Chapter 6

 

Tipping the Scale

     The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of Aunty Ify’s small sitting room, casting a warm but unsettling glow on the walls. Inside, the tension was palpable. Ada sat on the edge of the sofa, still shaken by the thought that the boys who came earlier had traced her here. She exchanged a nervous glance with Aunty Ify, who sat across from her, equally disturbed but hiding it better. There was no doubt in either of their minds—those boys would be back. And if it wasn’t them, it would be someone worse.

     Without a word, Aunty Ify picked up her phone and dialed a number. Ada watched her, sensing the weight of what was about to happen. Aunty Ify’s connections on the street ran deep, and she knew exactly who to call.

     “Abeg, wetin dey happen? Why those boys come my side today?” Aunty Ify asked, her voice steady but low.

     The reply on the other end came fast and with a gravity that tightened the atmosphere in the room. "Mama, wahala dey. Dem put bounty on Ada head, and na Sharp Razor dey behind am. Some gangs for Ajegunle don dey alert, and na your area dem dey point fingers."

     Aunty Ify stiffened, but her face betrayed nothing. “Na who put the bounty for her head?”

     The voice on the other end hesitated. “Mama, na big politician dey behind this matter. No be small thing, o. This matter don pass wetin me I fit stop. Wetin I fit tell you now be say, make you and Ada commot that house before 8 pm tonight. Sharp Razor dey come town, and when e reach, na problem go burst.”

     Aunty Ify thanked him quietly and hung up, her face still calm, but Ada could see the fear behind her aunt’s eyes. For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Then Aunty Ify’s hand trembled slightly as she placed the phone back on the table.

     Just as Aunty Ify processed the call, Ada turned her own phone back on, feeling a twinge of guilt for having involved her aunt in all this danger. Immediately, a message from Femi popped up: “I’m being watched. We have to tread carefully. He then asked if she had contacted the American Embassy about Deji's situation, revealing that embassy officials, along with some lawyers, are currently at the station.”

     Ada’s heart skipped a beat. The embassy? How had they even gotten involved? She stared at Femi’s message, her mind racing. She knew Deji was an American citizen, but she hadn’t contacted the embassy—and there was no way Deji could have done that from detention. Who could have tipped them off? She couldn’t shake the nagging worry that this involvement might not be to their advantage. If Bala’s influence was as widespread as it seemed, even in Ajegunle, then who was really pulling the strings here? Everything around her felt like it was closing in.

     Another notification flashed, this time from WhatsApp. It was the same message from Deji’s mom that Ada had seen earlier but hadn’t read. Her stomach twisted as she opened it now. Sent hours ago, it asked if Ada knew where Deji was. The last time they’d spoken, things hadn’t ended well—Deji’s mother had made it clear that she didn’t approve of their relationship because Ada was Igbo. But now, after everything that had happened, Mummy—as Deji affectionately called her—needed to know the truth.

     After a few moments of hesitation, Ada hit record on WhatsApp and began speaking quietly but clearly. She explained everything—from the documents that revealed the fraud, to Deji's arrest, Tunde's betrayal, and how she had been declared wanted. She added that she was in hiding and had no safe place to go.

     She hit send and stared at the screen, waiting. A few moments later, her phone rang. It was Deji’s mother calling her via WhatsApp. Ada hesitated before answering, her palms sweaty as she raised the phone to her ear.

     An uncomfortable silence greeted her. Neither of them spoke at first, the tension from their last conversation still hanging between them. Finally, Deji’s mom broke the silence.

     “Ada, my dear... I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot these past few days.”

     Ada exhaled, relieved at the warmth in her voice. Deji’s mother told Ada how she had been worried sick when she hadn’t heard from him for days. She explained that she knew, despite her own disapproval, that Deji would most likely be with Ada. But when her messages to Ada went unanswered, her concerns grew. Then, just minutes after she’d sent the messages, a relative in Nigeria shared a link to a blog post, showing Deji’s face and labeling him a “dangerous criminal.” In a panic, she called Deji’s lawyer in Houston, who immediately contacted the American Embassy in Nigeria. The embassy had confirmed Deji’s arrest for drug possession but assured her they were providing all necessary consular support and safeguarding his fundamental rights.

