A bit about myself-only a bit. I am twenty four years old, single, the breadwinner of my family. The community I live is flat and spacious, quitter than most, we stress peaceful co-existence here, sober employment, and make city-going optional. Like many of my neighbours I decline the option, but number among my friends at least three who don’t and the matter has never become an issue between us. There’s a phrase making the rounds these days. I can live it. As in: it’s a deal I can live with or: it’s a neighbourhood, a way of life I can live with. And I can, I am told cleanliness is next to godliness so I keep my car washed, my lawn cut, my hair within sight of the times. I brood about the times and always have, but a period of brooding each day, if it’s done in private and kept out of the reach of friends, can center the weight of a public man, and I’m presenting credentials here. I’m not beyond reproach, but the man who reproaches me won’t be either. Together we make allowances and handle ourselves with discreet and appreciative care. Like yours, my favorite season is late-dry, early-rainy. I fish then and play tennis: one day I will probably beg in to joy. Because of my location, around mid-west, I am limited to one language, although I get a skimming sense of things in Igbo and Tiv. Throw out the commercials and I’m not disdainful of t.v by almost any standards you’re likely to employ I’m normal. Believe me, if you do and you should, my one abnormality won’t be held against me, rather it will be like the flag I fly to distinguish me from my neighbours when the flag is up the play is on the boards. I believe in visitations. I believe that distant or dead are absent only to eyes, ears, nose, mouth and leaky hands, but hands I believe that those apart from us reappear through the faculty commonly known as the memory. But therefore I’m dismissed as some gothic-minded crank hiding behind the mask of a small town respectability let me affirm that I too believe in the memory. It recalls names and dates, the steps in a not-yet instinctive routine. It pictures place you’ve been and the faces of people you may have glimpsed only once in your life. It’s capacious and intricately tricked-out as a bureaucratic hire. I also believe that when it seems to dwell on a person especially if that person is dead; it can no longer be said to function. This is a subtle and fundamental distinction. During those moments, say when our minds are full of a person we loved; it is believe that our memories have actually suspended operations, and if they’re to be thought of as a finely-stored clutter, have actually cleared out; occupying that vacated space is that once loved person herself. I assume I am remembering her, vividly, hearts toppingly. She is vivid and heart stoppinly lovely because for the time she stays around. She is all I have on my mind, my mind’s eyes, ears, nose, month and unstill hands can give her my undirected attention. I believe, then, to put it precisely, in occupations, not visitations, carries with it a universal unwelcome. I welcome her back and I want her to stay for however long it takes I am prepared to take leave from normality and to fly my flag. Like a clock with the pendulum in full swing, the mind moves as fast as time flies. But I ought to mind my thoughts, for it is turned to be my enemy, it will be too many for me and will dray me down to ruin. But some people may say that they cannot help having bad thoughts even though they sting like vipers. That may be so, but the question is, do they hate them or not? I cannot keep thieves from looking in at my window, but if I open my door to them and receive them joyfully, I am as bad as them. Therefore, there is wisdom in watching everyday, the thoughts are blessed guests and should be welcomed, well fed with the mind, and much sought after, but bad thoughts must fly out as swiftly as they move in. My name is Amir Abdulmaleek and this is my dividend of fate…

i wonder why i was banned but let me don't derail my story.
this story u are about to read might keep u glued to your seat. You might get addicted too. Beware

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© Meme_casper

1


The big, sleeky blue centavo-parvat wagon entered the city at sunset. It came in from southwest and crossed through the city’s heart at a furious rate of speed. Its deep throated exhaust echoing self-importantly through the wide streets. The vehicle roared past the extremely great mansions and entered the specious prospects of William Barry way. The trees of the city’s proudest avenue where still in April, bare of leaves. The long, magnificent vista of buildings, the cinema, the governor’s house, the city mall, stood ghostlike and forbidding in the chilly evening air. The Nigel Aloh popular cafeteria, at number 49B, was empty and the famous suya spot at the corner of the National sports complex, was just getting opened for the night. Hotel Defydd and shop in, near city gate’s school also showed little activity. A small cluster of taxicabs huddled at their awnings. Just before Ogha road, the centavo-parvat swung right onto the mackintosh bridge, and passed the low, marble-walled fortresses. The bronze head lamps bounced light along the cobble stones, illuminating small swirls of debris caught up by the wind, at the next filling station, the car had turned left and brake to a halt before the ten feet gate of commissioner’s quarters. Two uniformed guards stepped from the shadow, saluted shabbily as they were dressed, and pushed open the gate. The vehicle crossed the yard and stopped again by a small side entrance to the rearmost building, nearly absurd behind thick shrubbery. The chauffense jumped out and opened the rear door. A grossly fat man in his early-forties stepped down from the back seat, pressing his bowler to his head and clutching a gold-headed walking stick out at arm’s length to maintain his balance. The man, known by the ironic pseudonym Habot, was an extraordinary figure by anyone’s standards. Christened Harrison Barriliela Ortis in Portharcourt, Nigeria in 1978, Habot was a corpulent mound of conflicting passions by thrns flamboyant and secretive, assertive and withdrawn, jovial and morose, his elephantine bulk haboured contradictions unusual even by the confused standards of that tragic time. A political democratic and brilliant oil-mining militant, Habot was also a profiteer with a thriving black-market operation that traded arms, food and contraband to the south-south militants. This meticulously barbered and tailored one hundred and fourty eight kilograms offered itself a vulgate parody of capitalist greed an affront to the dignity of his country of residence which in the moments of annestly way poised on the edge of collapse. A guard opened the door for Habot and escorted him through a series of full lighted corridors to a small foyer just off the huge marble floored diplomatic room, where he was greeted by an administrative agent from an interior pocket of his local ijaw attire he produced a gilt-edged calling and pressed it into the functionary’s palm with a firm, condescending flourish “Dr Hodder Nyone is expecting me” he intoned, tapping his walking stick sharply on the floor and jutting his jaw forward to take up the slack on his collection of double chins. The administrative agent bowed stiffly. “This way, chief Ortis. The commissioner will see you at once”.

