I am Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan, a final-year medical student, and a speculative poet.

Everyone who knows about the Nigerian University system must have known about the ongoing industrial strike of the Academic Staff Union of Universities which has lasted for more than three(3) months now.

In this regard, as a medical student who wishes to acquire data analytical skills and venture fully into Medical Data Analysis after school, but has no training yet in data analysis, I applied for a scholarship program two months ago that will see me learn this.

CLICK HERE TO FUND SULLIVAN'S LAPTOP AND SCHOLARSHIP

Luckily for me, I was offered a partly funded opportunity to learn this course by HURU School, an African Premiere Online School. The scholarship covers 80% ($2400) of the total funding which is $3000.

Invariably, beyond this beautiful news comes the hurdle that I must overcome if I am to go on with the pursuit of this dream.

As a student whose 80% tuition fees have been covered, I need money to fund the remaining part of the payment, I need money to buy a laptop with which I will carry out this learning program, and personally, I do not have the money to do all these things.

I would be the happiest person and would sincerely appreciate it so much if you can offer me any financial assistance to see me overcome this hurdle.

Below is a clear breakdown of the amount I need:

(LINK TO THE FUNDING PLATFORM IS INCLUDED BELOW.)

Tuition fees: $600
Laptop: $893
Total: $1493

A small extra amount to cover bank charges.

Grand Total: $1500

Thank you so much.

Sincerely,

Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan

👇👇👇

CLICK HERE TO FUND SULLIVAN'S LAPTOP AND SCHOLARSHIP

Fiery Scribe Review is now accepting submissions for its Spring ISSUE #3 'DUST', from May 20th to June 30th.

ISSUE #3 SUBMISSIONS 

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Theme: DUST

"DUST" could be a glaring allusion to man's eventual corruption—dust to dust, ashes to ashes. 

It could be a striking echo of vanity or defeat. And whatever interpretation you could conceive.

While we want works that reflect the above, we would love to experience a tense expression of the same. You could take it literally or squeeze it till you're left with an exquisite fragrance. Any interpretation with a spirited impact will win our heart.

We want creativity; we want originality; we want fiery, passionate creations from you.

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Submit works in any categories of short story, flash fiction, poetry, visual arts, essays/articles.

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Duration: May 21st till June 30th

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Short Story: One piece (2500 words max)

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Flash Fiction: 1-2 pieces | 100-800 words

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Poetry: 1-3 poems in one document

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Visual Arts: 1-2 pcs

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Articles/Essays: 2500 words max 

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Kindly scroll down to read other applicable instructions in the Regular Submission Guidelines (on Cover Letter, Bio, and Formatting).

But NOTE: don't send magazine submissions via our submission form. The form is meant ONLY for Regular Submissions.

Send all ISSUE #3 submissions to

magazine.fieryscribereview@gmail.com

 

Never look at a reference book while doing a first draft. (A suggestion, if you'd question.)

You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopaedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket.

 

by Elisha Oluyemi

Place the truth before you;

Wear a cloak of lies and hide behind it.

—Anonymous

 

THE GOD IS IN ME, and I can’t help it. Because I gave it all to him.

To whomever you submit yourselves, you are slaves.

But I don’t feel that way. I rather feel like the god I’ve submitted to.

For I am in the God, and the God is in me.

Today, I stand on the mountaintop, looking down on the children of men. The ones beneath this Olumọ Rock are tourists like me—only that I haven’t come to enjoy the scenery and the wonders and the thrill. I’ve only come to see into those ones. The best way to see through the hearts of men is by placing them under you. You’re above them in every way and can see what they really look like. A man standing before a sea cannot understand the sea as would a man standing on a mountain, taking in the entire view. He can measure the widths to a good extent and capture the many details hidden from the seaside observer.

When you study the children of men, you don’t look into their faces—looks can be deceptive. You only place them underneath as I do. This way, you can see them without them knowing or hiding from you. They don’t take you seriously and they act like their real selves. Just like how they behave towards the God.