     Listening to her, Ada felt a small wave of relief. Knowing that the embassy was involved meant the pressure was mounting on Bala and his cronies. Deji wasn’t alone.

     As the call ended, Ada lowered the phone, feeling drained. Aunty Ify had been listening silently from the side. After a moment, she broke the tension with a small, knowing smile.

     “Una don settle una quarrel, abi?” she teased in pidgin, her voice carrying a lightness that brought Ada back to the moment. Ada managed to smile, the tension in her body easing just a little.

     But the relief didn’t last. Aunty Ify’s face turned serious again as she leaned closer. "I just talked with one of the boys. We don’t have much time. They said Sharp Razor is coming by 8 pm. We can't stay here."

     Ada's heart dropped. Guilt washed over her. “Aunty Ify, I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

     Aunty Ify pulled her in for a tight hug. “Don’t be sorry, Ada. You’re my blood, and I would rather die than see anything bad happen to you.” They held each other for a long moment, both of them feeling the weight of the situation.

     After the hug, Ada immediately sent a message to Femi, updating him about her situation and explaining that she had no place to hide. She told him that she had the documents and the recording, but she didn’t know what to do with them. She hit send, turned off her phone, and leaned back against the wall, feeling utterly exhausted.

     “We need to start packing some things,” Aunty Ify said. “We can leave before anyone suspects.”

     Ada nodded, though her mind was still spinning. She began picking up basic items, stuffing them into a small bag, but she could feel the weight of their predicament pressing down on her. Aunty Ify, on the other hand, sat back down, her face thoughtful. She knew the house was being watched.

     After a long silence, she finally said, “I have a plan.”

     Ada looked up, but Aunty Ify didn’t elaborate. Whatever the plan was, she kept it to herself.

For now.

     The situation at the  police station had reached a boiling point at about 2:45pm. Officials from the American embassy and the fierce SAN lawyer who is the lead lawyer representing Deji had been waiting for hours, blocked at every turn by the police. Their requests to see Deji were met with excuse after excuse—first, the officer in charge was out on an operation, then they were told to come back the next day.

     The SAN lawyer, Chief Okafor, was a fiery man, known for his aggressive courtroom style and no-nonsense attitude. He wasn’t easily deterred. When the embassy officials began to suggest they return the next day, he pulled them aside, his voice low and authoritative. “This is exactly what they want. We are not leaving this station today without seeing our client.”

     Meanwhile, Adebayo, who had been hiding in his office since morning, was growing more nervous by the minute. He had been dodging calls from the AIG, sending only a message claiming he was on a field operation. As the tension at the station grew, he reached out to Bala. Speaking in hushed tones, Adebayo’s voice trembled with frustration. “The embassy officials and the lawyer are still here. I’ve stalled them as much as I can. They’re not leaving.”

     On the other end of the line, Bala’s anger was evident. “You had one job, Adebayo! One job. This whole mess should’ve been cleaned up already. Your boys messed up, yes, they let this situation spiral out of control.”

     Adebayo, his voice barely a whisper, shot back, “I’m doing this for you! I wouldn’t be in this mess if you had not dragged me into it .”

     “If I go down, you go down. You better stall them until I figure something out,” Bala growled.

     The station was buzzing with activity. Officers huddled in groups, speaking in hushed tones, some in vulgar pidgin. Femi, who had kept himself inconspicuous throughout the day, retreated to his office, trying to think of his next move. He knew time was running out. Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a message: “They are coming for me by 8 p.m. I still have the documents and the recording but I don't know what to do with them. I am scared.” 

     Femi’s heart skipped a beat. He understood the urgency—every second wasted now was dangerous. He knew that they couldn’t win this battle through conventional means; Senator Bala was fighting dirty, and if they were to survive, they’d have to respond in kind, using any unconventional means they had at their disposal. With swift resolve, he typed a message to Ada, instructing her to post the video of Deji’s arrest on her social media. “Tag Onos,” he added, knowing that the fiery social critic, with his massive following, had been actively questioning Deji’s arrest since it hit the news.

