📍 Abandoned Cyber Café, Yaba 🕒 3:00 AM
The cyber café was a monument to failed digital dreams, its carcass smelling of dust and decaying circuitry. Three flickering monitors cast the room in an eerie, blue glow, illuminating the trio like conspirators in a clandestine ritual. Maka's fingers danced over the keyboard with a precision born of desperation, executing commands that would ripple across the web like pebbles in a dark lake. Bayo remained vigilant at the dust-caked windows, eyes scanning the empty streets outside. Layo sat between them, fingers tracing the familiar circuits of her quartz bracelet, the stone unusually warm against her skin.
"Final systems check complete," Maka announced, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Deploying 'Project River' in 3… 2… 1…"
The enter key clicked. The code streamed into the veins of the internet—not polished or packaged, but raw and open-source, free for anyone to examine, fork, or reshape. A digital stone dropped into a dark ocean, its ripples unpredictable.
Just before the launch, Maka's sharp eyes caught a ghost in the machine: a single, haunting line commented out in the core architecture. Ragged, unlike Alimotu's usual meticulous documentation. Scrawled like a frantic warning in a margin:
// JAGABAN_ALPHA - Legacy Protocol - DO NOT DELETE. - A.A.
A.A. Alimotu Adebayo. Her signature. Not a note—it was a testament.
A shiver ran down Maka's spine. Why would the cure carry the DNA of the very disease it sought to eradicate? The Unreliable Ghost of Alimotu whispered secrets she wasn't ready to hear. If the weapon shared ancestry with the enemy, what dormant aggression lingered in its circuits? She needed a kill switch, a failsafe.
As a precaution, she had embedded a fragile "governance leash"—on-chain parameters with a community-proposal threshold of 66%, hard-coded to impose a 72-hour delay on the system's most dangerous function: ANY_CENTRALIZED_NODE = THREAT. They now had three days to prevent a scalpel from becoming an indiscriminate bomb.
Deployment complete, they sat in the humming silence of the dead café. Bayo's knuckles whitened as he gripped the windowsill. Layo's bracelet clicked a nervous rhythm against her wrist. The digital stone had been dropped—would it sink without trace, or ignite the tide?
---
📍 New Safe House (Lagos Mainland) – Morning 🕘 9:00 AM
Six hours later, the silence shattered.
"You need to see this," Bayo said, his voice raw with awe and terror.
Maka had prepared for silence, for failure, for condemnation. Instead, her screen revealed a niche Nigerian developer forum exploding with activity. Posts multiplied by the second, vibrant and chaotic.
MarketWomanTech had forked their code, creating a simple interface for her market cooperative's esusu savings system. "No more bank fees eating our small-small profits. We control our money now, our way," she wrote, tears of relief almost audible in the words.
CampusCoder at UNILAG adapted it for a student loan-sharing platform. "Finally, a system that doesn't treat students like liabilities. We can pool our resources without begging from banks that see us as nothing."
Layo's artist's soul stirred. Tears welled as she scrolled. "They're not just using it… they're making it theirs. They understand the river better than we ever could."
Bayo pointed to threads of collaborative debugging. "They're fixing architecture flaws we didn't even know we had. The river isn't just flowing—it's cleaning its own waters."
Maka felt the terrifying, exhilarating weight of pride. Alimotu's vision wasn't a product to sell. It was a living, breathing ecosystem, claimed and shaped by the people themselves.
---
📍 Virtual – Across News Platforms 🕐 1:00 PM
Alhaji Adebayo's counter-strike arrived not as code, but as narrative—perfectly orchestrated, psychologically precise. Headlines screamed:
PROJECT RIVER: ANARCHIST TOOL FOR FINANCIAL TERRORISM?
UNREGULATED DIGITAL PROTOCOL THREATENS NATIONAL FINANCIAL STABILITY, EXPERTS WARN
ADEBAYO FOUNDATION WARNS: RECKLESS TECH EXPERIMENT COULD CRIPPLE NIGERIAN BANKING SYSTEM
The articles weaponized fear. "Systemic collateral damage," "reckless experiment," "life savings at risk." Market women—the very people the river sought to empower—were now framed as victims of the revolution.
Alhaji positioned his "Ajé Pay" as the safe, regulated alternative: order versus chaos, patriotism versus anarchy.
"He's not even fighting our code," Bayo said, slamming his laptop shut. "He's fighting our story. You can't fork a narrative. You can't debug a lie. He's attacking trust—and right now, he's winning."
Forum threads shifted. Concerned voices replaced enthusiasm. MamaNkechi_Textiles wrote: "This is too dangerous. Deleting my account." Her profile vanished moments later. The river began to choke, its current slowed by fear.
---
📍 New Safe House – Evening 🕗 8:00 PM
The floor was littered with takeout boxes and empty energy drinks. Exhaustion hung heavy in the air, a physical presence. The DAN's organic growth continued—but Adebayo's psychological sabotage threatened to smother it.
"We can't be just lines of code," Layo said, voice cutting through the gloom. She projected her laptop screen onto the bare wall. Colors bloomed in greens and whites, icons bright, the manifesto "Strength in Our Streams: Building Financial Freedom Together" gleaming.
"Meet Kudi River," she announced. "We're not a secret project anymore. We're a movement. We need to look like the hope we offer, not hackers in shadows." She locked eyes with Maka. "Ajé was a gilded cage. Let me build a key."
Her mockups were comprehensive: friendly mobile interfaces, educational materials on decentralization, safety guidelines, and community engagement strategies.
"Let me do this," she said, looking at Maka and Bayo. "I'll bridge your genius and the public's trust. This is how I repair what I broke—not with words, but with work."
The trio's roles crystallized: Maka, Architect; Bayo, Strategist; Layo, the Soul. Redemption became purpose, necessity.
For a quiet moment, Maka felt the weight of all things pressing down: the 72-hour leash, the 48-hour ultimatum, the faces of MarketWomanTech and MamaNkechi_Textiles. They weren't abstractions—they were a constellation of hope and fear spinning around her. She pressed her palms to the cool table, grounding herself before stepping back into the storm.
---
📍 Luxury Hotel Bar, Victoria Island 🕚 11:00 PM
Chioma appeared like a shadow between jazz notes and the warm glow of chandeliers, seated at a secluded table. She didn't look angry. She looked impressed, like a master chess player watching an unexpected but brilliant move.
"The river has reached the sea faster than anticipated," she said smoothly, sliding a tablet across the mahogany. Real-time analytics of "Kudi River" glowed: spikes of engagement following Layo's rebranding.
Her offer was clear: The Phoenix Group would provide media influence, secure servers, PR management, and political protection—but in return, they wanted a silent 15% equity stake and a direct data feed from the network's core.
"We don't want to dam your river," Chioma said. "We want to guide it toward fertile ground. For a taste of the water, of course."
She leaned in. "You have 48 hours before Adebayo's narrative solidifies. Be the revolutionaries who changed Nigeria, or the reckless terrorists who failed. We are the difference."
Maka looked at Chioma's outstretched hand, Bayo's cautious gaze, Layo's determined one. The river flowed, unstoppable—but the waterfall loomed.