The God lives there in the heights, out of the reach of men, so they care less about him—as they do to me now. They chatter and giggle and prance on and call out. All carefree folks. But I observe them from this mountaintop watching their every move, scanning their inner minds. Just like the God does.

There’s a man. He isn’t like them. I fix my gaze down on him and he returns it hard. He doesn’t go the ways of the others, chattering and prancing about, without a care for what is above. He stands apart from them, his lanky arms drooped beside him like one who’s surrendered all. His eyes are lifted to the one who’s above—above the hills, above the heavens.

He braces a step forward as if saying, Lord, I have found you; Now I will meet you. He takes another step further, strengthening his resolve to meet the God. A burning singes my chest, and I grind down on my teeth. Something washes over me like a wave of awareness; you know the feeling better when you’ve locked yourself in a temple, on your knees, pulling at the beads, reading through the book, only to finally come out and realise that the world will never change. The man climbs up with slow, precise steps. The distant pat-tap of his footsteps drift up along the carved stairs. Beside me, a huge tree quivers as the wind swirls about. I dig a foot forward to hold my ground, my eyes squinting down the landscape, watching the wind rage across the smaller rocks and trees.

A strong presence wraps about me, the echo of a selfless soul. You know it when you feel it.

“I’m Thomas.”

I pull back the foot I stuck out and turn to meet his cold gaze. His eyes are a couple of tiny black balls squeezed deep in a couple almond hollows. Unlike the biblical Thomas, he seems capable of rivalling Saint Paul in his prime. Fierce and godful. His palms are still open against his legs. “I’ve surrendered all,” he says in a deep tone, turning to his side, walking to the edge of the rock, “so, I always leave my palms open and bare.”

I squint and nod and clasp my hands behind me, trudging also to the rock’s edge. I’ll be straightforward. “Kareem is my name… And I defend the God.”

Thomas whips a glance at me. The darkness in his eyes recedes for a glimmer to spread through and settle over his caramel face. Glance turns to gaze; he doesn’t withdraw it. “When you defend, you attack; when you attack, you fight. You mean to say you fight for God.”

“Not everyone would do what I do. They think the God should be standing at the forefront rather than humans. They call us terrorists in fact when all we do is to bring everything back in obedience to the God.” I puff a sigh. “But aren’t we servants who should relieve the master of his worries and make all men yield to him? Aren’t we—”

“We call ourselves sons and heirs, Kareem. But we— No, they… They are sons and heirs who treat Yahweh with contempt.” He stretches an arm over the scenery. “Look at those rocks. Look at those plants,” he says while pointing at a throng of tourists huddled up beneath the mountain stairs, my eyes following his every movement. “And look at those people… Nature is the world’s greatest gift. They don’t have a mind of their own; they remain what they are—nature—ever ready to satisfy their masters, the humans God has made to rule them.” He turns away, clenching his fist, darkness creeping back out of those almond hollows. “But humans? They forget they have a master. They live only for themselves. They grieve God!”

“I’ve thought about that all day, Thomas. But it’s fascinating we both share the same view of the men below.”

“I remember the zeal of Eleazer, the high priest. How he killed the sinners in the temple to stop God’s anger.” The passion in Thomas’ voice brings him closer to what I’ve read of that man, Saint Paul. He really is bigger than what I’d thought of him earlier. While he admires the one called Eleazer…

“Mohammed must have been like him, Thomas— No, Mohammed was greater.” My eyelids twitch; a thought creeps into my head, pulling along the delight of a hope of fulfilment. “Do you know my goal?”

The darkness drifts away again. And that glimmer returns to his eyes. “Our goal you mean. You have to count me in.”

“You know it already?”

“You fight for God, and you are not the first person to. There are many others way back into the past and there are thousands of them right now, and many more to come. Genuine ones like us who will snap our necks to defend the one above.” He edges close, pats my shoulder, and stares into my face, a faint smirk on his lips. “You want to surpass them all, Kareem. You want a bigger name.”

