Mushin – Safe House, Morning
Mutiu woke to the sound of dripping water and the faint hum of a generator struggling in the next building. The room was small, the walls cracked and painted a dull brown that seemed to swallow the little light that crept through the boarded window. The smell of diesel and damp clothes filled the air.
He sat up slowly, eyes sweeping every corner. One door. One nailed window. One exit. The so-called safe house didn't feel safe at all—it felt like a cage with better paint.
His mind replayed last night's escape in fragments: the alley, the men in the shadows, the lie of freedom. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tremor beneath his skin.
Reaching beneath his shirt, his fingers brushed the edge of the envelope strapped to his chest. It felt heavier now. He spread its contents on the creaky table—documents, payment slips, signatures. And then he saw it—one sheet missing.
The folds were uneven, and a faint trace of cologne lingered. Someone had touched the truth while he slept. He flipped through the remaining pages again. Gone was the one with two underlined names: a commissioner and a minister—the page that could blow open everything.
He stood still, heart thudding. They were already inside.
Then his burner phone vibrated. A new message flashed:
Unknown: They know where you are.
He froze, breath caught in his throat. The city outside buzzed faintly, indifferent.
Mutiu straightened, forcing calm. He had been used before, treated as a pawn on boards much larger than himself. But not this time. This time, he had something they wanted badly enough to kill for.
He gathered the envelope, slid a small pistol from under the bed, checked the clip, and whispered, "If I'm bait, then I choose where the hook lands."
He turned the handle, stepping out into the rain-slicked morning.
Surulere – Bayo's Office, Mid-Morning
Bayo hadn't slept. The office was cluttered with coffee cups and documents scattered like debris after a storm. The glow from his laptop painted his face a tired gray-blue as he traced transaction paths through offshore accounts and shell companies.
The deeper he dug, the more everything pointed to one name: Eze Holdings.
Tope stood beside him, her tablet lit with reports. "It's not development, Bayo—it's control. Whoever wins that North Lagos contract owns import rights for ten years. Billions. And guess whose name appears in Amaka's old files?"
Her voice softened when she saw his eyes tighten at that name.
Amaka.
Her laughter still echoed faintly in his memory—brave, sharp, too honest for her own safety. He glanced toward her press badge lying beside his keyboard, the laminated plastic cracked down the middle. He hadn't thrown it away. It reminded him what silence cost.
"Everything circles back," he murmured. "Every death, every threat. The North Lagos bid was never about profit. It was a trap. If I didn't bend, they'd break me publicly."
"And you refused," Tope said.
"As always," he replied, voice cold but steady. "But refusal doesn't stop them—it only makes them desperate."
Before she could speak again, Bayo's phone buzzed—an encrypted text.
Mutiu: Safe house compromised. Moving.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. "He's still alive. But the net is closing."
North Lagos – Eze's Compound, Afternoon
The compound gleamed like arrogance incarnate. Walls of glass caught the sunlight and hurled it back at the world. Inside, the air smelled of leather and money.
Mr. Eze sat at the head of a polished table, a glass of scotch in hand, advisors flanking him like shadows.
"Mutiu escaped Akala," one reported, eyes flicking to a live map on the wall. "He's within Mushin. Surveillance confirms movement."
Eze didn't look up. "Contain him. Quietly. I don't want news headlines. Bayo Adeniran must remain discredited, not sanctified."
Another man hesitated. "Sir, there's a growing risk of leaks. Someone inside the board might be… sympathizing."
Eze's gaze lifted, slow and sharp. "Sympathy?" He smiled faintly, the kind that made men flinch. "Then clean the board before you clean the streets. Betrayal is contagious."
He turned to the vast window, where the ocean shimmered faintly under a haze of humidity. From here, Lagos looked tame—small, glimmering, obedient.
"Power," Eze murmured, "is like water. Control its flow, and you decide who drowns."
He took a long drink, eyes reflecting the horizon. "If Bayo wants to play hero, then let him pay for truth with blood."
Mushin – Pursuit, Dusk
By dusk, the sky burned rust and orange over Mushin. The air was thick with exhaust and tension. Mutiu moved quickly through narrow backstreets, the envelope pressing against his chest like a second heartbeat.
He could hear them behind him—two, maybe three men. Their footsteps were deliberate, unhurried. Hunters giving their prey a head start.
He ducked into an alley, vaulted a fence, and dropped into a courtyard littered with broken glass and posters of forgotten campaigns. A man stood in the half-light.
Mutiu raised his pistol.
"Easy," the man said. "It's me."
Goke stepped forward, his jaw bruised, eyes sharp. One of Bayo's old field contacts.
"They're close," he said. "You can't stay here."
"You shouldn't be here either," Mutiu hissed.
Goke smirked, wincing from the pain. "They already found me. But I'm not here for them. I'm here because Bayo will need proof—before this city swallows him whole."
He handed over a small flash drive. "Everything they buried. You're not the only one they tried to use."
Before Mutiu could reply, gunfire cracked through the evening. Bullets tore into the wall, spraying dust and debris.
"Move!" Goke yelled, shoving him toward the gate.
Mutiu sprinted through the back exit, lungs burning. The chase spilled into the street, horns blaring, bystanders scattering. As he ran, realization hit like thunder—his freedom hadn't been a mistake. It was a trap meant to draw out every ally Bayo still had. And it had worked.
He cut through a narrow passage near a schoolyard. Children's laughter echoed faintly from behind rusted gates. It hit him harder than the gunfire—what kind of city would their laughter grow into if men like Eze kept winning?
He ran faster.
Surulere – Night Decisions
The generator coughed once, twice, then steadied. The dim light cast long shadows across Bayo's office. He sat at his desk, eyes locked on the laptop. A new message blinked on the screen—no sender, no subject, just a single file.
He clicked. Scanned pages filled the screen—contracts, signatures, bank trails. The missing pages from Mutiu's envelope.
Kickback agreements. False approvals. Ministers' names.
Proof.
Tope leaned over his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. "If we release this, Lagos burns."
Bayo's fingers hovered over the keyboard. "And if we don't, the poison keeps spreading."
For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was the hum of the ceiling fan. Then Bayo spoke, calm but resolute. "Prepare the release. Encrypt it. But hold until I say."
Tope hesitated. "If they trace it, Bayo, we lose everything—our names, our freedom—"
He stood and looked out the window. The city shimmered in the distance, a thousand lights flickering like restless souls. "They already took everything that made this city clean. What's left to lose but breath itself?"
He turned back. "We give them air, Tope. Even if it chokes us first."
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then let's make it count."
He watched the lights again, whispering under his breath: "Let them see us bleed if they must—at least they'll know we fought."
Closing Note
Outside, Lagos pulsed under dim orange lights—alive, complicit, unhealed.
Mutiu vanished into the night, the envelope and flash drive hidden beneath his jacket. Goke's warning echoed in his mind: truth burns slow, but it never dies quietly.
Across the city, Bayo sat in silence, facing a truth heavy enough to crush nations.
And far away, Mr. Eze watched the skyline from his compound, unaware that the first cracks had already appeared beneath his empire's marble floors.
In Lagos, silence was safety.
But truth—truth was the loudest death sentence of all.