HURTING FROM HIS BITTER EXPERIENCE one hour ago, Jideofor dawdled along Hybor Road, where the stench from uncollected garbage rose to meet the familiar toxic smell that hung on the wandering Port Harcourt air. This aggravated the unhappiness he felt.

With dismay, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to take in the air. But after he realized he was suffocating himself, he stopped. His heart was pounding.

Although Jideofor knew that the happenings around the former MP were expected, one thought occupied his mind. He hoped this newly assigned role in the company would not separate him from his family.  

With the warm day growing warmer and the gray sky bleached in the sunlight, the concrete road issued an intense heat. Yet the dirty air teemed with trilling notes of bird songs.

When Jideofor turned into the residential estate, he felt his nerves relax, as if where he was going held the expectation of peace.

For a distance of thirty feet, outside a huddle of civil servant-designed buildings, a puff of sea breeze sighed and brushed past him. Nevertheless, he walked along the barren estate, not understanding that the wind of chaos had gone ahead of him. And it was on a Friday.

He was about to climb up the last tread of the gritty concrete steps leading into the undecorated veranda when he heard a muffled sound inside his pocket.

Although emotionally fragile, Jideofor cannot resist reading his messages to keep abreast of the latest security report about the former Member of Parliament. And now he paused under the hanging lamps in the center of the portico. He took out the phone from his pocket, though he didn’t want to take another disappointing message from his estranged wife. He ran his big ebony eyes down the screen, trying to learn more about the message. A few lines enticed him with the expectation of an update about the politician’s schedule.

After he unlocked the screen, his eyes gathered in more of the message at a glance. However, his expectation was deferred this time. An aggrieved male crook had perpetrated the assault. 

His craggy face contorted with bitterness.

By the time he finished reading, he was stunned by the boldness of the assailant. His mind had always been a busy place. This time, it oscillated between two moods: bitterness and apprehension. Even so, he entertained one fear in the harrowing chamber of his troubled mind. He didn’t know if someone on the staff was a traitor.

Worried, he pushed to the brown steel door with steps that slapped out a rhythm, walking through a floor with particles of dirt.

With the embittered sun stinging the city, a strand of sweat cooled his chin.

Jideofor defeated the deadbolt with his key and twisted the handle. He opened the door, crossed the threshold and forgot to bolt it.

Regardless of the multicolored floral Bermuda shirt he wore with navy chinos, one thing was clear; this good-looking, athletic man in his late forties was a powerhouse.

Inside. The noon light had grown strong, yet the camouflage-styled draperies over the bone-white aluminum sliding windows withheld its radiance, allowing a thin thread to reach him.

When he thumbed the switch, weak yellowish light from the wall lamps loomed in the living room, exposing the moderate interior décor. Untidy wooden arm furniture, with waxed cotton fabric, in a warm tone of tan, just beside a sofa, sat on non-slip vitrified floor tiles.

Tick, tick, tick… of the second hand of the circular wall clock rounding the dial got his attention. The time was 3:32.

Driven by the sense of pacification, he walked to the CD player sitting on top of a polished glass-fronted mahogany bookcase as if consolation lived in it. The CD player was at the northwest corner of the living room. This time, he chose Akon—Birthmark—for comfort, awakening the room from slumber.

After he sat down on the gray leather sofa at the southwestern corner of the living room, listening to the music, his coolness returned, dispelling his unhappiness.

He took off his shoes and settled them beside the sofa.

Presently, he harbored no resentment against his estranged wife. Instead, he worried about the incident around the former Member of Parliament.

Who wanted to silence the politician?

Since he entered his apartment, he’d not had the mental stability to reflect upon the encrypted message, but now he could no longer turn his mind from it. He sensed responsibility. Worse, a menacing feeling overpowered him; a sharp hunch of an impending threat. He sensed he had work to do. Nevertheless, Jideofor perceived danger.

He consulted his watch. Five minutes past four o’clock.

Hissing, he weaved through the living room, heading for the dining table at the north end of the room, his leg brushing aside empty beer cans.

He expected the former MP to be alive and installed king (Igwe)—one wish that only the creator of Heaven and Earth had the power to grant.

The air was warm and stale with the heat permeating the living room and Jideofor blotted his damp palms on his pants. He opted to take off his shirt and be free from the irritation of itchy skin. Then he flung the shirt on the backrest of a nearby dining table chair.

Not accustomed to a quick response when he worked, he dawdled to the laptop on the aging dining table, in front of a black chest of drawers pressed to the pale yellow wall. He took his time getting his wallet out of his pocket.

With a passion for accomplishing his duties, Jideofor forcefully pulled out a chair from the side of the wooden dining table and settled in it, facing the steel door. The screeching sound was hectic and piercing.

And like a man apprehensive of danger, hurrying to forestall it, he took out his wallet from his pocket and opened it. He was about to take out the flash drive containing the security protocol of the politician when the music stopped. And now a menacing hush reclaimed the house.

Displeased, he tossed the wallet on top of the chest of drawers, got up, and headed toward the CD player. He was halfway to the player when he heard unanticipated thuds outside.

He remembered stories of criminals who robbed houses during the daytime. Though these were mere gossips by workers on the construction site he managed, yet his sense of impending danger swelled. His anxiety became intensified.

With a dazed look that traveled toward the door, his reflection turned to wariness. He couldn’t discern what it was, but it sounded like a clatter of footsteps—probably someone drawing near the step. A faint stride. And it was steady.

Apparently, the danger was in his imagination. However, his heart was thumping faster than ever. And he hurried back to the dining table, where he picked up his shirt and wore it, then lowered the monitor, not entirely shutting the laptop. He inadvertently touched his right hip, where he usually holstered his Browning.

When it dawned on him that he no longer carried pistols, he was still as a goalpost. Nevertheless, he relinquished this reality, but not the thought of looking around. His eyes crisscrossed the room, searching for an object; a weapon. Meanwhile, he found no weapon, so he searched within himself, trying to tap ideas from ten years of police training. But this memory was out of tune with present reality. He was unarmed.

Jideofor frowned because he knew he was vulnerable.

The muffled thumps, probably the footsteps of passersby, grew louder and nearer. Yet when he tilted his head toward the door and listened; that assumption wasn’t right. The intruder was slowly drawing near to the door.

He was not expecting anyone. There was no reason to presume that someone might be bold enough to rob him at this time of the day. But the front door remained unbolted, and it bothered him.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed forward a few steps to the door to make certain no one was there.