I resist the urge to smirk. He sees through me easily. “It’s your goal as well, Thomas. You said it.”

“The son has to relieve his father of many worries. The father sees his good works and grants him great rewards, if not in this world, then in the one to come.”

“I bear the same belief.”

He smirks. “And that’s why we make the best partners.” He turns away. “When I saw you from down there the other time, I was thinking: how’s it like up there? The man on the rock, how does he feel? What’s he thinking about? Is he hatching a plot? It was rather unusual so I knew you must be thinking out of the ordinary.” He turns back and shrugs. “I was right after all,” he says, “you’ve been thinking deep.”

Thomas paces about again, his eyes gazing upwards. I follow this gesture and bore into him from all sides. No matter how much I think of it, he must be a problem for me. If I can’t read into a partner as they can me, then isn’t it more pathetic? How could we be partners? He strides back towards me and grabs my hands, such that he finally has something in his palms. “Osun State, Ogun State, Akwa-Ibom, Lagos, Anambra… People are too cold over there. Let’s begin from those regions, Kareem. Even from here, on Olumo Rock.”

I’d like him to return to that edge, but would he? His eyes are a mix of passion and thirst. Thirst for blood. Thirst for a name. Thirst for the mountain top. He’s never what I had conjured up in my head. He’s another sick person like me. No. I’m never sick. But he, he’s going to shed blood because it makes him feel like the God, not because he wants to fight for the God. And me… Me… I’m—

When you’re on the mountaintop, you can understand the sea better than a seaside observer would. It’s all in your hands. Especially if you’re alone.

Thomas pulls a wry smile and takes a step back. He walks over to the edge, facing the landscape, arms stretched wide. I shut my eyes. Snap it open. Inside my jean pocket is a jagged pocketknife. I fish it out and grab it by the hilt.

And I take a step forward.

by Jennifer Egan

Nightshade: A Crime Fiction Anthology

 

Hullo, guys! I'm excited.😁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗲: 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗳𝘄𝗶𝗰 𝗖𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗩𝗼𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗲 𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, May 6th, 2022. Congratulations to me! Congratulations to all of us!

The Anthology features my 𝗣𝘀𝘆𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹-𝗖𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿, 𝗙𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝘇𝗲—a story you MUST not miss for anything—alongside five other short crime fictions.

Details Below:

Publisher: IfèAdigo Company Limited. 

Genre: Crime Fiction 

BLURB

Nightshade, Profwic Crime Fiction Anthology Vol. 1, the maiden edition of anthologies by the global writing community, Prolific Fiction Writers Community, features six intriguing crime fiction short stories that will leave you breathless.

Chiedu Dieyi's ‘Anita's Bullet’ pulls agents of Nigeria's Force Criminal Investigation and Intelligence Department (FCIID) in a tangle of conspiracy that will keep your heart racing.

Olusoji Obebe's ‘Pretty Death’ pitches a vixen at the centre of heists and murders.

In Elisha Oluyemi's psychological thriller, ‘Fire in The Maze’, Jenny is a cute, complicated character, who, for reasons known only to her and Dr Barnes, has to make fire burn.

‘Nightshade’ by Ayomide Victor wedges Agent Ethan in an inevitable showdown with his career bane, Amara.

In Solomon Timothy’s ‘I am the Law’, a sly killer is on the loose, and she’s got a dark inspiration.

And in Stanley Umezulike's thrilling Police Procedural, ‘When this is Over’, Detective Zainab Mustapha must solve the puzzles in a strange kidnapping case before time runs out.

____

Nightshade is available in both ebook and paperback formats in Nigeria, Amazon, Okadabooks and Selar.

Click any of the links below to order yours immediately.

Order Your Copy Now!