2

He escorted the mogul into a dark, high-cedinged chamber burdened with extravagant mouldings and ornate furniture. An ancient hunting tapestry covered a far wall, and a massive rug emblazoned with the blue riverine and black at Christmas trees of rivers state spanned the floor from behind a long oak desk the commissioner for information Hodder Nyone, emerged. A florid, athletic bachelor in his mid-fourties with a luxuriant goatee and a hearty manner, he has only recently ascended to the post, and he seemed self-conscious among the trappings of his office. He bounded across the room to greet his guest “my dear Habot” he exclaimed, squeezing his visitor’s fat fingers energetically. “I am most delighted to see you again”. Once in the presence of the commissioner, Habot’s demeanour underwent a subtle transformation. Despite Nyone’s cordiality, the sheer intimidating power of his office cast a spell of servility over the mogul. “Your humble servant, Mr commissioner” he replied, his thick baritone bray hushed with deference. “Sit down, sit down,” Nyone commended good naturedly, gesturing toward a pair of leopard-skin settle across from his desk. “I have important business to discuss with you, friend” Habot settled his weight into one of the chairs with a grateful sigh. Whisky and cigars were produced, and the two men passed a few minutes exchanging pleasantries. Nyone has charm, Habot reflected, listening to the lighthearted banter he was able to muster so effortlessly at the end of that must certainly have been another crisis-ridden day. The charm, in a governing aristocracy that lacked it so utterly. He was, if anything, too persuative for his own good. Nyone was an agile political creature, a chameleon, able to change colours to march the mood of those he sought to influence or to please. The Lagosians, for example he had somehow charmed them into believing that he was liberal, a moderating balance for the nation and its citizen. Habot knew better. How else could an untitled individual, the only important official in the state without a “chief” in front of his name, ever have risen so far among the formidable ranks of the state’s noblemen who formed rivers’ ruling elite? Then Riverians believed he was capable of fulfilling their dreams. The moment “Head of south-south chiefs” ceared to believe that, Nyone would be out on his dueling sear. And his highness already has powerful cause for doubt. Last month’s Ogun state money laundering has brutally diminished the commissioner’s credibility. In his attempt to assist his Yoruba girlfriend get a piece of cake from her state’s commerce chambers, he had instead outsmarted himself. Discovery of the money laundering has so enraged the crime commission chief that his services would be picking on the oil state. And room Nyone needed a brilliant coup to save his job, Habot suspected. And that, Habot needed a brilliant coup to save his job, Habot suspected. And that, Habot also suspected, was why he had been so urgently summoned to this secret meeting in the commissioner’s home. “Time is running out o rivers state, “Nyone announced, as if he meant at that very moment” we must act bodily”. Habot cleared his throat and looked up from his whisky flute, giving the commissioner his full attention. “you remember the dissension we were in this same building two years ago? Nyone asked when I was special adviser? Habot nodded “of course, Excellency”.

3

Nyone rose from his chair and began pacing the room, hands clasped behind him, head titled toward the rug. This mold was intense, preoccupied. “It seems as if decades have passed since them, but I remember our conversation well. We talked about Bayelsa. You said you could deliver a revolution to us “Nyone ceased his pacing and looked squarely at Habot. “We gave you eight hundred million naira toward that aim, but you didn’t bring us a revolution. In point of fact, you brought up nothing”. Habot’s lower lip dropped open in astonishment. “But Mr commissioner, the revolution came just last week: the governor is gone. I don’t understand what you mean” Nyone snoted. “My dear Habot, the revolution you couldn’t bring us two years ago has now happened without your doing”. The mogul’s jowls quivered general strike? May 2009? We paralyzed the entire capital of Bayelsa for many days Nyone shook his head. “A few hundred workers out on strike was not a revolution. And not worth billions of naira. I think you must agree”. Habot drained his whisky flute. A drop dribbled onto his chin. Irritated, he dabbed it off his pocket handkerchief. This was the issue that had caused the rupture in his relations with the rivers’ government. Perhaps he had promised too much, but they had simply failed to understand the difficulties involved. That was the problem in dealing with riverians. They had tunnel vision. They never understood it when things didn’t work out. And when their will was thwarted, they were chronically unable to improvise their way out of the messes they repeatedly made for themselves when things were wrong, the riverians simply fall to pieces. And blamed it on someone else. You could count on it. That was what happened with the amnesty fight. The riverians had planned a triumphal march through Abuja for the month of August, 2008, by which time according to the finest calculations of the militants top generals, rivers would certainly have won the fight. Now, three years and a million causalities later “No, Excellency” Habot admitted. “Perhaps not worth billions of naira. But at that time the man I was counting on most heavily refused to cooperate the regrets that now, I’m sure” “you mean Timipre? Habot glanced sidelong at Nyone with a new appreciation. Few people ever remembered Bayelsan names “yes Timipre. Mcdongall Brian.” “Refresh my mind about him”. Habot held out his fkute for a refill. “He’s mentally tough, extraordinarily dedicated. He thinks clearly and possesses enormous powers of persuasion. His followers are a small minority, but they’re militant and disciplined. And highly motivated the talk in Yenogoa is that they’re rapidly growing in influence, Awale is now the central figure in revolutionary politics”. “Awala”. Nyone echoed. Habot nodded “That’s what he calls himself”. Does it mean something heronic in Byelsan? “ not that I am aware. No doubt he adopted it simply to confuse the authorities code names and pseudonyms are a necessary part of the revolutionary games these day” Nyone grinned “like Habot” the mogul blushed. He has chosen the name partly as a joke and partly as wishful thinking. It was a kind of initial to his name.

4

“So what become of this Awala? “Nyone asked. Habot shrugged “He’s still in exile-stranded in Lagos”. Nyone’s eyes widened in surprise. “It’s difficult to see how his followers can be making much headway, with their leader completely removed from the scene Habot started to reply but the commissioner help up his palm. “If our government were secretly to offer support to one faction or another, do you still think that Timipre and his followers would be our best choice” Habot settled the whisky snifter on the side table by his chair and inhaled deeply to hide his elation. “Yes, Excellence positively” would he cooperate? He refused before, you said”. But situation is far different now. I know he’s desperate to return before it’s too late and the reactionaries but of course with the crisis on, all paths from Lagos to Bayelsa are blocked”. We could find a way to het him vack, “Nyone said. “But would he still support a unilateral peace with rivers? “It’s the formal position of the Awala’s party, Bayelsa must withdraw from the militant amnesty fight. “But immediately?”. “soldiers would stick their bayonets into the ground”. What financial resources does he have? “Habot laughed jis large gut billowing inside his tightly bult ones attire like mercury in a balloon “pardon me, Mr commissioner. Practically speaking he has none. “Nyone pressed a thumb and forefinger thoughtfully against the nick of his nose. “Then we would have to finance him”. “Heavily” Habot amended “How heavily?. “To be certain of success, the Bayelsan militants will need million”. Nyone modded solemnly. “would he accept money from rivers state?

5


“If the matter was handled discreetly. I believe he would, Mr commissioner, for the reasons, I have already stated. He’s a stubborn man, as I have discovered to my own grief, but time is critically for him now. He knows that. By discreetly Habot meant that the money could be channeled through secretly through his own bank account. Habot did not have to spell that out, because he knew that Nyone understood it. He had used the Mogul’s network before. The commissioner also understood that Habot would extract a substantial commission for the use of his account: 10 percent of the total. It would be utterly cynical arrangement on all sides, Habot realized. But self interest was the only reliable measure for a sound bargain. Nyone and the rivers governor didn’t care a fig who ran Bayelsa. They were at war. All rivers wanted for Bayelsa was chaos and collapse. If it could force a premature Bayelsan surrender, rivers would be free to throw all its weight against cross river and Edo in a last desperate push for victory before the sources of the Biafra tripped the balance permanently against it. Awala, on the other hand, expected the river, state governor’s regime to be over throne from within by the rivers’ working classes.