The footfalls seem persistent, closing in on the door.

In a moment, he was at the door. However, he could no longer hear the footfalls echoing off the floor. It ceased.

Jideofor waited at the door, listening.

There was no sound anymore.

Then he released his breath, feeling he had made a mistake in his hearing, though he was uncertain of that.

After a short while, a sound arose again. This time, something rustled at the door, troubling the stunning silence.

And suddenly he realized he had company.

THERE WAS A TABLE AT the center of the short end of the canopy (Obi) outside the mansion. The Obi was twenty feet long and eighteen feet wide. A TV hung on the long white block wall, with two large window-like openings.

By 8:04 Saturday morning, after Nweke, the former Member of Parliament, read the third endorsement letter, the dying rain surrendered to the pale blue sky birthing the day’s first sunlight.

According to an opinion poll, seventy percent of indigenes in financial standing with the town union and qualified to vote favored Nweke to win the election and become Igwe of his hometown.

Nweke, who clocked forty-eight recently, stood beside the table, smiling. However, he shook his head in disbelief, astonished at how the people accepted him. But amid the excitement, he was disappointed with one village—the largest—over their delay in endorsing him. He hissed after listening to the news and relinquished the TV remote to the tempered glass table.

Though his mood swayed from happiness to hopefulness, he was chatting and laughing with Azuka, his secretary, sitting beside the table. Afterward, he pranced behind the secretary to a chair in front with his hands dipped inside the pocket of his black pants overlapped by a red Isi Agu shirt.

From the white-walled room, some near sounds emerged; his starched shirt ruffling against itself; the soft hiss of his rubber-soled moccasin on the color body porcelain tiled Obi, set in a herringbone pattern. The gladsome whimper of spineless wind could be heard outside, in the vast compound.

With a hint of a smile on his face, Nweke handed the letter to Azuka from a long hand distended from a broad shoulder. “This calls for the popping of champagne.”

Azuka, a hardworking man with wavy hair, wore a white shirt and a red tie. He was only thirty-eight years old. He stretched his arm across the table, much quicker than the reflex of the giver, and took the letter. Azuka skimmed through it before he laid it beside an open notebook. “I should write your victory speech.”

Nweke reached out and pulled one of the bamboo-weaved chairs, then sat facing Azuka. “What can be more pleasing?” Nweke said in a scratchy voice. “But not before other endorsements.”

Perhaps astonished that Nweke wanted him to hold off writing the speech even with the number of endorsements he had garnered, Azuka drew his eyebrows together and opened his mouth as if he wanted to respond, but delayed.

 Presently, Nweke’s mind wandered to a prominent kingmaker (Ichie). He hoped the Ichie would still keep to their appointment today. And after he contemplated the Ichie’s visit, his eyes drifted to the newspapers on the table as if good news awaited inside. He grabbed one.

Four years earlier, Nweke had taken the highest chieftaincy title (Ezeana) in his hometown, which qualified him to represent his ward in the Igwe’s cabinet. The title qualified him to aspire to the kingship of the town.

Touching the tip of his finger on his tongue, Nweke gave the newspaper page a flick, then another, skimming through for news of interest. When nothing caught his interest, he lifted his face to look at Azuka. “The population of Ichie Omenuko’s village is equal to three villages that have endorsed me,” explained Nweke. “Anyone they endorse may likely win.”

“Oh, I see,” Azuka said with a nod.

The newspaper reading passed in silence. Then after a few minutes, Nweke stopped at a page and lifted his head. He looked at his secretary of over fifteen years, who was scribbling in the notebook. “I want that endorsement.”

“We’re not giving up sir,” Azuka said, clicking his ballpoint pen. “Since he’s your friend, then that would be a walkover.”

Although Nweke had received assurances of support from Ichie Omenuko’s kins, however, he was worried about whether these promises could lead to an endorsement. Despite this disturbing thought, he gently dropped the newspaper on the table and forced a strained smile. “Huh. Well—” Nweke hesitated. He added, “In politics, you never assume.”

Azuka lifted his pen and wrote in his notebook, probably jotting down the lesson. “I never heard of that,” Azuka said, flipping close the notebook.

As the secretary looked up from his book, his phone sounded a gong tone. For a minute, he rested his elbow on the table and tilted his head forward, squinting at the screen. After a moment, he fetched the phone off the table and unlocked it.

When he had satisfied his gaze reading the message, Azuka replanted his weight on the chair and cleared his throat. “I think we have more work to do sir.”

In the still air, a scent of lemon lingered. Fallen leaves rustled on the clean pavement beyond a soursop tree. From above came the yawning of thunder, even as the gentle breeze within the compound sank.

Nweke closed his eyes and tilted his head downward. “What’s in the message?”

“He’s got three of the remaining four endorsements.”

A few seconds of delayed response revealed Nweke’s disbelief before he opened his eyes and raised his head. There was a vacant look on his face. Then he rose from the chair and paced the floor. Although the expansive compound spread before him, the vision of the narrowing of the wide gap he once enjoyed over his rival showed in his mental space.

Up there in the clear sky, above rooftops, the clap of thunder sounded again as though awakening him to reality. But he was wide awake to the disturbing message. He intuited that momentous events had happened underground that probably led to him losing grip on the leadership position. Perhaps his rival was engaged in vote buying.

When he strolled back to the table, he asked, “Did Ichie Omenuko’s village endorse him?”

“My source has no details of the three villages.”

Troubled, Nweke wore a lost look that occupied his attention as if the god of confusion cast a spell of anxiety on him. The information chilled the politician, but he was not disoriented because he knew the Ichie would visit him today and likely bring him their endorsement. Even so, Nweke nodded as if trying to hammer the information home.

Not long after he took a few steps away from the table, he halted. Then moments later he continued pacing the floor, arms clamped behind.

“There’s a need we reach Ichie Omenuko immediately,” said Azuka.

Nweke walked to the dwarf wall at the short end of the canopy and stopped. “Then I better call him myself.”

At the moment, there was a recalcitrant silence hanging about the Obi. Nevertheless, soft utterances absconded from the security guards babbling, invading the quiet, irritating to the meditative quietness.

Now Nweke walked to the long stunted wall bordering the Obi, trying to get a clear view of the gate, then stopped. He fished out a phone from his pocket. He held the power button briefly, powering it on.

At twenty minutes after nine, after he punched Ichie Omenuko’s number, his lips quivered, his voice debased, but strong enough to reach the secretary. “His line’s dead.”

