Oshodi – Nightfall
The safehouse was colder than it should've been. Power flickered weakly, the bulbs trembling against the hum of a tired generator that coughed every few minutes like an old man too stubborn to die. The air smelled of rust, fear, and damp paper — the scent of survival.
Bayo Adeniran sat on a broken desk, papers from the Lagos North Development Contract spread before him like bones from a grave. Each page carried its own ghost — signatures of betrayal, trails of missing funds, promises signed in silence.
Dare stood by the window, cigarette trembling between his fingers as he watched the alley below. His reflection flickered in the cracked glass — a man caught between duty and dread. Tope paced the room, her footsteps soft but restless, her phone still dead, her faith not far behind it.
"They've started arrests," she said, her voice tight. "Mutiu's gone. Picked up this morning in Surulere."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Bayo didn't look up. His eyes were locked on a ledger — lines of ink that cut deeper than any blade.
"Bayo?" Dare pressed. "What is it?"
He slid the sheet across the table. "Balogun wasn't just approving payments. He was diverting them through offshore shells — all tied to the Chief's so-called charities."
Tope froze mid-step. "The same charities that funded the city's air-cleanup project?"
He nodded grimly. "That's why the blackout was timed. They erased the digital records, but they couldn't erase paper."
Dare crushed his cigarette underfoot. "So that's what Lagos North really was — an air project built to choke the truth."
The generator sputtered again. For a moment, they all stood in half-darkness — faces lit by the pale glow of a single bulb.
Bayo leaned back, exhaustion settling on his shoulders like armor made of fatigue. "We can't go to the press yet. They'll twist it before it breathes. We need something they can't spin — something no one can deny."
Tope's eyes narrowed. "Like what?"
He met her gaze, the faintest flicker of resolve cutting through the dimness. "Like their voices."
---
Ikoyi – Chief's Study – Later That Night
The Chief sat alone, the glow from his desk lamp reflecting off his glass. The silence of power filled the room — heavy, controlled, deliberate.
He replayed drone footage of Bayo's car leaving the Island, the grainy image looping again and again.
His fixer waited nearby, shoulders tense. "They have fragments, sir. The journalist — Dare — he's been reaching outside the state."
The Chief smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. "Then let's remind Lagos who owns the mic."
He rose and looked out the tall window where the lagoon caught faint light from the city's wounds. "Tomorrow, leak footage of Adeniran taking 'foreign donations.' Paint him as the face of chaos. Let the people choke on doubt before they ever breathe truth."
The fixer hesitated. "And if he fights back?"
The Chief turned, eyes cold enough to freeze the room. "Then we make sure his allies stop breathing first."
Lightning flashed over the lagoon, white against the dark. For an instant, his reflection looked less like a man — more like a storm pretending to be human.
---
Mainland – Abandoned Printing Press – Midnight
The air smelled of ink and rust, ghosts of revolution clinging to the walls. Once, this place had printed manifestos and pamphlets that toppled old kings of the city. Now, it waited for a new rebellion.
Tope crouched beside a dusty terminal, wires snaking across the floor. "We can use this frequency — 107.8 FM. It's weak, but clean. If we hit before dawn, we can reach half the city."
Dare frowned, shaking his head. "FM radio? That's ancient."
"Exactly," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "That's why they won't see it coming."
Bayo stood by the console, adjusting the worn mic stand. His voice was calm, but his hands trembled slightly. He wasn't afraid of dying — only of Lagos dying unheard.
"Once we speak," he said quietly, "there's no turning back. They'll come for us, harder than ever."
Tope looked up, her face half-lit by the flickering light. "Then let's make it worth the hunt."
Outside, rain began again — soft at first, then fierce, drumming against the cracked windows. The sound felt like the heartbeat of the city itself.
---
TRANSMISSION
Bayo took a deep breath. The mic hissed faintly under his touch.
"This is Bayo Adeniran," he began, voice low but clear. "You've been told silence is peace. But silence is just the sound of breath being stolen. Tonight, we speak."
Static filled the airwaves — then clarity.
Across Lagos, the forgotten frequency came alive. Taxi drivers paused mid-shift. Market women froze mid-sale. Students in dark dorm rooms leaned closer to flickering radios.
"The Lagos North funds were stolen," Bayo said, each word deliberate. "The Chief and his circle buried your future beneath their contracts. But truth breathes still. And as long as we breathe — Lagos will not kneel."
His voice rolled across the city like thunder that refused to fade.
---
Ikoyi – Same Time
The Chief's glass shattered against the wall. "Cut it off! Now!"
His fixer lunged for the console, barking orders into a dying line. But the analog signal was everywhere and nowhere — too old, too unpredictable to trace.
For five burning minutes, Bayo's words flooded Lagos like wildfire through dry fields.
Then — silence.
The Chief stood still, his chest rising with slow fury. "Find him," he said. "Tonight."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It was the kind of quiet that promised death.
---
Lagos Outskirts – Dawn
The safehouse was gone — raided, stripped, erased.
Bayo, Tope, and Dare sat in a battered car beneath a dying billboard, watching the sunrise break through smog and exhaustion. The air smelled like burnt metal and possibility.
Dare turned the radio knob. Only static. "They shut us down," he muttered.
Tope shook her head slowly. "No. Look."
Across the street, a young boy stood barefoot on the curb, holding up a cracked phone. The screen glowed faintly — replaying the broadcast someone had recorded live.
People gathered — mechanics, traders, students, bus conductors. They leaned close, whispering the words, passing them like oxygen.
The truth had escaped.
Bayo leaned back in the seat, chest heavy, breath trembling. "They'll call us traitors," he said quietly.
Tope smiled faintly, eyes still on the boy. "Let them. We've already changed the air."
He looked at her — tired, resolute. "Then we keep breathing."
She nodded. "Until they can't silence us anymore."
Outside, the wind shifted — carrying the scent of rain and rebellion.
And somewhere beyond the waking city, sirens began to wail.
But Lagos — Lagos did not flinch.
It was breathing again.
Not in fear.
In defiance.