6


So from his point of view, it should be only poetic justice to use that doomed government’s money and assistance to hasten its own downfall. “This project will require a code name”. Nyone declared. He unlocked the safe behind his desk, pulled onto a leather bound folder and opened it slowly. When he found the page he wanted, the commissioner extracted a brass pen from its holder on his desk and inscribed two words at the top of the page. “Lapis Lazuli” he said glancing up at Habot “blue stone”. It strikes the right not of optimism don’t you agree?” Habot nodded. It sounded vaguely sinister to him. Nyone hoisted himself out of the chair with a strenuous grunt and pulled his dress back down over his protruded belly. “I’ll need a few days, Mr commissioner, to establish communications with Awala. And he’ll want time to consider your offer. The may have conditions, reservations. There are many difficult details to be work out” “I appreciate that, of course. But keep in mind, my friend that for every day you take, another hundred rivers state militants will die”. “I’ll work as fast as humanly possible” Habot promised. “One week”, Nyone replied, his tone somber and affirmative. “I will give you one week no more, rivers is bleeding to death, she doesn’t have much time left, like the ships in the bay, nature will fill them again and again with the oil she has made from the remaining of living things that lived here long before history but not with the rottening body of our noble men would the next generation get filled oils. “the commissioner finished.

no one is commenting. you are all just viwing it. how am i meant to know if i made mistakes. the story hasnt even begun. i promise u wont be disappointed

7


The commissioner met Habot in the anteroom of his office early in the morning, before any of the ministry’s staff arrived for work. In the eight days, that had passed since their first meeting, the commissioners normal ebullience had evaporated entirely. His eyes were ringed with fatigue, and his ruddy face wore deep creases of anxiety. His manner was abrupt. “Edward, just hours ago, asked the Armed forces for a declaration of war against us” he began, ushering the mogul inside quickly. “we must move matters along at once what are Awala’s conditions” .He wishes to take his closest colleagues and their families with him” Habot replied, struggling out of his enormous tent of a topcoat. The commissioner spread his hand out impatiently. “yes, yes, of course he can do that. How many does he want to take? Habot settled into the same hair he had occupied on their earlier meeting, when Nyone had first asked him to approach the militant leader with an offer to rivers state help. “perhaps fifty, Excellency” Nyone was incredulous. “He has fifty collaeagues?"
“not all colleagues. He thinks that a broad coalition of other prominent socialists and internationalist should also be included, so it doesn’t appear that rivers state is helping only the militants".
“You spoke to Awala directly?" Habot reddened. He had hoped not to have to explain that Awala had refused to see him.
"he’s chosen a Mr Edobor Frederick to represent him in our negotiations Edobor is a prominent Benin socialist a wise choice, I think really a very charming gentleman compatibly trustworthy” Habot fumbled heartily in his inside jacket pocket, extracted a card and placed it on the commissioner’s desk “I leave you his name and address sir” Nyone expelled his breath nosily “fifty is a ridiculous number, we cant escort fifty people through enemy lines. You must explain that to him we cant possibly protect such a large number”. “He doesn’t want to go through the fron line. He want to go around through Minna, Jos. Nyone raise both hands in surprise, as if the possibility has never occurred to him. He stepped behind his desk selected a drawstring from the half dozen that dangled from the large map roll affixed to the wall, and pulled down the map of Nigeria. He traced a finger over the maze of lines that webbed out like the checked surface of an old porcelain case. “it’s an absurdly long trip that way”, he declared shaking his head dubiously. “He wishes to travel by train” Habot added, Nyone now furious than ever like Habot had aggravated a fire outbreak.

8


Still tracing his fingers on the map, denting the country’s dense network of railway lines “from Lagos he’ll have to go clear across Ibadan he’ll have to travel all through Minna the Zaria, Jos, Enugu, then Bayelsa. It must be more than two thousand kilometers and I need not to tell you that the railroads these days are not in the best condition. God knows how many delays there’d be. It’ll take him forever. And rivers state cannot guarantee his safety through Jos. He may well not make it".
“Jos is no more at war, Excellency” Habot counted. “Their train service is as safe efficient as Lagos. I’ve travelled on it recently myself. Once he’s across the river Benue, he’s as good as home”. "It’s to risky", Nyone persisted. Habot spread his hands in a gesture of apology “Timipre is quite insistent on that route, Mr commissioner, he believes that it he were to enter Baylesa directly from river state’s territory, it would compromise him in the eyes of the Bayelsa people”. Nyone signed with exasperation.He seem far more concerned with appearance than substance what else does our revolutionary are wish us to do for him? Habot cleared words to present Awala’s more difficult demands he wants the train or at least the carriage which he and his party will occupy to have extraterritorial status and to be completely sealed off from contract with any outsider “God in heaven",Nyone exploded "what is he scared of?"
"This position is difficult, Mr commissioner he’s willing to accept your help, but since rivers state and Bayelsa state are not in good terms with one another, he can't appear to have struck any kind of bargain with you. That would be fatal to his goals and fatal to yours as well”, Nyone sat rigid to the desk, considering the situation at last he nodded grudgingly
“well, I suppose we can do it” the commissioner glanced at the clocked on the wall.
“Is that it then?”.
"There is the matter of the money” Habot reminded him.
"he will get the money later", Nyone snapped. “When he’s in Yonogoa”.
“The militants-“ Habot began, wiping a drop of sweat from the side of his nose. “it is in very oinched circumstances financially. There are many unpaid bills…”
Nyone cut him off “I don’t want to hear his problems. How much does he require?"
“nine billion naira, Mr commissioner” Habot blurted.
The commissioner for information might strike him for his impertinence nine billion naira an ominous silence ensued. Habot forced his checks were messed up with perspiration mixed with aftershave.
“quite out of the question” he rasped. The mogul pulled his checkers handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped the sweat from hiss face. The nine billion naira figure was his own idea. Through Edobor Frederick, Awala had actually asked for only five billion, but Habot had advised Frederick that to get any where near that amount, he had better demand a lot more, Frederick had left it up to him. “Consider what he can do for rivers state.
"Mr Commissioner" Habot coaxed “we’ll agree to seven billion naira”, Nyone announced, his voice cold.
“if the militants prove worth it, we might invest more might but I promise nothing beyond seven billion and he cant have a dime of it until he’s in Yenogoa".
“I will try to persuade him to accept that offer” Habot replied, suddenly light headed with emphoria. Frederick and Awala would be dazzled and seven billion meant seven hundred million for him. “Does this Awala understand exactly what his side of the bargains?” the commissioner demanded.
“I assure you he does, Excellency, Habot cooded.
“I have spelled it out exactly as you instructed” “a separate peace” ".Nyone vaid, pronouncing the words slowly and emphatically, to make certain the mogul appreciated their importance.
“Awala must give us separate peace”
“of course”, Habot replied, anxious to reassure the commissioner. “There is no doubt about that he understand”. The commissioner lifted a small envelop from his desk and handed it to Habot. It was sealed and stamped with the official seal of the rivers state government. It was addressed to Brian Timpire. “I want you to see that Awala get this” Nyone said “unopened, can I trust you to do that?"