Azuka turned his head sideways to look at the big man. “What about trying his other numbers?

In the enchanting beam of the lowered sun, Nweke’s face was tight. But his glance never left the gate. “That’s the only line of his I’ve got.”

Nweke sidestepped a fraction, and when he tipped his head sideways, straining to glimpse the happening around the gate, he observed that one of his armed guards was at the gate. The guard was conversing with the gateman.

On a Monday morning in March, precisely two months back, an aggrieved, middle-aged male crook assaulted the former MP on his way back from his morning walk. Just after then, the politician hired the service of a licensed private security company that assigned armed non-uniformed guards to secure him and his family—keeping them safe from miscreants. Following the election season, these guards followed protocols, keeping enemies at bay from his compound, which was now a beehive to visitors.

Azuka probably noticed Nweke spying at the gate. “Are you expecting someone?”

“In the afternoon.”

“Excuse me, Honourable,” the secretary said, opening the small notebook and flipping to a page. “If maybe you have forgotten, you have an appointment to meet with Jideofor this afternoon at the children’s hospital construction site.”

“Right now,” Nweke said, “The only appointment that needs attention is with the kingmaker. I’ll keep to my appointments for today.”

Nweke, having satisfied his curiosity, became convinced that no one was at the gate and returned to his chair. Still, he cast one last look toward the gate before sitting. He was like a spectator awaiting the entrance of a prominent guest whose words he relied on. Though he sat in expectation, he no longer stared at the gate. Instead, he surveyed the busy compound, observing the position of the guards.

As he raised his attention from the guards, his eyes settled on the twenty-foot length of passageway that led to the mansion from the Obi. A nimble, petite woman pranced in his direction, carrying a serving tray containing a jug of palm wine (nkwu enu) and glass cups. The newcomer was of average height, one foot shorter than Nweke, who stood at six feet. She giggled when she came close to him. “I can see you two are planning,” said Njideka.

After settling the tray on the table, she stretched toward Nweke’s cheek to kiss it.

The tall man popped out his cheek and accepted the kiss. “You are the princess,” he said, poking her rib.

Tickled, Njideka recoiled. She stood still near the dwarf wall, hands clamped on her waist, gazing at Nweke. She exhaled as if her energy had been drained. Then she shook her head. But it was only a surprise game played by the couple.

“Homeboy,” she said, using her husband’s endearment title, “not again.”

Pulling a chair close, Nweke invited her to sit.

Njideka, dressed in a leopard-patterned print gown, said to the men, “All work and no drink make the brain dull.” And now she pushed past Nweke from behind to a chair on his right and settled in. “There is your favorite drink for planning.”

The seemingly uncontrolled gaze of the politician quickly shifted to the palm wine and then the glass cups. He adjusted in the chair, sitting at the edge. The chair groaned as he replanted his weight.

Although he was anxious about the happening around the gate, the visit of the kingmaker could wait, for he was about to begin the ceremony of pouring out some palm wine from the jug. He lifted a glass cup and settled it at the corner of the rectangular stainless steel tray on an imagined diagonal pointing at him and cutting through imaginary crosshairs. Then he poured himself some nkwu enu with grand solemnity—slowly draining the cloud-white juice from the jug into the glass cup until it was full. Now it seemed he was ready to sip. Not yet.

The pouring out of palm wine was a rite, and making sure he got the blend of the native juice, Nweke emptied the drink back into the jug. He filled the glass again before drawing a sip from it.

He shuddered in reaction to the sweetness of the drink.

Captivated, Njideka and Azuka sat silently in their chairs, just like school children watching a science experiment.

For two minutes, the three of them sat beneath the plaster of Paris ceiling, surrounded by the delicious scent of the alcoholic nkwu enu, conversing about the drink’s supplier and his distinctive tapping style.

Presently, a big man with bunched muscles on his upper arms and shoulders, carrying an Ak47 assault rifle strapped to his shoulder, hurried out from under the shade of a lemon tree like a shot, closing in on the gate. And now Nweke’s eyes scrambled after his armed personal guard. He wiped his bristly lips with his palm and sought an answer from Njideka. “Who might that be?”

Unperturbed, she did not fasten her gaze on the gate. She was staring at Azuka. “Probably election visitors,” she answered.

After a while, Azuka dropped his pen on the glass table as if drawing everyone’s attention to his forgotten presence. He showed his teeth in a grin, closed the notebook on which he was writing, and tucked it under his armpit. “Excuse me. I‘ll continue inside.”

Njideka, adorned with a white fabric flower on a headband, with streaks of gray taking birth on her charcoal black silky hair, sat up. She watched Azuka scurry away into the mansion.

By the time Azuka reached the end of the tiled walkway that connected the mansion and the Obi, Njideka rose. She perked Nweke on the cheek and informed him she was leaving for the kitchen to check the food on fire. Then she walked to the end of the tiled walkway and vanished out of sight.

As the campaign to woo and win voters thickened, Nweke’s security personnel screened visitors on appointment before letting them in to see him. Of course, no visitor had an appointment with him this morning. Nonetheless, he downed the last of his drink, stood up and stepped forward to the edge of the dwarf wall, to a vantage point, where he could watch the gate.

At the moment, conversing with someone through the pigeonhole was his gateman, a gangling, light-skinned man, while the armed guard stood and observed the happenings around the gate within earshot.

At 10:52, Azuka pushed in Nweke’s direction, coming out from the mansion, phone in hand. “Ichie Omenuko is at the gate.”

Considering that Ichie Omenuko had assured him of visiting in the afternoon, Nweke was stunned by the announcement of the secretary. An unenterprising smile smeared his face as the information sank in. “Tell the security to let him in,” Nweke said with a rise in vocal pitch.

After succinctly disclosing to the Ichie the instruction of Nweke, and informing the kingmaker to hold on a little while, Azuka climbed down the stairs of the Obi and hastened toward the gate.

Watching Azuka hurry to the gate, Nweke tried to collect his thoughts. He’d conditioned himself to draw inferences during his years in the House of Representatives, and immediately he inferred that Ichie Omenuko was in his mansion with an endorsement letter.

After Azuka finished conversing with the gateman and was on his way back to the mansion, the gate parted open. Nweke noticed the car carrying the Ichie occupy one of the blacktop parking spaces. His imagination fashioned a town where he was king, creating wealth for the people. He kept nodding to himself as if plagued with excitement.