---

     The clock in Bala's office ticked, each second marking his rising desperation. It was exactly 3:00 p.m on wednesday, and Bala was trying every trick he knew. He had managed to reach one of the political figures involved in the deal —a man with influence and connections, someone he believed he could count on. Bala’s tone shifted into subtle manipulation as he began the call.

     “We’ve had each other’s backs in the past,” he started, his voice a mix of urgency and veiled threat. “All I need is for you to use your influence to make this embassy situation disappear. We both know it’s in our mutual interest to keep things under wraps.”

     But the voice on the other end was ice-cold. “Your ‘mutual interest’ isn’t shared by any of us, Bala. You got greedy—pocketing inflated contracts and keeping the profits to yourself. Now, you want us to fix your mess?”

     “If I go down, don’t think you’ll be safe,” Bala replied, his voice hardening. “I’ve got enough on you to bring us all down.”

     The line went silent, an uncomfortable pause hanging in the air. Then the politician’s voice came back, this time laced with a chilling finality. “You’re on your own, Bala. If you think you can drag us down with you, understand this—you’ll be dead before you even try. Remember, you chose this path out of pure greed, and none of us have any stake in it.”

     Bala felt his last bit of leverage slipping through his fingers. “But Deji’s case—it could ruin everything!” he protested, desperation now audible in his voice.

     “Deji isn’t the problem,” the man replied, calmly. “The problem is you. You’d better know when to walk away.”

     The call ended, leaving Bala staring at the phone in frustration. The ticking of the clock seemed louder, each second echoing his isolation. Tunde sat in Bala’s office, only half-listening as the conversation with the political figure fell apart, watching Bala scramble to regain control. The tension in the room was thick, but Tunde’s mind had drifted back to the path that had led him into this mess. His resentment toward Deji ran deep, born from years of jealousy and frustration.

     They had once been close friends, practically brothers, sharing a room at Deji’s grandmother’s house in Lagos. But everything changed when Deji moved to the US. Tunde had tried to be supportive, staying in touch, though it pained him to see Deji living the life he felt he deserved. The success, the opportunities—all things that seemed just out of reach for him, still stuck in Nigeria. His bitterness had festered for years, fueled by each reminder of Deji’s success abroad. Now, with the chance to ruin Deji, he felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. This was his moment, his payback for years of feeling overlooked and left behind.

     Bala’s angry voice jolted him back to the present. “Don’t just sit there looking at me! You have to do something!” Bala barked, his face contorted with frustration.

     Tunde snapped out of his thoughts, his mind calculating the next move. A sly smile crept across his face as he looked at Bala. “Call that chicken inspector of police and ask him to detain the lawyer,” Tunde suggested, his tone confident and calm.

     Bala’s eyes widened in shock at the suggestion. “What?”

     “Get some of the officers to provoke him,” Tunde explained. “Maybe by restricting his movements or telling him to leave the station. I know him—he’s fiery, and he’ll react. When he does, we can have him arrested for assaulting a police officer. That’ll buy us more time.”

     Bala’s face lit up as the plan sunk in, a glint of hope returning to his eyes. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Get on it!”

---

     At exactly 3:30 p.m., the tension at the Surulere Police Station boiled over. An officer approached Chief Okafor with a smug look, speaking condescendingly and asking him to step outside for a “chat.” When the lawyer refused, the officer escalated things, giving him a subtle push and baiting him into reacting.

     Chief Okafor, never one to back down from a challenge, lost his temper and shoved the officer back. That was all they needed. Within seconds, the officer was on the ground, dramatically claiming injury. Despite the embassy officials’ protests, Chief Okafor was immediately placed in handcuffs, sparking a scene.

     Femi stepped out of his office to find chaos unfolding in the station. The embassy officials were arguing heatedly with the police, demanding they release the lawyer. Journalists, who had been lingering outside, rushed in with their cameras, capturing every second of the drama.

     Femi turned to a nearby officer, keeping a look of feigned ignorance. “What’s happening?” he asked.

     The officer smirked. “Lawyer dey show himself. E think say na grammar we dey chop here. E go assault officer of the law; now hand don touch am.”

