogance.

Twelve: ZERO DAY
At 7:00 a.m. the following morning, the police returned. Not to arrest Alaba, but to clear the scene.
They came in force. Dozens of uniformed officers stormed the once media-saturated street with brutal efficiency, barking commands and wielding batons. Newsmen were shoved, cameras smashed, cables yanked from generators. This was no negotiation. It was an eviction.
Alaba watched from his window, sipping a lukewarm cup of tea. He gave a slow, knowing nod. The final act was no longer a question of if but when.
The stillness returned briefly, as if the air itself held its breath.
Just after 9 a.m., the silence cracked.
A low, throbbing hum rolled in from a distance. Army.
The first vehicle appeared around the bend, its massive tires grinding gravel beneath its weight. Then came another. And another. By the time the convoy reached the compound, six armored vehicles and two military trucks lined the street. On each was a mounted gunner, fingers resting lightly on the triggers of high-caliber machine guns. The soldiers wore matte black tactical gear. No insignias. No names. Just weapons and purpose.
These were not conscripts. They were trained killers.
Above, a military helicopter sliced through the Lagos sky, circling the area with slow menace. Its belly hatch was open, a sniper's barrel jutting downward, searching for the smallest sign of provocation.
"Mr. Alaba Adeyemi, this is your final warning. Come out with your hands raised. You are surrounded. Non-compliance will be considered a hostile act."
Alaba stepped outside his house and into the courtyard. He didn't flinch at the sound of rifles cocking or the mechanical whir of targeting systems zeroing in. His white kaftan fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, calm and pristine. His bare feet touched the earth gently, as though he were walking on sacred ground.
He stood just beyond the threshold of his gate, arms loose at his sides, head held high.
"You brought the whole circus," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Good."
A soldier stepped forward, raising his weapon and shouting again for surrender.
But Alaba didn't move.
The wind picked up.
The leaves in the trees began to whisper.
And somewhere in the air, something unseen shifted as if reality itself had begun to tilt.
"Put both hands in the air!" The soldier barked.
Then Alaba raised one hand, not in surrender, but in stillness. The moment hung like a blade in the air.
Their commander scratched his head; an innocent gesture to the untrained eye. But to the disciplined men under his command, it was the signal.
The street erupted instantly.
A deafening barrage of gunfire exploded from every direction. Armored vehicles belched thunder as their turrets spewed out armor-piercing rounds. From above, the chopper unleashed a concentrated rain of bullets. High-caliber rifles roared in unison, synchronized like an orchestra of war. The very air trembled under the fury of metal and fire.
Alaba staggered back.
They had tricked him. He'd been outmaneuvered, ambushed before he could even react. He watched as flames burst from rifle muzzles, smoke danced through the air, and soldiers roared like beasts. Their faces were contorted in hate and desperation.
This wasn't just an operation. It was punishment. Retribution for the humiliation he'd caused them.
Bullets slapped against his body like tufts of cotton. Armoured piercing from blazing turrets stung. High calliber bullets from high calliber rifles tickled. But they did nothing to his body. Yet he remained frozen, not from pain, but from awe. Awe at the scale of their hatred. They hadn't come to arrest him.
They'd come to erase him.
And still, the storm of metal continued.
Then he felt it; that pressure. Low and churning. A tension building in the depths of his being, twisting through his lungs, pressing into his bones. It was as if the earth itself had funneled its anger into his stomach.
He smiled.
Calmly, deliberately, he lifted both hands into the air, palms open while brushing through a rainstorm of bullets.
Then it happened.
A ripple burst outward from him; soundless, colorless, but terrifying in its force.
Soldiers were flung backward like ragdolls. Armored vehicles lifted and twisted midair, crashing into each other like toys. Rifles, helmets, even the heavy turrets of combat trucks spun into the sky, confetti in a cyclone.
A thunderous screech came from above.
The helicopter fired a missile, long, deadly, and glowing with heat.
But it was too late.
The pressure inside Alaba erupted.
The missile veered off course as the shockwave met it mid-air, slamming it back into the sky like a batted fly. The chopper tilted wildly, smoke curling from its tail. Then flame burst from its engine, and in a shriek of tearing metal, it spun out of control.
The crash shook the ground like an earthquake, shattering windows, flattening walls.
And then came the real storm.
The sky cracked.
A scream of furious wind howled from the heavens as a monstrous hurricane began to form, unnatural, wrathful, and growing. Lightning blazed, puncturing the air and slicing downwards.
Roaring through the heart of Lagos, the windstorm swallowed the skyline.
Palm trees snapped like pencils. Power lines were shredded from their poles and danced like whips across the air. Entire roofs were peeled from buildings, spiraling into the sky like fallen leaves in autumn.
Traffic was obliterated. Cars spun, flipped, and slammed into one another. Pedestrians clung to anything they could find; light poles, fences, traffic signs. Only to be ripped away screaming into the gale.
Bridges shook under the pressure. One cracked and twisted as container trucks tumbled off into the lagoon like discarded toys.
Billboards tore loose and became lethal blades, slicing through glass and concrete alike.
Street markets disappeared in seconds, stalls scattered, goods blown skyward, traders screaming as the wind lifted their lives and dreams into oblivion.
Government utility grids failed in rapid sequence. Substations caught fire and transformers exploded like fireworks, plunging vast sections of the city into a chaotic blackout. Emergency response systems collapsed. Calls went unanswered. Sirens died in the wind.
The storm became a leviathan, unnatural in its fury, deliberate in its path, and unforgiving in its judgment.
And at the center of it all, on his knees in the cracked street was Alaba.
Eyes closed.
Arms raised.
Breathing slowly, as though calming the chaos that flowed from his very soul.