Gladdened by the sight of the kingmaker climbing down from the car, Nweke stopped nodding. He murmured, “Finally.”

Nevertheless, as the Ichie swaggered toward the Obi, his presence ignited the attention of the people. Laborers halted their activities, and security personnel killed their discourse, staring at the Ichie with engrossed amazement. There was something about the kingmaker’s personality that was infectious. It could have been his colorfully dressed regalia. He wore a white cotton jumper and a white baggy skirt reaching to the ankle with a feathered red cap squeezing the top of his head. But more likely it could have been his hand fan (Akupe)—one foot in diameter, made of white goatskin, clutched in his right hand. It announced his title on both sides in brown letters: ICHIE EZEANA OMENUKO. Only the kingmakers could wear this regalia.

As the kingmaker narrowed the stretch between him and the Obi, the infectious admiration trekked toward Nweke, and he surrendered with another smile that exposed his perfect dentition.

Ichie Omenuko stopped midway, turned his head to the right and left, looking round the guarded, pristine compound, elaborately finished—looking at the high walls of the building. Then the kingmaker swaggered through the concrete walkway leading to the Obi. A section of well-groomed green flowers cultivated along the sides of the curbstones stood still for him. Eventually, he got to the end of the walkway.

While the two men traded smiles, Nweke raised an arm on which the insignia of a chief embraced: a bangle of maroon-colored beads. He did this to acknowledge the kingmaker.

Although he wasn’t thinking about another endorsement at the moment, Nweke enthusiastically watched the Ichie ascend the steps into the canopy.

Before he ascended the floor of the Obi, the Ichie, a slim and alert middle-aged man with graying hair, stood as if frozen, then planted his red feathered cap firmly on his head, his eyes looking around the canopy. Then he advanced. He came up not in a rush. Instead, he picked his steps with a slow gait.

Ichie Omenuko, as he had chosen to call himself during his Ozo chieftaincy title coronation, is not one of the many Ichies without clout. He commanded influence in his village; timely information supplied him by his kinsmen.

When the kingmaker came face to face with the politician, Nweke entertained the idea of victory in the elections. And now the kingmaker extended his Akupe—handle nipped between his fingers—toward Nweke. Nweke reached out his hand, slapping the back of his palm against the Akupe three times, bellowing the traditional title of the Ichie. And with each slap, the Ichie hollered back the traditional title of the politician, consummating the traditional greeting of chiefs.

Azuka, who was heading back to the mansion, stood to watch the captivating greeting between the Ichie and the former MP.

Nweke invited his guest to sit. “Tell Njideka to bring alligator pepper and kola nuts,” he called out to Azuka.

Under the white ceiling embedded with tiny circular LED lamps, through the spoilt city air, the weak aroma of spicy, sweet-smelling roasted turkey transited through the Obi.

The two chiefs sat down, bantering about the refreshing effect of the trimmed grass on the mansion’s outdoors.

At last, Azuka stepped into the Obi with a saucer containing two kola nuts, a pod of alligator pepper seeds, and a small table knife. He set it on the table in front of Nweke and sat on a chair to the politician’s left.

As was the custom and as a way of welcoming visitors, the host showed the Ichie the kola nuts, then asked the kingmaker to take one.

After Nweke took the second kola nut, he said a prayer in the Igbo dialect before breaking it. He poured the five partitions from the broken kola nut into the saucer and took one lobe from it. Then he asked the Ichie to take one, then Azuka. But Azuka declined the invitation. He’d never loved kola nut eating.

All the while the politician and the kingmaker ate the kola nut and drank palm wine, Nweke wanted to find out from the Ichie which villages had supported his rival, though he knew the time was too early into the kingmaker’s visit to bring up the discussion. Nevertheless, he knew the kingmaker to be an honest man. And he liked him.

Only after they had eaten kola nut, drank some nkwu enu, and discussed the well-being of their families did Nweke say, “Our source tells us that the other contestant has secured three endorsements already.”

The kingmaker was frank and swift at responding. “Exactly.”

The two men understood the significance of not letting the other candidate win the election. And because of a belief in the cause of fighting corruption, both disliked the information.

Nonetheless, the word pierced Nweke and sharpened his worry. A brief silence settled among them even as the crunching of kola nut blended in.

While Nweke waited for Ichie Omenuko to state the purpose of his visit, he wondered what decision the kingmaker’s kin had reached about endorsing him. He entertained no doubt about getting the endorsement, and he remained patient. He watched the kingmaker pour himself some palm wine and sipped it in slow draughts, smiling as though admitting the sweetness of the palm wine.

Amidst the soothing touch of the morning breeze and the inner chill he felt, Nweke chose to remain silent. Though his eyes followed the kingmaker’s glass cup until it rested on the table. Ichie Omenuko’s hand was going for the jug when Nweke deliberately tried to hinder him by asking, “What brings you out this early?”

Without an upward glance and with Nweke’s question not accomplishing its purpose, the Ichie poured himself another glass of nkwu enu. He took a long pull from the glass before he plunked it on the table. Then he cleared his throat. He looked at Nweke briefly, then the secretary, finally fixing his glance on the politician.

When Nweke noticed the kingmaker’s gaze finally resting on him, he knew what he wanted. They had known each other for thirteen years and the politician trusted the kingmaker completely. Like a mouse convinced of the presence of a cat, the politician was sure of his motive. His darting look clarified his desire for privacy. Nweke asked Azuka to excuse them.

All along, Nweke nursed the excitement that the visit of the kingmaker was another endorsement in the offing. But something was happening. He arrived at the conclusion that the privateness had some ominous implications.

Minutes later, after the secretary left, the kingmaker opened up like a rose to the first blush of the morning sun. A veil of irritated indifference was on his face while shooing a fly perched on the brim of his glass cup, his lips slightly pursed. “It’s about the paternity of your son,” he said in a touchy voice.

Other than the remark planting the seed of disquiet inside the politician, for a beat he was surprised. Nweke tipped his head to one side, staring at the kingmaker, searching his eyes as if trying to confirm if Ichie Omenuko put the statement out of conviction or merely telling what he heard.

Within this brief second of quietness, Nweke swallowed the remark like a bitter tablet. He appeared confused. He leaned toward the kingmaker to find out more. Nweke rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarded the kingmaker, then faltered out a question in a voice lower than when he asked about the kingmaker’s visit. “Where is this coming from?”

“In the next forty-eight hours, it’ll appear in the town magazine,” Ichie Omenuko said, “and I came to find out what you are doing about it.”