9

Habot accepted the envelop, his forehead creased with confusion “it’s a personal message”, Nyone explained, "something I am asking him to do for me. A small matter, really, but one that must remain a secrete between us merely a favor of sorts. A token expression of goodwill he’ll understand whether he does what I ask or how he chooses to do it will be entirely up to him. Either way it will not affect our negotiation”. Nyone added.
“I will deliver it in person Mr Commissioner”
" Then we have no time to waste. I’ll send word to the commissioner for external affairs; Dr. Ukpol Degena this morning he can work out the remaining details with Edobor Frederick. How soon can Awala be ready to depart?
Habot tapped his walking strict briskly on the floor
"with two days notice Mr Commissioner”.
Nyone accompanied Habot to the door.
"All our fortunes are riding on this” Nyone said, his voice berate a sudden catch of emotion. "We must not fail”.

10


Dr Alfred Babana was in an uncharacteristic state of nervous tension. He wheelled around agitatedly in his office chair, causing its casters to squeak nosily across the floor, and shouted at his assistant, Rose to get his cup of coffee. Babana was expecting an important visitor, and his office was in its usual state disorder. On every side, towering stack of files, piled haphazardly and spilling their innards like victims of a bayonet charge, competed for the available flag surfaces with hordes of aging magazines, newspapers and books, their pages bristling with thousands of tiny green slips to torn paper to mark long forgotten references. “where’s that new file clerk, Rose? What’s his name…. Isah. Isah something”.
" Ma’aruf Isah, sir, he quit Thursday last".
“what” Babana muttered. “and we just got clearance for him”.
Babana was a short, thickset man of fifty-nine with a large, round face and wide, humorous month that wriggled like a worm caught between the big rubbery protrusions if his nose and chin. Once assistant inspector general of police, Babana was now chief of state security service, the new designation given to him just few weeks after his retirement. To the extent it has one, Babana was Kaduna State’s spy master from this maze of crooked rooms and passages at the SSS headquarters, Kaduna, accessible only by a private lift, Babana presided over a loose network of agents in all states in the country. He was known simply by the first intial of his last name “B". It lent an air of mystery and legend to and otherwise thoroughly un-mysterious and unlegadary individual. Once active in the field himself, he had only the year before lost of a foot in a car accident. Since that mishap, he had acquired a boy’s two-wheel scooter to help compensate for his handicap. He could frequently be seen racing down the corridors of SSS Hq pushing along with his good leg, with the other planted on the scooter. His abrupt manner and quick temper had earned him an undeserved reputation as a grouch. In fact, he was an extraordinary warmhearted even sentimental man, who inspired great admiration and affection among those who worked for him.

11

A sudden rusty clank and whirl in the narrow corridor outside his office alerted Babana to the approach of the elevator car. He scooked his chair swiftly back into place behind his desk.
“Here he comes”, he whispered in a stage voice to his assistant. “Look busy now, I don’t want him to think we’re just waiting around for him". Seconds later the lift pulled open and Kaduna state’s commissioner for information, Alhaji Hamzah Bature, stepped into the attic maze of rooms. Rose, made her customary apology for the untidy surrounding, and ushered Bature into the spymaster’s presence. The two knew each other only slightly. Bature, a grey maned, distinguished patrician who exuded an air of upper class superiority and unruffled calm, way one of the greatest men of Kaduna state craft. His sharp with had been a fixture in Kaduna politics for decades the son of Shehu Shahid Abdulraman, the former Emir of Zazzau, he had served in Dantasha administrations both as special adviser on foreign matters and secretary to the state government and recently had taken on the portfolio of information commissioner in Umar Rabiu’s coalition government. Despite his durability and experience the immense strain the election had put on him was evident in his elderly face, now slack and pale, and his eyes, bloodshot from lakc of sleep. Babana stood up bracing his bad leg against his desk and extended his hand. Bature shook it listlessly. Babana gestured toward a chair, “thank you for coming over, commissioner” he said “Rose” he called “fetch our guest some tea, will you?".
Bature crossed his legs and looked around the room with the shrewd curiosity of an interior decorator trying to judge work table, the heavy safe, the maps and charts gadgets and weapons for which Bababa had something of an obsession.
“my toys” Babana explained, noticing the commissioner, attention
“my little escapes from reality” Bature nodded in sympathy.
“God knows we all need escapes these days". Babana handed the foreign minister a folder.
“we have a situation developing that I thought it best to discuss with you in secret” he said.
Bature raised an eye brow in polite surprise and opened the folder.

12


While the commissioner studied the messages, Babana wheeled his chair around to face the window, with its view of the roofs of Kurmin-mashi. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits waiting for the commissioners say.
“Nyone meddling again”, Bature said, closing the folder. The tea arrived. "
we must alert the Bayelsa government", Bature declared
“I’ll make a phone call to it’s information desk at once”.
“I suspect nothing will come of it, commissioner with the militants there, Yonogoa is a shambles. It’s hard to know who’s ruling the government from one day to the next Babana said.
“we could make Nyone’s plan public. As we did with his girlfriend’s scam", he finished.
Bature shook his head firmly.
“No one would understand it except the riverians. And thickheaded as they are, they would surely tumble to the fact that we’re reading their mail".
“True", Babana admitted. He wheeled around to face his guest “perhaps we’re making too much of the matter” Bature argued “suppose they do get this Awala chap back to Bayelsa what’s the harm? Can one more soapbox rabble rouser really make a difference there?"
Babana disagreed. "This one could Awala is a powerful force in the radical underground and the riverians will probably finance him". Bature inhaled deeply, then allowed himself down.
“I hadn’t considered that he admitted rivers states money would give the militants a crucial advantage",Babana added, making sure Bature get the point
“suppose Awala does sizes power?" Bature challenged “a few heads may roll but can he do to hurt us? Rule Bayelsa out of the amnesty, she’s tying down two thousand Nigerian soldiers. If they make a separate peace, Rivers state will have another dozen divisions to the line",Babana said.
Bature seemed offended “what makes you so certain? He asked.
"The police force are in deplorable shape”, the commissioner scoffed.
"Yes but the armed forces will be in soon”, Babana shrugged.
“Do you want to bet another thousand innocent lives on it?"
“I take your point, chief. Where does that leave us then?", Babana looked out again at the sunny Monday morning. His throat felt tight, then he swallowed to relieve the discomfort. The recent death of his cousin has brought this home to him. And barely a family was left in all of Nigeria that had not suffered similarly. The secret casualty reports from the early days still haunted him. "What about the nine hundred and fifty two, kidnapped?"
“If there is anything we can do to influence this situation",Babana answered, his voice betraying some passion for the first time, "then we should do it now”. Bature smiled amiably at the secret services chief.
“you have something in mind, apparently". Babana straightened in his chair and tucked his spectacle in his vest pocket.
“Only the obvious, stop Awala from reaching Bayelsa",Bature buffered his eye brows again.
“Really? How?", Babana’s lips wiggled uncomfortably.
“just have someone stop him”. Bature tilled his head back in surprise.
“You don’t mean kill him?". Bature now open mouthed
“and whom do you recommend we hire for this extraordinary task?" A glow of embarrassment brightened Babana’s broad features.
“I have given it some thought” he confessed. “there’s a man in Lagos who could do it for us. He’s an expert?".
Bature’s brow shot up again.
“An expert? Where is he from?".
Babana smiled. "Yes an expert, born here in Kaduna but knows nothing much about his hometown, Edo state". He finished.
"I appreciate that, but from Edo state?",Bature protested "why not purely from Kaduna? Kano? Or even Lagos?".
Babana grinned boyishly. “He comes highly recommended. J.J told me about him originally. He performed some delicate missions for him when he was defence chief. And for Chika as well he’s something of a legend in the trade. You should hear Air Vice Marshal Horsfall on the subject”.
"Who is he?",the information commissioners demanded.
“His name is Amir Abdulmaleek”, Babana answered.
“Is he an assassin? ".
"not especially, he’s an athlete, an expert marksman and as fearless as a tiger. And he speaks sweat language fluently. Ijaw, Yoruba, Hausa and perhaps others"