But even as the world tore itself apart around him, a strange serenity had settled over his features. This was not vengeance. This was not punishment. This was balance; the natural order reasserting itself against those who had tried to bend it to their will.
He had transformed into an ungovernable gale, wild and devastating to any who presumed mastery over his power. None command the wind. It must be listened to. Honored. And when treated with reverence, it answers when summoned.
Now, with the tempest reaching its crescendo, Alaba's eyes opened. Tears carved paths down his face, not for himself, but for what would vanish. For what necessity demanded. Though the full price remained unknown to him.
The wind hesitated, briefly suspended, as if seeking final guidance from its conduit.
Alaba rose to his feet and exhaled. The wind comprehended. And stilled.
Above Lagos, the heavens cleared to a flawless, impossible azure. Yet dust continued to dance in the air.
An unsettling tranquility descended upon the city.

Thirteen: THE COST OF WRATH
The generator sputtered to life behind the compound, belching dark smoke into the storm-ravaged sky. Alaba stood motionless in the center of his shattered apartment, transfixed by the television's blue glow as it cast long shadows across the broken floor tiles. The hurricane had devastated the city's infrastructure, but he had to see, had to witness what his vengeance had accomplished.
The screen flickered, struggling against the unstable power supply. Most channels showed only emergency broadcasts or static, but LTV's signal pushed through, weak but present. A news anchor, her face half-illuminated by emergency lighting, spoke with barely controlled emotion.
"We are witnessing an unprecedented disaster... Lagos lies in ruins. Infrastructure has collapsed across the state. The death toll continues to rise, with estimates now reaching into the thousands, and countless more remain missing..."
The broadcast cut to aerial footage.
Highways twisted into unrecognizable shapes. Glass skyscrapers split open like broken shells. Fires raged unchecked through commercial districts. First responders crawled through debris like ants, their efforts seeming futile against the scale of destruction. Entire communities had simply disappeared beneath the rubble.
The images shifted to makeshift morgues overflowing with bodies, schools converted to emergency shelters, rescue workers collapsing from exhaustion and grief.
Alaba observed it all with detached calm. No hint of horror crossed his features. No trace of remorse.
He exhaled slowly. Just collateral damage. Nothing more. The inevitable cost of justice. They had stripped him of everything that mattered and now balance had been restored.
His phone rang, the harsh electronic tone slicing through the room's heavy silence.
"Dapo," he answered flatly.
The voice on the other end broke between sobs.
"Sir... I... God forgive me... I don't know how to tell you this..."
"Tell me what?"
"It's your wife and the girls. They were coming to surprise you. Their flight from Abuja landed last night. They left the airport early this morning."
Alaba's breath caught in his throat. They hadn't told him they were returning to the country. Then he remembered the calls he'd ignored. First his eldest daughter's. And then his wife's insistent call.
"Yes, what happened?"
"The hurricane... their car was... was picked up by the wind. Thrown almost half a kilometer. It collided with a fuel tanker."
Silence stretched between them.
"The rescue team found them too late. They were... unrecognizable. I'm so sorry, sir."