“All right,” Nweke said, nodding to himself. “You and I know this is blackmail.”

“You have to prove them wrong before the election comes up in a few days.”

Despite his self-confident posture, there comes a time when every man’s assuredness is threatened, like surprises that reveal his ability to adapt emotionally when unexpected news breaks upon the door of his soul. Why was the kingmaker talking this way, as if he didn’t trust what he already told him? Nweke thought to himself.

Stunned, Nweke tipped his neck back, his gaze sloped upward. When he tipped his head back to the kingmaker, he said painfully, “Please listen to me, Ichie. I am the biological father of that boy,” Nweke asserted.

After scratching the back of his head sloped to one side, the kingmaker lectured the politician on the customs and traditions relating to the kingship. “Our tradition demands that the king must father the heir to the throne. That’s what you—”

“I thought you brought me your endorsement?”

“Of what use is our endorsement when your disqualification looms? And if—”

“On what grounds?” Nweke interrupted again.

Ichie Omenuko poured himself some more drink, then threw down another shot. “Maybe you should call the town magazine and find out for yourself.”

The mood was now quiet inside the Obi. Nweke thought he had an advantage over the other contestant. But now, that belief had vanished. However, his zeal hadn’t dropped, though.

Maddened, Nweke wrestled out his phone from his pocket, then his other hand balled into a fist, gently pounding on the table. “All right,” Nweke murmured in a raspy voice. “I’ll call the editor. This is cheap blackmail.”

After he took out the phone from his shirt pocket, he felt contented that the secretary was gone. He had a scandal at hand and wanted nothing more than to contain it.

With a series of key tones on his phone, Nweke made the call.

For the few seconds he waited, he tapped his feet on the floor.

Moments later, Nweke spoke. “Is that the editor?”

A woman’s voice came through, then he added. “I know about your next publication about me,” he said in a soft voice, with a frown on his face, “but if you publish that fake news—” Falling short of making a threat, he sighed.

He was an influential man with the audacity that suggested assertiveness. “I know you know who is speaking, but I want to presume we never spoke. Bye.”

All his life, he’d pursued his dreams without hindrance. But now, he thought of the filthiness and desperation of politicians, who were hell-bent on gaining an unfair advantage to win elections and thwart his dream.

The Nweke’s Obi, with its detailed attention to craftsman design, now became like a grieving place. His face was bereft of hope, with his cell phone held in a hand whose elbow rested on the table.

As the soul-searching was ongoing inside the politician, his wife walking into the Obi with another tray of palm wine, probably overheard the last words of her husband’s conversation. She wrinkled her brow, set down the tray, and regarded her husband with a look of loving empathy. “You look upset. What was the call about?”

He forced a smile and tried to steady his voice. “It’s nothing important,” he said.

She frowned. Njideka crossed her arms over her chest.

With his heart thumping heavily, Nweke’s mind became busy, his thoughts quick and decisive, planning against losing the election. He had little attention for the kingmaker, who busied himself, reducing the volume of alcohol in the jug. He glanced at the Ichie and quickly dismissed him, but the kingmaker made an inaudible sound and grabbed the jug of palm wine again.

“What do I do now?” Nweke asked himself.

It wasn’t time to sit and wait for the story to break. It was a time to dig deep into its origin by visiting someone who knew about the DNA of his son.

IT WAS WITH GREAT ANGUISH that Obiageli, a sensible construction worker, received the report from the doctors that her beloved dad might not survive if he does not undergo immediate prostate cancer surgery. This was on a Wednesday afternoon in May.

Two weeks later, on that Friday, she walked to a house that represented hope for her father, who was dying. A brown leather handbag hung from one shoulder, the weight of a plastic bag overburdened with consumables in the other hand, and a thoughtful, rather sullen look was on her face.

When the shade of evening was overcoming the bright city sky, pawpaw tree leaves rustled in a breeze fragrant with rose.

The distant sound of footsteps implied that there was someone inside the house. And now what came to her mind was money. Even as she thought about the money, and her dying dad, two hurdles that would choke her plans—locating the wallet and making him stay away from it—disturbed her mind.

As she listened, the footsteps closed in on the door. Each thud was like that of a hangman’s clock counting down the seconds until the foredoomed time of the floor’s breach. Then the footsteps slowed and halted near the door. But her worry didn’t stop, though it was only the outbreak.

Before Obiageli could quieten the fringe of her fitted blue gown, the door cracked open.

After she let go of her dress, straightened to her full height—five-foot-three inches—a russet brown man with a head that glimmered under the coat of oil stood in front of her. The visitor said, “There you are, Jideofor.”

Afterward, Jideofor shuffled back a step, allowing Obiageli to strut past him. He said, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, for she knew he hardly entertained visitors without prior information about their visit. He lived a lonely life.

“Your presence… compensated for any disturbance.”

Although she usually visited him on invitation, Obiageli’s assignment today was a voluntary one, a personalized approach appropriate for a man who was her lover, who relied on her words at work, and who needed a woman to fill the gap his wife created. Of course, it was a secret intimacy upheld in the absence of Jideofor’s wife.

She waddled into the bulb-brightened living room and shot a glance over her shoulder to find out if her skimpy dress enthralled him. He was. Of course, the former law enforcement agent quickly withdrew his firm, saturated eyes from her and fixed them on the door before shutting the door.

Although Obiageli, thirty-eight, ought to have waited for him in the living room, she hurried past a TV on her right, hung on a wall demarcating the living room from the kitchen. She crossed the threshold after passing the dining table, into the corridor, then the kitchen to her right, before she poked the light switch.

The four dangling cup-styled ceiling fittings swelled with an animated white glow, illuminating the eight-foot by ten-foot kitchen with pine cabinets on white Italian plank floor tiles.

As she settled the handbag and plastic bag on the glossy sage green Formica cabinet top along the wall that demarcated the kitchen from the living room, Obiageli surveyed the kitchen. A succession of porcelain plates standing on a rack was on display. Jars of ground crayfish and pepper sat on the cabinet top as if waiting to add flavor and spice to a cooking soup. No wallet came into view.

She took out a frozen chicken from the bag before he joined her in the kitchen. Obiageli walked to the refrigerator in the corner and opened it. She squeezed the chicken inside the freezer compartment and shut the door. Obiageli preferred cooking her meals and had never loved eating outside, and she hoped there would be constant power to keep the chicken frozen until she used it.