13



"I don’t recall J.J used him as a personal boy and troubleshooter. He liked to send him into difficult situations and let him solve them” Bature wrinkled his brow.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you. sounds foolhardy in the extreme. Typical of J.J though, I suppose". Bature, still more confused than ever waited for the SSS chief to tell him more.
“He got consistently excellent results from him saved Lagos state from a major involvement in the west war. And he put on a brilliant show in Liberia, during the peacekeeping. I have that information directly from one of our own, Abbah George. He was in Monrovia at the same time as Abdulmaleek. Abdulmaleek’s specialty is infiltration, he told me. He has a chameleon’s ability to take on the enemy’s colours and work from inside. George credits Abdulmaleek with teaching him a great deal. And George is also a bramch of art".
Bature although relieved but still puzzled.
"But for heaven’s sake why would Abdulmaleek do this for us?". "Because he’s rather anxious for work", Babana replied.
"The defence chief, Edward Alli got rid of him after his last mission against General Akin detests the whole idea of secret agents and covet operations. He considered Abdulmaleek an embarrassment, apparently, even though Abdulmaleek saved the chief from an enormous headache. In any case, he’s no longer in the employ of the Defence Chief. He quite disappeared from view after the Akin’s incident he surfaced in Lagos only a few months ago".
" What happened with Akin?", Bature interrupted.
"The similarities to our present situation are instructive, commissioner. The riverians tried to smuggle Akin back into Ogun state, to intrigue against Adedayo and stir up trouble for the west but he was caught near the water way border, since Rivers state used it often he was taken into custody by the Nigerian Navy. He died a few weeks later under mysterious circumstance officially stroke”.
"

14


"Was it?", Bature interrupted again.
“No Abdulmaleek killed him, on orders from someone very high in the Defence. Akin posed a big problem for Alli".
"And Alli fired Abdulmaleek for that?".
"Apparently but that’s Alli principle to fault”, Bature rubbed his cheek thoughtfully.
"So Awala is now our Akin and Abdulmaleek is the cure. Is that it?" "Multiplied by honored”.
"Don’t we risk offending Alli if we take Abdulmaleek on?", Bature asked.
"That’s possible” Babana admitted “I suggest we sound out Air Vice Marshal Horsfall”.
Babanaa knew he was being devious here. Horsfall would support the idea, because of all those close to Alli, he was he most eager to bring the Balyesans peace. Horsfall would give Kaduna the green light in Alli's name and not even bother to inform Alli.
“How would you establish to inform Alli?. How would you establish contact with this Abdulmaleek?"
“I’d send someone to Lagos directly from here. We’d want to be certain he was properly instructed”
“I’m meeting the Governor in an hour", Bature said.
“I’ll discuss it with him".
The first time in nearly a week, Babana felt almost cheerful first rate.
"I’ll be here all day if you need my support on the matter”, Bature smiled mysteriously, and suddenly it dawned on Babana why. Bature didn’t need anyone’s support. He knew Umar Rabiu would go along with it. The security service chief and the information commissioner made small talk for a few minutes, they shook hands. This time Bature’s grip was former. They were sealing an agreement between them.
"Lets see to it that the riverians lapis lazuli never gets refined", Bature said.
An hour later Babana was in his Honda pilot, threading his way impatiently southward through Kaduna’s midday traffic. In Kawo he turned left off NAF base road and a few minutes later brought the vehicle to a halt alongside number 12, Nafada street. A butter answered the door. Babana handed him a calling card and introduced himself.
"I don’t have an appointment, I’m afraid", he said.
"But the matter is rather urgent. Is Mr Neilson Fabiyi at home?”

comments?

15



“Let’s have a drink” I said.
“Here?”
“Why not here?” I asked absent mindedly.
“It’s filthy”, the Hausa guy complained in his thickly accented English.
“These people are filthy, and they keep on saying the Hausa are the worst”.
I bent my face down toward the Hausa guy. I was an average man to say, six feet two inches tall and nearly seventy kilograms. My hair was dark black and thick, and had a cultivated moustache that curled around the corners of my mouth like parenthesis. My eyes were pale bown, and when they were not focused absently in the middle distance, I had the habit of fixing them on people with a bald intimidating stare as if I were debating whether or not to dismantle them to see what made them tick. I fixed the Hausa guy with that look now. Both of us were standing in front of a hastly slapped together arrangement of planks managed by a teenaged Yoruba girl with short black hair and a crafty smile. The table were cluttered with opened, unlabeled beer bottles and a stack of glasses. I examined the bottles. Finally, I picked one up and examined the cloudly brown contents in the sunlight. The bottle was half empty.
“What’s this?” I asked the girl.
“Ogogoro and Poncho", she replied, flashing a dark, flirtations smile. I placed it back gently on the table then got a nice spot, although not too neat but not as dirty as the other spots.
“One bottle of Mountain dew and?”, I looked at my guest.
“Tonic water, I would manage that”, he answered.
The girl placed two not very clean glasses with the chilled bottles sweating profusely on the table. I ignored the glasses and poured down half bottle in some seconds then the other half in another lesser period.
“It will cause you to go blind”, the Hausa guy said “too much lime and lemon”.
He took just three-quarter of his drink before he got up to leave. I followed him off into the crowd. Some with long faces, others shorter. One thing was common, every being was as sweaty as those bottles back there. It was never my idea we meet here, I thought. The time was only two o’clock on my leather wristwatch, but the Hausa guy appeared in need of a shave. He was very short, barely fire feet with long arms and big feet. He wore a typical tassled brown hand-sewn cap on his head. All that was lacking was a leash, a tin cup, and a little more hair on the back of his hands. His name was Yusuf Dantala, and he held the rank of a Flight lieutenant in the Nigerian Air Force.