The phone slipped from Alaba's suddenly numb fingers, cracking against the floor.
He collapsed into a chair, his body suddenly weighted with lead. He'd killed them. Killed his family.
Then came the scream.
A raw, animal sound that tore from his chest and echoed through the broken walls; a sound not merely of grief but of terrible understanding.
"NO!"
His mind flashed to Ategula, the entity who had granted him the power of retribution, who had whispered terrible promises in the moonlight.
"The price will be greater than you comprehend."
Now he understood. Ategula had claimed his family as payment for the destruction Alaba had unleashed.
He wept.
Tears flowed until his eyes burned and his chest felt hollowed out, carved empty by grief.
Then came desperation and madness as he sought to end it all.
The pistol felt unnaturally heavy in his hand.
He pressed the cold barrel against his temple, finger trembling on the trigger.
The gunshot thundered through the room and his head jerked back but when the smoke cleared, Alaba remained. Untouched. Not even a graze on his skin.
Next, he tried poison. A vial of industrial acid from his emergency kit. He swallowed the contents in one desperate gulp.
An hour passed. Waiting for agony and death.
Nothing.
No pain. No relief. No escape.
Wild-eyed, he staggered into the devastated streets, navigating through the apocalyptic landscape, past overturned vehicles and toppled power lines, broken bridges and cracked highway. Familiar neighborhoods had become ground zero.
He found a high-rise that had somehow withstood the storm's fury. He climbed to the roof, feet muddy, mind fractured.
And jumped.
The air rushed past him as he plummeted but instead of impact, he felt himself slow. Gently, like a leaf caught in an updraft, he drifted to the ground.
Landing softly on the broken pavement.
Ategula waited in the shadows.
Mist coiled around the entity's form, eyes burning like distant stars viewed through blood.
"Your wish was granted," the voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Please," Alaba fell to his knees, "Take my life. I beg you."
Ategula regarded him with ancient, pitiless eyes. "Even I cannot grant that mercy now."
"What do you mean?"
"You've been rendered immortal. For three decades, no harm can befall you. No death can claim you. You will live with the consequences of what you've done."
"No... please..."
"It is part of our covenant. You demanded vengeance. I provided it. But every bargain carries a price."
"You never said.."
"I warned you sufficiently." Ategula's voice resonated with cold finality. "You chose not to listen."
The entity dissolved, dissipating like smoke into the night.
Alaba remained kneeling on the broken street.
Laughing.
A high, broken sound that held no mirth, only madness.
EPILOGUE
Months Later...
Stories spread of a haunted man wandering through the wreckage of Lagos. Barefoot, wild-haired, with eyes like empty wells. His once-fine clothes hung in tatters from his frame. He conversed with the air, argued with invisible presences. The favourite name on his lips was Ronke.
Some whispered he had summoned the hurricane. And they cursed him for it.
Others claimed he was merely another victim of its fury.
But those who crossed his path felt a chill at the sight of his hollow gaze as if looking into the eye of a storm that still raged, contained now within human form.
And in the darkest hours, when the city tried to sleep, they heard him calling a single name:
Ategula.

The End.



Image Credit: Vecteezy