Mobola Johnson
The tunnels beneath the Polytechnic breathed like a living thing — damp, cold, and filled with echoes that sounded too much like footsteps. Amir moved with practiced speed, Zainab right behind him. He did not talk. He knew they were still being chased.
The exit spat them out behind abandoned hostels. The night smelled like smoke drifting from a nearby roadside suya stand. Normal life continued just a few streets away, blind to the war unfolding in the shadows.
“They will sweep this area soon,” Amir murmured. “We cannot go back to Ebun’s. We cannot stay still.”
“We need Musa,” Zainab said. “He knew they would come.”
Amir hesitated. “If Musa survived, he won’t surface easily.”
“He still gave me your number,” she replied.
Amir looked slightly impressed. “Then maybe your father was right about him.”
They crossed into Dugbe, blending into the chaos of late-night traders and restless drivers. Each honking car felt like a threat. Each passerby, a watcher.
They reached an unmarked bar near the bus park. Old highlife music spilled from rusted speakers. Amir scanned the room, then walked toward a lone man seated at the back.
Grey beard. Fresh bandage on his arm. Eyes that had stared at death recently.
Musa.
Zainab froze in place. He was alive.
He noticed her immediately and stood up with a slow nod. “You are harder to kill than they expected.”
“You said the same to yourself, apparently,” she replied.
Musa almost smiled — almost.
Amir cut in. “We need help. And answers.”
Musa signaled them to sit. “The Custodian is protecting your mother. For now. But that protection comes with a price.”
Zainab tensed. “What price?”
“That depends on how far you are willing to go,” he said.
Amir pulled out the flash drive. “We have the high-tier Babel data.”
Musa looked at it with the kind of fear only insiders possess. “That drive can burn this country to its foundations. People will kill for it. People will die because of it.”
“People already have,” Zainab said sharply. “My father. My aunt. How did Dupe really die?”
Musa rubbed his face, suddenly looking older. “She called me the night before she died. She said someone from your past reached out. Someone she trusted. He asked her to hand over the USB. She refused.”
“Who?” Zainab pushed.
Musa’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Tayo.”
Her chest clenched. “My Tayo? My ex?”
“Yes,” Musa said. “And he is not who you think he is.”
Before the shock could sink in, the bar lights cut out.
Complete darkness.
Chairs scraped. A heavy thud. A suppressed scream.
Zainab’s instincts screamed *betrayal*.
A hand grabbed her from behind — gloved, strong — but not violent. A voice whispered against her ear:
“If you want to live, do not move.”
She recognized the voice instantly.
Tayo.
Gunshots erupted. Wood splintered. Musa shouted. Amir slammed into someone. The chaos was total.
Then Zainab felt herself being dragged through a back exit and pushed into a parked motorcycle. The engine roared.
She looked up at the helmeted figure. Her heart was a storm.
“Tayo?” she said.
He didn’t deny it. “Hold on.”
They tore into the night.
Behind them, the bar burned — the fire too bright, too fast, too professional.
Someone wanted every trace erased.
Zainab held tight.
She knew one thing for sure:
The dead were not resting quietly.
And the living were not telling the truth.
—
### **Next Episode**
*Zainab finally uncovers the identity of the man in the black Toyota — and learns why her father’s death was only the prologue to a bigger betrayal that leads straight to her own bloodline.*
Mobola Johnson is a gifted creative writer and a Master storyteller.