Am jst begining,,,d description s knda too much

you could skip the prologue and start from the body

16


"What about our offer?",Dantala demanded.
I jammed my hands back into my pockets and hunched my shoulders up in an elaborate shrug.
“I think I shall pass it up”.
“What is your objective?” he asked.
I grinned, and pointed at the Hausa man’s feet.
“You have got shit on one of your boots, lieutenant”.
He jumped as if someone had pinched him “what?”.
“You stepped in some kid’s shit back there”, I answered still amused. He examined the bottom of his boot and discovered to his notification that I was right. He wiped the boot of on the grass. “why won’t you accept?” he demanded.
“I guess I just don’t like Hausas”, I replied "particularly ones with shit on their boots”.
Dantala’s face sneered, “And I don’t like em ehhnn, what’s your origin?".
“it doesn’t matter”, I answered “Why are you murdering tourist and destroying properties”.
He sneezes again at the accusation.
“That’s a dirty lie. Allied was propaganda; that’s all it is. You are stupid to believe it”.
“I believe what I see”
“What are you talking about”, he asked
“Boko Haram, Maidiguri, Jos, I was there two years ago. I saw whole families hacked to pieces, babies with their heads cut off. I learnt you’d already killed more than a thousand”.
Dantala shook his fist in the air. “That’s a lie!”
“What’s the truth then” I demanded.
He began walking again. He tried to hide his fury beneath condescension: “You’r an ignorant soldier, what do you know of our affairs? Those people were traitors”
“Even the babies?”.
"They’re all the same. They grow to become like the old, they are trying to bring down our government” he retorted.
“That would be a shame”.
The Hausa man refused to be goaded further. He swallowed his rage and made a strenuous effort to be ingratiating.
“What do you care about politics? We are professional, you and I we know governments sometimes do unpleasant things. But we personally are not responsible for these acts”
“I don’t work for barbarians”, I cut in.
Dantala tried sarcasm “I suppose you have better offers”
“No, but that won’t change my mind”, I retorted.
He muttered something under his breath. He switched his attention to the large and jiggling bosom of a passing female, then bared his short yellow teeth at me in a nasty grin.
"The truth is no one wants you anymore. You’re finished”.
I didn’t bother to reply. He paused in front of a game booth and looked it over. It was trade fair at the famous Idumota market. The game booth we stood in front, offered a prize for shooting down ten wooden sticks. The sticks, arranged in a wedge four rows deep, were set on a small table about twenty metres back from where we stood. They had been crudely carved to resemble soldiers. The owner of the booth sat inside. He was a middle-aged Yoruba man with long tribal marks on his face.
“Hundred naira for three chances” He sang.
“They say you lost your nerve?” Dantala asked, breaking into my thoughts. “They say you are too afraid now to go on secret missions. May be that is the reason or may be you are a coward now”

17


I dropped the rumpled hundred naira note on the counter. The stall owner scoped it up and handed me a toy – rifle with three balls in exchange.
“Who are they?”, I demanded
“Certain people. Important people. They also say you’ve been in Lagos for months, looking for work. No one wants you”.
“Why do you want me then?” I asked.
The Hausa man’s expression turned hopeful.
“Information, of course. Kaduna State wants you. You could tell us many things of value”.
I laughed “For half a million naira? If you want a job, I would stay here. Find some persons. They’d pay me my worth”.
Dantala shook his head. “You need the money, information is all we want. All you have to do is talk. What could be easier? We can do it right here. In Lagos, Today”.
The lieutenant was right, the little bastard. I did need the money. Desperately. I had considered taking the offer then feeding Dantala’s bogus intelligences. There would be some satisfaction in that, but it was difficult to get away with that kind of trick. Traitors were the garbage of political games. Since they had proved they couldn’t be trusted, they were always disposed of eventually, by one side or another. The value of their information rarely altered their faith. Once it had been separated from them, they were thrown away before they began to smell, like a chicken carcass. I held the rifle up, then took one of the balls, almost the size of a table tennis ball. I held it under the Hausa man’s bulbous nose. He gnashed his teeth in expasperation.
“I will raise our offer. To seven hundred thousand”.
I gripped the ball lovingly at first then fistfully with my hand strength. I thought it would break open but there it was. As strong as raw walnut. I flexed my wrist relaxingly under his nose still, as I prepared to load the gun.
“Did those certain people tell you that I was one of Nigerian Air Force finest marksman?”.
Dantala squinted me in confusion.
“It’s true second-best when I was eighteen Rukuba barracks, Jos".
I stared down into the hollow barrel.
“I became the best at nineteen. I beat my instructor who was then the best by fifty-three to fourty-five bull’s eye”.
I corked the gun.
“One million naira!” Danbala offered his voice harsh.
“That’s could have been it. Developed a sore arm three months after crowned king”.
I shot the ball even without aiming. It hit the front soldier and knocked down all but one in the back row. I smiled at him.
“You’re fool” the Hausa guy said, “If you turn down that much money”.
I watched the stall owner set the soldier up again.
“Oga, dat soldier wey dey back, e no stand well”.
The Yoruba man nodded placainly and adjusted the stick slightly. I picked up the second ball, a sphere battered rubber. I pulled the trigger. Again, it sent nine soldier flying, but the same stick in the back row remained standing. I was certain that it had been hit by at least one of the other soldiers. I guessed that it was impaled on a nail protruding up through the table well, it was a hostile world. “Tell you what” I said, looking down at the Hausa lieutenant, "if I don’t knock down all ten toy soldiers on this last try, I’ll take your offer”.
He eyed me in disgust “Why don’t you stop these silly games and just say yes?”.
I loved aiming proposition. That was me. I waited for the Yoruba man to set the sticks back in place, I demanded the gutta-percha ball I had just shot. Begrudyingly the stall owner retrieved it from the ground and tossed it to me. I paced back from the both till I stood nearly thirty metres away from the wedge of mock wooden soldiers. I studied the sticks carefully, then put my left foot forward, managing I was at my shooting range ground. The Yoruba man eyed me apprehensively “e too far na”, he complained.
Gripping the rifle firmly, I placed the butt on my right scapula, held the wooden like magazine with my left hand. Seeing everything all right I pulled the cork to the last, placed my left check on the aim. I stood almost two minutes, contemplating which stick to shoot. I guessed if I shot the stubborn soldiers with the force of the rubbery ball, it would bounce off to hit the other nine. I pulled the trigger. At about a hundred and twenty kilometer per minute and a powerful thrust through the wind. The ball exploded into the weige of sticks with the stuttering crack of a volley of shots. The stubborn soldier the Yoruba man had pegged to an invisible nail in the shelf split in half and shot off in separate directions. Another soldier rocheted into the prizes on the side shelves, breaking several glass flutes, the Yoruba man was wet with surprise. I strolled back to the booth.
“ Where’s my prize?” I demanded.
He pulled a dagger out from under the counter and held the point up under my chin. “Get out of here” he growled. I snatched his wrist and slammed it onto the counter with a knuckle-cracking bang. I pried the knife loose from his fingers and held it up.
“Is this my prize?, you can do better than that”.
The Yoruba man groaned and pulled his wrist free. I had only turned to check on Dantala in split record, the Yoruba man pulled a revolver from the pocket of his trouser and pointed it at my head. A crowd began to accumulate the booth.
“Get out of here” the stall owner warned “Or I will kill you!”.
I stopped. I felt my spirit suddenly crash. This was stupid, why was I doing this? What for? I still looked around for the lieutenant. No where in sight. I stalked off and no one followed me. I left the market and stumbled back to Hoggs Angelo, second class accommodation in the old quarters of Ikeja. It had been my home for the past several months. I groped my way up the stairs to my room tirelessly. On the third floor was my room. I lay back against the mattress. How come, i wondered. If i was so good at everything, it hadn't added up to anything? i had been alive and healthy for twenty-four years, and i didn't have anything to show for it, except nightmares and loneliness. The Lieutenant had put his finger on it. No one wanted me. My life was nothing but an endless advance into the enemy territory