Order on Amazon: 

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/978999818X

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/978999818X

Okadabooks: https://okadabooks.com/book/about/nightshade_profwic_crime_fiction_anthology_volume_one/48021

Order ebook on Selar: https://bit.ly/nightshadeebook

Order Paperback in Nigeria via Bank Transfer: ₦5000 

Send ₦5000 to:

Ifeadigo Publishing Company Limited

2038047730

First Bank

Send proof of payment to  WhatsApp account: wa.me/2347060745771. Price covers shipping fee.

Click here to download Fiery Fiction Writers Alliance's inaugural anthology.

 

Crime?

It's just like escaping from within the boundaries of moral restraints. The deviation from this moral factor doesn't necessarily denote aggressiveness or some dark manifestation; crime can always be innocent—especially if there is a psycho out there who doesn't hear the whispers of composure. We ourselves hear these whispers—all of us, except we are like them, the criminals, the psyschopaths, the bloody highlifes who can't bear to pull a briddle. 

Yet we are like them. We may try to deny it. We may try to argue that we can never kill, never manipulate, never rob and burgle and cause wreckage; we may argue that we can never rape, that we hate the sounds of torture, that even if the world be swarmed by beasts we will remain humans. Where is the lie? 

But you know, every 'human' is an animal with a sense of morality. Take away the morality and you'll be unleashing a full-blown psychopath. Remorse is gone. And responsibility? To hell with it. Since this rot is a part of us (merely restrained), it is ever thrilling to explore what lies hidden in us yet exposed in a fraction of subhumans. It is ever thrilling to read and write CRIME and the many shades of it. And that is why I write crime.

The nature of the psychopath, though dark and evil, is rather intriguing and a bit of some 'nice' feeling. Why do we feel a murder isn't intriguing enough? Why do we feel a serial killer needs a crazier fetish to make them compelling and different from the others? It's in us. That powerful wisp of evil. Imagination's only doing its part; MORE of US appears when we think wild. We think deep into ourselves and see our dark sides and write them as though they are reflections or paintings of some evil stranger far away. I write crime to let out these darkness that I wouldn't dare bring to real life. And you're happy to read, ain't you? 

For me, it's not to correct any societal ill. Literary fiction can take care of that. And it's not to emphasise morality or the poor clichè that good wins in the end. I rather find it easier and more precise painting evil the way it is. Many evils go unrewarded. That is reality. I write crime to show reality. To show the darkness shrouded in pretense, in unconsciousness, in the intentional ignorance we've given ourselves away to. 

Jenny is the central character of my short crime, 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙯𝙚. And I've made her a grpping representation of this darkness. You'll find Fire in the Maze in the 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙒𝙄𝘾 𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮, 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙚, featuring five (5) other crazy crimes. When you meet her, take your time to study her. Get lost in her world. And savour the thrill of darkness. 

The Anthology will be out on the 6th of May, 2022.

You can pre-order now. Details are in the comments section. Let's be happy!

For the love of CRIME FICTION!!!

by Elisha Oluyemi

HE WITHDRAWS HIS PALM from the dog's mane as though irritated. Seconds ago, he was chuckling as he tickled the dog and caressed its mane, the happy pet wagging its tail. But now, his gaze bores firmly at it, and his eyes are void of emotion, like one caught between good and evil.

The dog returns the gaze with the most innocent look an animal could offer. In the CCTV footage, the pet's eyes are two balls of sheen gazing out of their sockets, right at the young boy standing in the corridor, as though saying, 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦... 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘥. 

Only that the boy isn't able to hear those pleas; or he can hear them but just finds them difficult to understand. His blank gaze turns into a deep frown, and he backpedals, swinging a sharp kick right at the dog's belly, sending it crashing against the near wall in the corridor. The dog growls—a husky whimper—writhing on its sides for some seconds, before it struggles back up its limbs to return to its master—this master who used to be kind. 