When she turned to study, the construction worker found it interesting that Jideofor stood near the kitchen doorway, gawking at her dress curved tightly around her thighs. He didn’t say a word. Yet his eyes did the talking.

Lightning poured down from the polluted gray sky, and then the sound of thunder arose like a clarion call, urging her to proceed quickly.

Regardless of how important this assignment was, there was something about him that wasn’t easy to break—his wariness. But when he remained there like a predator waiting to pounce on its prey, she contemplated an excuse that would make him leave the kitchen and give her the privacy to search.

She considered sweeping, going by the untidiness of the floor littered with bean pods and grains of rice. But to ascertain that her host was still hooked, she peeked at him again. This time she knew what he wanted, for his overjoyed eyes ran down her butt. Yet she refused to succumb to his lascivious look, as before. Instead, she withdrew her eyes from him.

As she walked into the kitchen store—a small space opposite the kitchen door, where pots sat on wooden racks hung on the wall—to search for a broom, he left the wooden door frame of the open kitchen door and walked to the refrigerator.

By the time Jideofor opened the refrigerator door and it squeaked as if angered, she stooped down, about to sweep.

He raided the refrigerator, snapping up a can of chilled Hero beer with beads of moisture on it, and a glass cup. “What’s your plan for a drink?” he asked her, placing the drink and glass cup on a tray that was on top of the cabinet.

“Beta malt.”

Since he couldn’t stand the dust that rose with sweeping, he placed her drink on the stainless steel tray, lifted the tray, and hurried out of the kitchen.

Throughout their five months of dating, Obiageli never forgot how careless he was with his wallet at home. She presumed the wallet would be in the kitchen because he usually headed to the kitchen for food after arriving home, tossing his wallet on the cabinet top. Even as she was among the blender, microwave, and refrigerator, she hoped for loneliness till she finished.

As she swept the floor, her eyes occasionally swept through the kitchen with the precision of a cat, looking for the wallet.

Three minutes later, nothing.

There was quiet in the kitchen. However, the refrigerator compressor got excited, forcing its fan to hum a strange melody.

She closed her eyes, wondering if he’d changed his habit of leaving his wallet in the kitchen after arriving home. But she was resolute, so that she scanned the kitchen one more time. Even so, the wallet wasn’t there. And now she stood with one hand resting on her hip, contemplating what to do next. 

At 4:30 P.M., the sizzling pop of a drink broke loose from the living room. She hung her head forward, reasoning for a moment. Then she came to the understanding he must be on his drink. She returned the broom to the store without emptying the trash, which she should have done. Instead, she hurried to the living room to search, just in case he might have left the wallet there.

Obiageli was aware that Jideofor was lusting after her. He seemed to be slowly carried away by her revealing cloth. Consequently, before she crossed the kitchen door, she stopped and looked down on herself.

Under her off-white short blazer, Obiageli wore a cobalt blue sleeveless cotton gown, close-fitted down to mid-thigh and loose from thigh to knee. She unbuttoned two buttons, revealing her cleavage, to disarm him of any remaining wariness he possessed when they met again.

With cat-like agility, Obiageli pounced on the living room, carrying her handbag, attempting another conquest.

In the corridor, she hovered.

Although she knew the passageway had no furniture but a narrow space leading to the back door, Obiageli lifted her chin, eyes darting back and forth as if to make sure the wallet wasn’t in the lit corridor with burnt-brick perforated blocks.

Amid the quick, fruitless search came the sudden low creaking of what sounded like the living room armchair.

Her breathing quickened. Worry incited her, for she scurried into the living room thinking he was leaving the room, as if she was certain to find the wallet there. 

The adventure was for a devoted cause, like preserving the life of a dependable ally, by going contrary to the laws of relationship… Well, to Obiageli, such worthy intention seemed significant, rich with commitment and risk.

Inside the living room, they looked at each other. Then Jideofor turned his stare away from her face to her cleavage, down to her waistline. “What’s happening around you?” he said.

The focus on disarming him of the gift of vigilance brought upon her inattentiveness, and although he asked a question, she walked to a stool beside him, where he kept their drinks. Obiageli leaned forward over the stool in front of him, delayed a few seconds before retrieving her drink. But this was a plan to bewitch her host.

Despite the drawn draperies blocking the burnt-out daylight, Jideofor tilted his head forward, peering into her clothe with great interest, even as the living room lights glowed.

She feigned ignorance of his fascination and wanted to trigger in him an immense feeling of euphoria. But as little as the view he had seen might be, it was adequate to distract him.

In the meantime, Obiageli decided that the time for freebies was over. She gracefully lifted her drink and glass cup and walked to the dining table which was before a chest of drawers, and sat on a chair.

As she sat down and remembered that she had not realized her goal, desperation induced roughness on her face. I’ve got to get around searching the living room quickly. Obiageli sighed.

In a room where the fading scent of beer suds stood out, six slender florescent lights spilling ivory illuminance gave her away—absentminded.

Jideofor probably noticed. He looked at her indirectly. “Is everything going well with you?”

Nevertheless, she melted into an unconscious world and gave no response to his question. Of course she was processing what part of her plan to execute next. “I picked up your office key,” she said. “I think you misplaced it.” 

A clever man, Jideofor said, “So it’s a matter of concern.”

“You sound as if it’s not in my nature,” she protested.

“Interesting,” said Jideofor lightly, but could not keep the doubt out of his voice. “Where’s it?”

Obiageli, in the meantime, watched him from the edge of her dark brown eyes at a distance of nine feet. He turned and reached for his drink on the stool, so she scanned the room. When she didn’t find the wallet, Obiageli told herself to slow down with the hunt.

As he raised the can to sip from it, she reached for her purse, to search for the key. Half a minute and the struggle to bring out the key yielded a white handkerchief.

She sat there disappointed. Nonetheless, she tossed the handkerchief onto the dining table and tilted her head down. She let out a quiet grumble, “Where are you?”

In spite of his nonchalance, she was not too sure if his mind was on the beer. Neither was she convinced that his mind was on the key. Yet, contending to look unconcerned, he swallowed some more beer and set down the empty can. “Look deep inside,” Jideofor said.

When he rose from his chair and headed toward the corridor and she was sure he was out of eyesight, she raised her head and scanned for the wallet. She saw a tall rectangular mirror screwed to the wall, near the entrance door, adjoined by a one-inch square tubular pipe. A replica of a ninth-century bronze mask—a timeless Igbo Ukwu artifact—hung on the hand-stained wall behind the sofa. It was an award from his boss at the police training school, where he surpassed the instructor’s expectations.