18


By four o clock in the afternoon the large private dining room off the mezzanine of the Nicon Hilton Hotel was empty, except for two guests. They were seated at a table at the far end by a tall window that looked out over the Federal capital territory. They talked in low whispers. One of the diners, a tall, hollow-cheeked individual with a thinning crop of gray hair was Alhaji Usman S. Usman, the Kaduna State commissioner for external affairs. The other man small, with a round nose, flappy ears and receding chin was Air Vice Marshal Anthony Horsfall, a close confidant and adviser to Chief of Defence Staff, Admiral of the fleet Edward Alli. The Air Vice Marshal's unprecedented, influence arose out of a combination of circumstances: his intimate relationship with the Chief of Defence staff, and the tide of recent country affairs. Pressure on the Defence to send troops for the latest African uprising had so intensified by the early months of 2007 that Alli, stubbornly determined to keep the Armed forces neutral had shut himself up in the Headquarters, refusing anyone's counsel but his own, and relying increasingly on Horstall to deal with the outside world. This Horsfall was more than wiling to do. Gregarious by nature, the AVM loved the play of personalities and conversations, the rhythms of political give-and-take of stroking egos and stroking egos and striking deals and making compromises all the manipulations of power that were anathema to the aloof school master Alli. So those who couldn’t get to the Defense Chief came to Horsfall instead. Horsfall watched Usman place the strainer on his cup and pour himself more tea. The heavy silver pitcher trembled in the commissioner’s grip as he tipped it over the cup and decided against a refill. It was late and he wished Usman would get around to whether it was that had let him to request this private lunch on such short notice. Usman tugged on his watch fob and peeked down across his napkin to read his time piece. “What does he do all day?” He asked “sitting by himself?” Horsfall gave his luncheon companion an elaborate shrug.
“He thinks long thoughts.” The commissioner smirked.
“While you run the Armed forces”. The flattery was transparent, but the AVM flushed with pleasure.
“The Bayelsa situation has gotten much worse”. Usman declared abruptly. "The militants are persuading soldier to defect by thousands. Then Rivers State are taking advantages of the chaos and flooding the state with spies and saboteurs. The whole northern front is on the brink of collapse, the inhabitants are getting more scared every hour!!".
Horsfall listened with his customary attentiveness as Usman went on painting his gloomy view of the situation. Suddenly Usman stopped. He cast a suspicious glance at the waiters littering by the kitchen door.
“I have something to show you”, he whispered, turning back to Horsfall.
“Its highly confidential”. The commissioner reached into his jacket and withdraw two sheets of paper. He unfolded them carefully and slid them under Horsfall’s nose.
"We got these information just this Tuesday, it was intercept by our secret service, from the Riverians”.
Horsfall read the pages, his dark eyes widening in almost a sexual way, and as if this one appeared especially crossing. At length he folded the papers and restled his hand on them.
“Nyone at it again”.
“Yes”
“Lapis lazuli, what’s it all about?” Horsfall asked.
“There’s this particular militant living in exile in Lagos. He’s Awala. The fellow is highly regarded in revolutionary circles. Nyone instead to slip him and same of his followers back into Bayelsa and presumably finance their efforts to seize control” Horsfall gulped audibly,“Good lord! Do you think they can pull it off?”, He asked.
"Considering the shaky state of Yenagoa and the provisional government, yes".
“Why is Nyone going to all this trouble with Awala? There must be other already in Yenagoa who would do as well”,Horsfall said. “Because Awala wants to take Bayelsa out of the amnesty, kind of boycott and sign a separate peace”.
Horsfall quivered in disgust,“I’ll show this to the Defence Chief right away”. Usman held up his hand, indicating there was more, “We have a plan to stop Awala” he whispered.
Horsfall cocked his head at an angle “Stop him?”
“Yes. We want to send one of your chaps after him; that fellow you used to brag about all the time”.
Horsfall swallowed hard. “It can’t e Amir Abdulmaleek”.
“That’s the fellow”.
The AVM felt suddenly faint.
"Are you sure he’s the one you meant?”