The boy withdraws another step and whips back a glance. A fire extinguisher container hangs on the wall. He backpedals towards it, hoists his both hands, and retrieves it. Head tilted, he slows a turn back at the dog whose eyes are now glistening the more, mopping at him as though wronged. He doesn't regard that either. He only trudges closer to it. In his eyes, this pet is nothing but a beast that must be crushed to the bones, a nuisance that must be murdered.

The dog moves closer, too. It stretches, face pushed upwards, begging understanding, telling his master that he is still that sweet pet from minutes ago. That he is still that obedient companion that wouldn't resent the chain around his neck.

Expectedly, this master doesn't know the colour of loyalty. Or he has been blinded by the evil that has just found him. The evil that makes a mother forget the allure of a baby's innocence. Everywhere she looks is darkness. Everything she hears is evil, ghostly whispers that rattle the heart, painting the seeable and perceivable world the colour of the blackness she has become. Everyone has a moment of discovery. A wisp or a mass of 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘴. And this boy's fate  can't be more interesting.

He pulls along the iron container till he is a couple of steps away from the beast. At once, he hefts it and smashes it on its head, forcing a yowl from the pet. Swiftly, he hefts it again and rams it against the face so that the dog growls and staggers and quivers, but returns, jaws slacked, tongue dripping slime, head bowed yet in submission and loyalty. 

The predator isn't ready to halt his kill—his fresh awakening. He hefts the weapon for the last time and crashes it on the dog's jaw, bashing the animal to the ground in a sanguinary fit. The dog sinks down, mashed head flat against the ceramic floor, writhing like a mortified leviathan.

After the kill, the boy doesn't drop the murder weapon. He doesn't stagger; doesn't shake his head frantically like one who's overwhelmed by regrets. Instead, his shoulders quiver—just like when someone giggles hard, satisfied with what they've just done. He slows a turn back, eyes on the nail in the wall. He trudges back to that nail and hangs the murder weapon back in its place. He wouldn't clean anything up. Not the bodily fluid. Not the carcass. Not the traces of darkness he has left here in this short while. He only stares in the direction of the CCTV camera right in the ceiling. And he walks away.

If this is his first murder, he'll never be an invincible killer. He is one who doesn't care. He will be like those who fail to go far with their display of supremacy. What a waste of talent! 

But I care. I have a lot to do for him. And I will start by erasing this footage from the mall's database.

 

 

by Elisha Oluyemi

IT BEGINS TONIGHT.  But he doesn’t know it.

    So he pulls his zippers and slings a rucksack across his shoulders. He rakes a glance across the room; smiles at the litter of panties and stockings strewn over his old sofa. He grabs a few and presses them to his nose, eyes rammed shut. He is inhaling their smell. The fragrance of his victims. He rechecks a trapdoor leading to a basement, pats the lock, and heads for the door.

    One more glance sideways, and he reaches for a plank; bats it against a cat trotting alongside him, sending it sprawled out and writhing on the carpet. “Screw Mum! I never wanted a goddamn cat!” he growled, tossing the weapon aside. All the while, he wears a blank look. Like nothing matters.

    I can see all that from my smartphone because I hid a spy cam in his room. As for who I am, he probably will never know. I’m like a brother. I’m like a foe. I’m like a god he’s never known.

    He grabs the animal by its flurry tail, dumps it in a bin, and stops again to relish the scent of a disappearing soul. I know it.

    Now, he steps out.

    The night is a deeper shade of grey today. He melts into it, now hooded, back hunched, hands buried in his pockets. And begins a steady walk down Kyari Avenue.

    I rise from behind tall blades of grass. Puff a sigh. And lingers a gaze at his disappearing figure. What pleasure could be greater than in frustrating a demon? Than in making them obedient to you? He will never know. Huh, when he returns, it will become my turn to savour the aroma of his wrath. I will just watch at a distance while he does just what I expect. Just what makes me ex-excited!