When Jideofor entered into the living room, making his way to the armchair, beer in hand, she lifted her handbag to look for the key. Nothing. She was sure that the key was inside the handbag. Obiageli looked to the left, below crumpled pieces of paper yet there was no sign of the key.

The twenty-six inch diameter floor fan occupied itself with whirling cool air inside the living room. The heat from the dying embittered sun impeded its effort.

Later, Obiageli pushed her hand further into the handbag. Her fingers touched something at the bottom—something hard. However, to erase all doubt, she pulled out the object. A small padlock key. Then she walked to the coffee table in front of him to surrender it.

After she let it go, the key dropped onto the table beside a pincer with a soft tink. The pincer loomed larger than the key. It attracted her eyes like a magnet to iron.

Jideofor was probably stupefied for he shot his eyebrows up. His hand reached for the ring of keys on the side stool for confirmation.

Although the visitor had been impatient about the whole adventure, she ambled to her chair. And then she nonchalantly looked at the top of the black chest of drawers. Yes. The wallet was there. It enjoyed idleness on top of the drawer.

Now she was in an optimistic mood so she smiled. Obiageli plan of fondling the wallet didn’t disturb her anymore, for she knew where it was. Nor did she bother about the content of the wallet. Instead, the pincer evoked fear in her. The fear gained strength from the memory of the pincer technique Jideofor employed in extracting information from uncooperative suspects when he was in the police. He would clip tight a suspect’s finger with a pincer until he told the truth. This was illegal but he had gotten results using the technique and his superiors didn’t care. She cast a glance at the pincer again and quickly removed her eyes, looking instead all around the room: to the red draperies and back to the black chest of drawers. Obiageli sat there, for a moment hallucinating, not sure if he would be heartless to use such a technique on her if he discovered in the future her motive for visiting him today. She knew him to be a steely man, but he was not stone-hearted. Nevertheless, she directed her attention back at him.

Favoring her with a gratifying smile, he said, “This is amazing. How did I lose it?”

The previous day, while dropping a file inside his truck after work and knowing he wouldn’t come to work today, she had stolen his office key from the ring of keys he left inside the cup holder near the gear lever. She wanted to project an air of credibility when she visited him at home today.

Now an unintended laugh boomed from her lip. “Everyone loses something sometimes.”

When she reached for the zipper of her handbag, about to zip it, something happened. The twenty-six inch diameter floor fan whirling air about the room went still as death. Power Holding Company cut off supply, unannounced.

Jideofor hissed. “Why now?”

But to Obiageli, the dimness would aid her mission. It was an inspiration for poaching. 

For about a minute, there was graveyard silence.

The cool air inside the low-headroom apartment depleted fast. Within minutes, the heat spread, consuming the small house quicker than expected.

Sitting restlessly on the chair close to the chest of drawers, beating the air backward with both palms near her face, she enjoyed relief from the cool air, though it was meager. However, Jideofor raised an A4-sized cardboard sheet from the sofa, using it to fan himself. She continued fanning herself, this time, snatching her hanky from the table, whirling it close to her face,

When the heat became intolerable, Jideofor stood up and snaked through to the window behind the chest of drawers. He parted the draperies, allowing the tired sunlight press in through the glass. He slid one-half of the windowpanes. A sluggish flux of cool air married to a trace of rose from the rose flower in the courtyard sneaked inward across the tiny square aperture netting held in place by its aluminum frame.

She let out a huge breath of relief.

Although Jideofor ought to have returned to his chair, something happened that surprised her—pleased her. He dashed in the corridor’s direction, taking off like a man rushing to a village meeting where his share of cow meat was about to be given away.

Seeing the former law enforcement officer rush into the semi-dark corridor, Obiageli thought this was the best time to ransack his wallet. Perhaps this was the best chance she would ever get.

Although she couldn’t determine how long he would stay inside, she stood up. Even then, she stood still and tilted her head toward the corridor to confirm he was out of eyesight.

Notwithstanding that the former law enforcement officer was out of sight, she lay in the grip of fear, staring into the dimness that provided no clue to a human form.

Only after a door squeaked did she decide to find out how far inside the apartment he was. She tiptoed to the corridor doorway and pressed herself against the door frame, listening intently. A splattering sound crept toward her from the inside. The sound supported her thinking. He was in the toilet, peeing.

A cool breeze smelling faintly of the cloyingly sweet aroma of hibiscus fluttered around the room.

At 5:06, the applause of thunder spoke shivers through her, and after its rumbling trail, she heard the splattering continue, making what she was about to do free of any hurdles. And now she felt a sudden sting of intuition urging her to check the wallet immediately. Yet a million pinpricks washed over her. Sweat soaked her armpit, dribbling down her ribs.

When she could no longer resist the voice—an intuitive voice—and was convinced that her host was emptying his alcohol-filled bladder, Obiageli pushed off from the door frame into the living room. She inched to the wallet through the narrow space between the dining table and the chest of drawers, passing the open window. 

At the drawer, she glimpsed the wallet, yet the wallet was unmindful of her decision concerning its content. The wallet stayed rooted there. 

Obiageli, who had grown accustomed to pilfering, suddenly realized that missed opportunities sometimes don’t come again. She grabbed the wallet and turned to regard the corridor doorway again.

To disabuse her mind of any hasty assumption that he was probably in the toilet, she took a few uneasy steps forward, away from the chest of drawers, to the door leading into the corridor.

The lightless passage and the distant sound of urine splattering on the china toilet provided reassurance.

With the wallet in hand, Obiageli’s smartphone, trapped inside her bag, underneath her armpit, sounded.

Frightened, she knitted her brow. She spun quickly, taking off with quick strides to the chest of drawers, and dropped back the wallet. In fact, she opened her bag and took out the smartphone, checking the caller ID.

Since she couldn’t make or receive calls under the present ongoing operation, even when the call held the prospect of information, since to answer the call had the power to distract her and make her loose valuable time, Obiageli standing beside the drawer said in a hushed voice, “I’ve got to shut you up.”

After she turned off the phone and put it away inside her bag, she grabbed the wallet and quickly opened the zipper.

Unknowingly to Jideofor, she had monitored his activities with the USB flash drive from her previous visits, and he didn’t know that she was aware of his covert assignment—securing the former Member of Parliament—by associating with a ruthless gang leader. Nevertheless…

Behind folded papers, across currency bills, and now at the end of the right side, Obiageli found nothing. The fact that the flash drive wasn’t where she expected it left her perplexed. She shook her head in disbelief as if she were in a dream, trying to wake up. And now she swallowed a chunk of air, trying to calm herself.