19


The commissioner glanced around again to make certain no one was eavesdropping.
“Of course. He’s capable at this sort of thing. And it happens that he’s in Lagos at this very moment”.
Horsfall’s brain sifted rapidly through the ramification of what Usman had just told him. Amir Abdulmaleek was known to him only through the stories, he’d heard about his exploits in military intelligence. Stories that he in turn has used to regale listeners at Armed Forces diner parties for months. They provide such a welcome antidote to the dreary news of the peace keeping in African countries that he was afraid he had overused them, building Abdulmaleek into something of a superman.
“It sounds terribly risky”, Horsfall said qualifying his earlier enthusiasm. “And the chief will not be for it. He doesn’t approve of this sort of things”.
“We need your help, then you see”. Usman agreed. “The Governor and Bature want Alli’s approval and support. Make it sort of a joint undertaking. Highly secret of course”.
Horsfall felt a cold trickle of anxiety. “I don’t know what I can do, commissioner", He warned "of course it’s in our interest to keep Bayelsa in the amnesty but the Defence Chief just won’t like it..”
“We’re confident you can persuade him. As you so often do”, Usman interrupted.
Horsfall stared at the expanse of white linen table cloth in front of him, his mind scrambling to access all the implications.
“It’s settled then. I know you won’t let us down”. The AVM smiled miserably.
“How quickly do you need Alli’s approval?"
“Two days at the outside. Awala may leave Lagos at any moment”, Usman said quickly.
“I’ll do what I can”.
The purpose of the lunch finally dispensed with it came swiftly to an end, Usman signed the check and the two men shook hands on the side walk, amid the customary effusion of diplomatic etiquette.
“I’m deeply appreciative”, Usman said.
The sincerity in his voice was genuine. Horsfall nodded. He could tell by the commissioner’s manner that be considered the matter already decided.
“You will let me know then”, Usman asked. “As soon as possible? All I need is your word. Nothing on paper, you understand”.
The AVM watched the commissioner climb into his Toyota Avensis, then set off himself in his Peugeot 305 back to the headquarters, his heart pounding faster than the rhythm of the tyre against the speed bumps. Of course Alli would never go along, no matter what the advantages might be. Even though, the President asked him to. It would take one week more than expected because he has no course to argue. He was a man of principles. So Horsfall describes that he simply wouldn’t tell him about it. He would act in the Defence Chief name, as he had so often done in the past, and take the necessary precautions to make certain that Alli didn’t find out. It seemed worth the risk. Later he could always claim to the Chief that in the rush of events he had simply forgotten to inform him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gotten away with it. And it plan succeeded, after all, it would make them both look good.
And all; despite his high mindedness, was not above taking credit for things that his faithful Air Vice Marshal Horsfall had done in his name. But Amir Abdulmaleek! My God, hadn’t he found the courage to tell Usman the truth?. For the small tarnish it right have to put on his credibility, he could have saved himself the risk of a far greater embarrassment. And the first order of business to control the situation was to find someone in Lagos, someone he could trust to find out if Abdulmaleek really was there, as Usman claimed.
After all, the man was supposed to be dead.

20



Group captain Laurence Diet spiff, a south-south officer with a walrus moustache and protruded belly sat ramrod straight in the chair facing the information commissioner Hodder Nyone’s desk. It was 11pm and well past the captain’s bedtime. His eyes kept closing involuntarily.
“If you would be so good, Mr commissioner, as to describe the nature of the mission, then I could better find the man to fit it”
Nyone slapped his hand on the desk.
“I regret I can tell you little, captain. It’s really no more than a guard detail, escort, but I need someone absolutely reliable, discreet, and competent. Those are the chief qualifications”. Group captain dietspiff nodded stiffly.
“An officer?"
“of course”, Nyone barked.
"But you said an escort”.
Nyone leaned forward. "Captain, it is a very important escort. I want an officer of at least the rank of Flying officer, and I want him to be allowed to handpick several others to be placed under his command”.
“we are very short of officers”, Dietspiff complained “Mr commissioner…".
Nyone nodded “I understand, captain but this takes priority. And it will be for a few days. A week at the most. The Governor himself has approved".
Group captain Laurence Dietspiff stood and saluted
“I’ll do what is necessary, then Mr. commissioner”.
Nyone guided his visitor toward the door. “I appreciate it. Captain", he said in a hearty tone. “I appreciate it very much”
“I will have your man here by tomorrow afternoon”,Laurence promised.
“No, captain. Tonight”.
The senior officer’s sleepy eyes popped open, almost out of its sockets.
“Tonight?!.", he asked shocked.
“within the hour, if possible.”

21


I came awake in the dark, the muscles of my throat were in spasm, and my heart was tripping furiously. I heard my own cry, or the dying echo of it, and gasped to fill my hungs. Kicked off the blankets and bunched my fists against my eyes to squeeze out the terror. When my breathing had slowed, I huddled under the blankets, motionless, not daring to move. I felt myself still lying in the sand, my eyes closed tight against the burning sun, the vultures again. They has descended straight into my sleep, shrieking, black wings beating over my head blotting out the sunlight greedy red eyes angry with hunger, claws scratching at my face and throat. I twisted on my back and moaned softly, rocking my head back and forth against the pillow to expel the nightmare from my mind. The vultures. Still, after more than a year, when would it end?.
I had wakened in the Algerian desert, to find them tugging at me with their beaks, one feeble wave of my arm had put them to tight. I had felt no fear than, only the indescribable joy of still being alive but my unconscious had chosen to memorialize the incident, to scar my brain with it, amplifying the horror all out of proportion to what, remembered. The events that had preceded the vultures were already fading from my memory: the pursuit across the border, how many days had it lasted? Three? Four? Five? I could no longer recall. I reckoned that I was about four kilometers from the river, if I ever knew there was a river, it might had been just a trickle slow-moving water, or a bed of dried mud, full of stones. I closed my eyes to slates as I peered through the clouds of dust, red dust kicked up by the wind… I gripped the side of the mattress. The familiar coarse of my bed sheet reassured me. Slowly the web of night terror, dissolved and I began to reorient myself in time and place. I remembered the Hausa man, Flight lieutenant Yusuf Dantala, and the round belied Yoruba man and the disturbance I had caused. And then how tirelessly I pulled myself home.

22


I rearranged the blankets, pulling the eiderdown quilt up tight under my chin to protect against the chill, and resigned myself to another long predawn vigil. If the vultures hadn’t wakened me, other nightmares would have. Sleepless nights had plagued me lately, and I had come to dread them.
I was normally an unintrospective man, with nothing to do but lie awake in the dark, my mind kept dragging me into my past, making me relieve events that I had long since forgotten or suppressed. It was as if some force deep inside me had decide to out my entire life on trial, and were summoning me in the dead of each night for another round in an endless series of interrogatives. The same evidence, the same memories, the unseen prosecutor inside me demanding that I explain and justify the events and actions of a life that I was hard put to make much sense out of at all. But even if I didn’t understand my life, I was beginning at least to see its shape. I couldn’t say I like it.
There was that shooting career, for example I had lied to the Hausa man. It wasn’t my sore arm that had ended it. It was my sore head. My instructor has the habit of letting me watch, while others trained. I felt exploited by the extra time and demanded equal money or even more. The night my instructor told me it was over between us, and told me he would see to it I never got a better instructor than himself. And I, a celebrity of the moment, sought by every newspaper and magazine in the northern part of the country. I fond my self going down the drain, so was my career. There always seemed to come a point in anything I did, I realized, where my desires and those of the people I worked for no longer coincided. And when that point came, I went my own way, no matter what the cost. It was that same willingness to put everything on the line, to never let anyone get the better of me, that had made me such a success in convert intelligence operations.
I had backed out of a mission never no matter what the odds and I had never failed in a mission, either. Once, I was fixed on my goal, I was relentless, unstoppable. I had been like that as long as I can remember. In Asikolaye, Kaduna, where I had grown up. In shasha, Lagos, where I did the rest growing up, I had felt driven to outdo my playmates and classmates.

I guess this could be a nice write up but you have to work on somethings
1. Proper spacing and paragraphing.
2. Too much description will only make people skip some parts
3. Reduce your grammars, so that it will make the story easy to read.
Lastly, cool down and don't rush. Thanks

Oh boy, dis story go bad oh.

Pls spacing very necessary,it mks it easy on d eyes...couldn't read d updates