    Now I grab a gallon of petrol, leap over a gutter, and zip across the street, over to his house—the abode of death. No need for unnecessary surveillance. No need for a damn rethink. I just pour the fuel over his isolated building; break a window and dump the keg in. I retreat a few steps, fish out a lighter from my pocket, click it on, and toss it through that window. Fire booms and blares and burns and spreads. Soon all will be razed down.

    And he will return. Return to find his trophies gone. Return to find his treasured basement exposed to the world. How thrilling! Hahaha.

    Then he will look for me. But he doesn’t know me. So he will murder more to sooth his anger. To reawaken his dying trigger. I can imagine his wild countenance, his little eyes glaring at the unseen enemy. Ah, more will die through him. And he will think he’s doing that all by himself, but I’m the one who will make him do it. Who has made him do it. That is where I find my pleasure. In ruling him.

    And my reign. It begins.

About the Author:

ELISHA OLUYEMI is an undergraduate, Lagos-based writer, and fiction manuscript editor from Nigeria. He's the founder and Editor-in-Chief at Fiery Scribe Review, a literary magazine; and the founder of Fiery Fiction Writers Alliance (FIFWA), an online writing community. He has contributed short stories and poems to literary journals including Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, Sledgehammer Lit, Mystery Journal, Adoxography, The Shallow Tales Review, Paracosm Literary Journal, Arts Lounge and many others. He's a Korean language addict and a big fan of classical music. Follow him on Twitter at @ylisha_cs : Instagram @_lishakim ; Facebook @Elisha Oluyemi. And read his works via https://contentscribe.blogspot.com

 

by Elisha Oluyemi

I HONOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS IN all things—even in murder (as some critics would tag my benevolence). But at least, that is my patients’ sole possibility of relief and a painless exit.

    Today, it’s all about Bala, a colon cancer stage IV patient, bedridden, and sure to disappear in three weeks. I see him grip his belly again, face crumpled and teeth clenched, probably to ease his ever-enduring pain. After holding out for four years that seemed like eternity, his perseverance is simply a worn elastic. Unable to hold back his agony, he blares out a groan, forcing looks of concern from other ‘awaiting-death’ patients, who are also, at the same time, anticipating their own inevitable episodes of pain.

    I puff out air as I rush to Bala’s bedside. He is drenched in sweat, and his limbs are the outstretched arms of a drowning child. Once he sees me through his half-closed eyes, he stretches out an arm that wasn’t so engaged in the struggle and his clenched teeth parts a bit. “D—doc—tor! Ki—kill me! Please ki—”

    “Don’t worry, Mr. Bala; it’s your turn today. You’ve endured a great deal, and now you should rest.”

    He gazes at me, this time, seemingly unconcerned by agonies. His voice calms and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank you, doc—tor!”

    I run my hands over a litter of instruments on a tray and single out a bottle of euthanasia drug, labelled ‘Freedom’. And in a minute, Bala becomes a free man.

    Now, I turn around. Other terminal patients are staring. Similar looks of envy and desire. . . . Of course, they’re all entitled to this same deliverance—just like Bala.

Written by Elisha Oluyemi

(Originally published by League of Poets)

by Elisha Oluyemi

Who can be powerful enough to 

enter the house of a strong man 

and plunder his goods, 

except he first binds him?

Except the invader be exceedingly mad.

--Mark 3:27

8 MARCH, 2021

ASO ROCK PRESIDENTIAL VILLA, ABUJA

UNTIL NOW, PRESIDENT Garba Lai didn’t see this day coming. He didn’t see the cloudy mass hanging in leaden sprinkles about the skies. But he has always been prepared. He always has a special weapon.

    Right within the screen, the news anchor breaks a stirring news:

    “A leaked and viral video of the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, Garba Lai, stabbing the Inspector General of Police to death, has surfaced. And now the nation is plunged into an uproar.

    “The Inspector General, Lateef Chukwu, is filmed on his knees pleading frantically for his life right in front of a man, shown to be the current Nigerian President, Garba Lai, alongside his aide de camp, Baba Tairu, and a few other armed thugs. The president is then seen to stride behind the trussed Inspector General and stab him twice in the back, after which he kicks his remains, leaving him for—”

    “Kill that thing, Tairu!”