Once again a new sound arose in the background. The humming sound was probably the toilet flushing. Evidently he had finished taking a piss. 

The seconds dragged by like minutes. The hunt was taking too long. But to Obiageli, it was a task of great significance—as important as saving the life of her dying father. It was the least she could do for him in appreciation for the years he sacrificed raising her up and training her in the university after her mum abandoned them. 

The battle of thoughts ensued inside her. She was thinking through several plausible circumstances. Two opinions of concern—maybe he had removed the device from his wallet. Or perhaps he switched its location. But Obiageli was sure she had seen Jideofor plant the memory stick inside his wallet on two separate occasions after working on it. However, it was not the time for guessing; it was time to quit. For this reason, she began zipping the zipper. But the thought of the money encouraged her to continue the search. She unzipped another zipper just below the one she zipped, unpinned one internal pocket, then plunged two shaking fingers inside the tight compartment, parting it with a little effort so that a whiff of leather tanning oozed out.

When Obiageli pushed her fingers deeper, her finger touched a hard substance.

She felt uplifted in her spirit. Of course, she brought out her fingers to find out what the object was. The object registered with her. It was the long-sought-after device. She let out a deep sigh, and a radiant smile on her face betrayed her satisfaction.

If she was relieved that she had found the flash drive, the new sound emanating from inside—the sound of a squeaky door—made her think he might have left the toilet. She became anxious and quickly placed the wallet on top of the chest of drawers. She held the golden yellow flash drive between her lips.

A streak of adrenaline rocketed through her veins. She reached into the side zipper of her bag and pulled out a yellow memory stick similar in size and appearance to the one held between her lips. She pushed it through the separated leather.

As the weathered door creaked once again and then slammed shut with a resounding thud, her heart skipped a beat, trapping her in a world of panic. A rising scuffle of footsteps was drawing near her as if on a tip-off. She zipped the zipper and rested the wallet back atop the chest of drawers.

In the grip of fear, she spun and vamoosed. She wanted to stay away from the wallet. But if she thought she had accomplished her mission, Obiageli had one roadblock to overcome.

When her handbag dropped to the floor with a thud as loud as a blow struck a jute bag of rice, she stooped to pick up the bag, shooting a quick glance at the corridor doorway to make certain he wasn’t within eyesight.

As she retrieved the handbag and stood up, her eyes leveled with the former police detective. Jideofor leaned against the door frame watching her.

Because they had spent intimate time with each other in the past, and her sense of observation of her lover was now second nature, always reading his mood, she felt uneasy. Obiageli saw in his eyes a suggestion that he knew something. It was a hard, vacant stare. 

Shock, like tidal waves, ran over her, yet she refused to be submerged by it. Her thoughts scrambled. Did he see her do it? Maybe he didn’t catch her. These thoughts stabbed her. If he’d caught her, she expected him to demand for an explanation, according to his behavior, except that he kept staring at her. Only then, despite her effort to gain control of herself, she smiled a wry smile and gave a quick look at the picture on the wall. “You know… that outfit looks great on you,” she said, pacing about, pointing to a picture on the wall.

“Awesome. I admire women with fashion sense.” His eyes were on the handbag tucked away underneath her armpit. “Where did you find it?”

With her hands grabbing the sofa’s backrest, she felt guilty, which happened to most sinners when no one was aware they had committed a sin. She didn’t want to assume he was asking about the flash drive, so she quickly constructed a question.

“Find what?”

“The key.”

“I stumbled upon it in front of your site office.”

He crossed into the living room. He walked toward the dining table and looked at the picture on the wall, following her gaze, though he walked slowly between the dining table and the chest of drawers. He said in a calm voice, “And you stumbled in here to hand it back.”

When he stopped, she became nervous. It dawned on her that she had not kept the wallet in the same spot where she seized it. She presumed his leg might have brushed the wallet because he was standing near where she dropped it. “You are going off about this,” she said. “What was on your mind when you misplaced it?”

Jideofor stood beside the drawer, six feet from where she stood, rapping on the glass top of the dining table. Then he looked around and saw the wallet. “Suppose I was thinking about you.”

Although his voice was soft, the seduction disturbed her. It was a distraction. Obiageli plucked her gown downward at the hips with unsteady fingers. “I don’t want us to begin this again, Jideofor,” she complained.

“A kiss would do the thanking.”

A good thief is always on the lookout for loopholes and the slightest discrepancies in patterns to exploit them to their advantage. She analyzed the situation and drew insights from his previous behaviour. With those insights in mind, she decided. “I should be on my way.”

Obiageli watched him inching close to her, circling the table. Even then, she passed the chain strap of her bag over her arm onto her shoulder and turned, heading toward the unbolted door. She murmured, “O’Lord not now.”

He snatched up her handkerchief off the table and followed her. “Here’s something you are forgetting,” he said, dangling the hanky in front of her.

Stopping a few inches from the door, Obiageli stretched out her hand to receive the hanky. “Thank you.”

As she grabbed the hanky, his dark hand—short nails with smooth fingers—mingled with hers, then their glances mingled.

She was right. He seemed to want something else. And then a strange panic gripped her. Cold shivers ran through her body as if touched by icy fingers. She gently strained at his grip. 

He maintained his hold.

She relented.

A tense atmosphere settled over the duo. And now the look he turned on her was penetrating: a lascivious look. His eyes were cast on her cleavage, with erotic pose as some he-goat that boxed a she-goat into a corner. 

Her gaze fell on the door, then the pictures on the wall, then the open window, then she stared down at his hand, outlined by the tired daylight. It rounded her waist.

Obiageli cleared her throat. “Maybe you should think about someone barging in on us—your daughter,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Did you come here to torture me wearing this outfit?”

“This is not the right moment.”

Not long after she alerted him about the open door, and she observed he kept calm, probably taking it in. She tested his grip again. This time his muscles were relaxed. Her host, whose emotion had soared to uncontrollable lust, was no longer desperate. Obiageli recoiled, forcing one foot toward the door, the other following.

“Why are you running away from me this time?” 

“So a loved one can live.” 

With a metal crunch of the door handle, the door splintered from the jamb, and Obiageli lunged into the last bright sky of the day, poised to usher in relentless chaos.