    Without protest, Tairu grabs a glassware from the center table and hurls it at the TV.

    “Done, Your Excellency,” he says, eyeing the messy floor. “But … it could be dangerous next time, sir.”

    President Garba downs a cup of wine. “I have three orders.”

    “Please go ahead, Your Excellency.”

    “What TV station was that?”

    “MBS, sir.”

    “Well, force them into my media blacklist.”

    “Yessir. Em … I trust you have a stronger order to give.”

    “You’re in no position to rate my words.” President Tairu waves a hand. “Tell the Chief Security Officer to block off the press; they’d be flitting around anytime soon.”

    “Yessir. And the last one?”

    “Call the office of the Chief of Staff. Right away.”

    Tairu leans close. “Your Excellency, do you trust him?”

    “Okon will always be a confidante. Just do as I say.

PRESS CONFERENCE, PRESIDENTIAL VILLA

Chief of Staff, Okon Dimba, tall and lean in his X-sized suit, swaggers to the platform, head high. But the curious glares from the excited reporters force his eyes down onto his manuscript.

    “Good morning, fellow Nigerians,” he says, making a bow. The ramming of fingers against keys seems to impede his focus. “We understand that the tension stemming from the presidential scandal requires our immediate response; hence, I am here for that on behalf of the President.”

    Murmurs rumble like a plane in the clouds and flashes from camera shutters are everywhere. A reporter rockets her hand. “Why are you here instead of the President?”

    Okon sports a faint smirk. Not unexpected. I’ve been prepared. “Let’s just get straight to the point—”

    “Did Mr President truly murder the Inspector General?” asks a reporter from the far corner.

    “Does Mr President admit the video evidence is valid?” another asks.

    “I think the President shouldn’t be deflecting his duty of addressing the country at heated times as this. What do you think, Mr. Okon?”

    Okon juts his jaw, eyeing the reporters as they take turns throwing their hands up and blaring questions. The outcome of this press conference really would have no negative on him. That fatuous president must be in his study now, watching him play according to the script. But he is prepared to disappoint him. You’ve given me a rare privilege to toss you down the cliff, Mr President.

    An MBS pressman jolts up his seat as if stunned. “The people are currently running riot, don’t you know? The mass reactions are incensed on media platforms. Won’t the President give a statement?”

    Okon drums his lean fingers against the lectern. He can only keep his calm this way. “Let’s take this slow. I’ll answer every question posed, so let’s be gentlemanly.”

    “Okay, go on please.”

    Okon waves the manuscript he brought with him. “The President expects me to play according to this script. He forgot it isn’t easy to put up with rubbish—”

    “Are you trying to expose the President?”

    “I’ll continue. Please don’t cut in,” Okon retorts. “I have a top secret to gift to Nigerians.”

    Camera flashlights flicker on as the pressmen type wildly. Okon dips a hand in his pocket and fishes out a USB stick which he waves at once. “Herein lies the full surveillance video of President Garba Lai’s horrendous murder of the Late Inspector General Lateef Chukwu in the late hours of Tuesday the 1st of March, 2023.”

    “Outrageous it is, and we assume you know a lot. So please say, why would the President kill the Inspector General?”

    “There’s classified information on the President’s financial support of terrorists. Late Lateef Chukwu was out to investigate when—”

    “Would you defend the authenticity at all costs?”

    Okon nods at the reporter. “I did the recording myself.”

ASO ROCK PRESIDENTIAL VILLA, ABUJA

Baba Tairu rushes into the President’s study and flings shut the door behind his burly self. “Are you watching the press conference, Your Excellency?”

    President Garba Lai rolls his eyes at the aide. This is what ten years of familiarity can cause. Disrespect. Anyways … “You’ve been serving me since my days in the Ministry of Works; say, have you ever seen me panic?”

    Tairu flickers a brow. “Never … Your Excellency. Em, pardon my lack of calm.” He sights a new TV fitted to the wall. “You changed it so fast. How come I didn’t know?”

    “Huh?” President Garba waves his hands and points at the screen. “Okon Dimba seems to be in the spotlight this time. All Nigerians are watching him as he stabs me in the back.” He drains a bottle of beer.

    “What’s your plan?” Tairu asks.

    “You should just wait and see what my grand plan is this time.”

    “I know you never disappoint. But em … considering—”

    A cell phone rings and President Garba hands it over to Tairu. “Put on the loudspeaker and answer it.”

    A voice creaks from the phone’s speaker. “Target marked, Mr President.” A pause. “Do we move now?”

    Lips parted in a full feral grin, President Garba springs to his feet and starts to pace around. This intended move isn’t the last resort, he thinks. But it’s the best and most timely. Sacrifices, no matter how outrageous, are necessary for the big picture. Who forced me to a corner in the first place? Screw that! “At the count of three,” he says. “Strike the target. Not just Aso Rock needs to feel the effect, all Nigerians must.” He draws close to Tairu and blares into the hush speaker. “One! … Two! … Three—”

    BOOM is the sound, but soon, sounds of burning and clanking and falling follow.

    Tairu staggers backwards, falling upon an also staggering Garba Lai. And as he struggles to get up, a beer bottle trips him over. He struggles to his knees this time, face crumpled and mouth parted in disbelief as he rams a glare onto his master who remains on the floor. “Did … did you order a bomb blast?” he asked. “Did you—”

    “Sacrifices—”

    “That’s too big!”

    “Nothing is too big to be foregone in the face of the big picture, Baba Tairu.” He eases his obese mass onto a sofa chair. “Swallow your fears, uh.”

    “But how is this sacrifice worth it?” Tairu asks, eyes bulged.

    This time, the TV breathes a third party between the duo. And President Garba signals for Tairu to pay attention to the news.

    A grey-bearded man clad in buba soon fits into the screen.

    “Welcome to SBS Breaking News. Devastating airstrikes have reportedly rocked the inside and environs of Aso Rock Presidential Villa, leaving thirty-six people feared dead.”

    The news anchor fades off the screen and is replaced by a live video of the disaster. A bawdy looking youth stands between the camera and the burning Villa, microphone raised below chin. “According to insiders’ report, Mr President could be safe since the attack didn’t touch on the very residence.

    “But a press conference was being observed at the time of the blast and within the circumference of the strike. Few minutes ago, Nigerian Chief of Staff, Okon Dimba, had declared he’d be revealing a top secret. But it is possible that Mr Okon Dimba alongside the several pressmen have become victims of this outrageous attack on our dear state.

    “What becomes of the top secret? What becomes of the presidential scandal? Is Mr Okon a part of this game? Was he really going to REVEAL a secret? Is it political opponents causing a ruckus? Are some overlords playing with the minds of we Nigerians all for the sake of political benefits? First a viral scandal.” The reporter turns to face the villa, pointing at it. “And now a grand attack on the President—”

    “And that’s how it works!” President Garba Lai claps as he collapses in a fit of giggles. What an accomplishment!

    “I see the real deal now,” Tairu says, noodling. “Soon everything is forgotten.”

    “Right, right! Even if Okon survives this strike, I’ll end up silencing him. Brassmouth already placed a cage around his family.”

    “So when do I need take action?”    

    “When all seems to be a waste.”

    Tairu cocks his head. “What does Your Excellency mean?”

    “This seems like a temporary solution. I trust it won’t end here. But when it happens, we always have our Plan B—the ones in my cage.” President Garba puffs a breath. “Madness does suppress madness.”

    Tairu nods as he retrieves a beer bottle from a refrigerator in the corner. “Yes,” he says, turning to look at the grinning President. “The Inspector General was a madman, too.”