     Scanning the scene, Femi’s eyes landed on Adebayo, who had been mysteriously absent all day but now seemed to be orchestrating the lawyer’s arrest. It was clear to Femi that this was a calculated move by Bala’s cronies. Amid the commotion, Femi acted quickly. He scribbled a note, folded the paper, and headed towards Deji’s cell, located deep inside the station.

     As he passed Deji’s cell, Femi casually tossed the note inside without drawing any attention. Moments later, shouting erupted from inside the station. “Person dey die o! Person dey die o!”

     Everyone rushed inside. Deji was convulsing violently, barely able to breathe. The embassy official, seeing the severity of Deji’s condition, immediately stepped forward.

     “This man needs urgent medical attention! Now!”

     Adebayo, still trying to stall, hesitated, but the pressure was too intense. Calls began flooding in from higher-ups, including another call from the AIG demanding to know what was happening at the station.

     With no other options, Adebayo was forced to give in. Deji was rushed out of the station and taken to the hospital. Amid the chaos, the original plan to detain Chief Okafor was completely forgotten, and the situation spun further out of control.

     Time was slipping away for both sides, and Femi knew that the balance was beginning to tip.

     Aunty Ify’s house was tense as nightfall approached. Razor was coming. His plan was to extract Ada and disappear before anyone could react, and he had chosen the small, quiet area Aunty Ify lived in as his entry point. It was supposed to be a quick job—find Ada, grab her, and return to safety. This part of Ajegunle was his territory, or at least he thought so. He expected no trouble here.

     But Aunty Ify was ready. Razor was notorious, feared by many, but she knew he wasn’t invincible. His greatest weakness was his arrogance. He had enemies, and as long as they knew he was in Ajegunle, he was not safe. That was Aunty Ify’s plan: to turn Razor’s strength into his downfall.

     Sitting alone in the corner of the living room, she muttered to herself, “Razor abi Razor blade go know today say na Area Mama pikin e dey come play with.” Her fingers moved deftly as she dialed a number on her phone.

     By 6:30 pm, the line connected. A gruff voice greeted her, full of respect. “Area mama, I salama for you. Anything for your pikin dem?”

     Aunty Ify’s tone was sharp but calm. “Razor dey enter area, and na me e dey come for. E send boys come trace my sister pickin for my house, and I get intel say by 8 pm, e go come.”

     “Wait, Razor dey enter area? Sure say your intel legit?” the voice asked, sounding skeptical but intrigued.

     “Legit well well,” Aunty Ify replied. “You know say this matter no go involve you if no be say Razor wan do pass body.”

     The line went quiet for a moment, then came a low chuckle. “Razor don price market, and e go pay. Mama, we go lap am ASAP.”

     The call ended, and Aunty Ify calmly put her phone away, her mind already thinking several steps ahead. Razor might be a monster, but in Ajegunle, every monster had their match. She had just set the stage for him to meet his match.

     She stepped back into the living room to find Ada pacing nervously, her eyes swollen from crying, frantically shoving clothes into a small bag. Ada’s breathing was shallow, her movements jittery. Aunty Ify frowned, walking over and placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

     “Calm down,” Aunty Ify said in a steady voice. “No one can run you out of this town, Ada. You’re not going anywhere. Why are you crying like this?”

      Ada’s hands trembled as she picked up her phone and showed Aunty Ify the screen. “Look at this,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s everywhere. Deji’s arrest, the debates, everything. I don’t know what to do.”

     Aunty Ify glanced at the TV, which was blaring news reports about Deji’s case. The story was being covered on all channels, and commentators were having heated discussions. She scrolled through the stations, seeing the same thing again and again—Deji’s face plastered across every screen.

     She nodded knowingly. “Do what that police officer told you. Go public. That’s how this kind of war is won. Don’t sit here and panic.”

     Ada hesitated, but then took a deep breath. She wiped her tears, picked up her phone, and began typing furiously. With shaking fingers, she posted the video of Deji’s arrest on her instagram page and tagged Onos, the outspoken social critic who had already started raising questions about the case online. She added one last chilling sentence: If I die by tomorrow, Senator Bala should be held responsible.

     The post went viral almost immediately.

     Within minutes, Onos had shared the video across all his platforms, his commentary as fiery as ever. He backed it up with hashtags like **#PoliceBrutality**, **#FreeDeji**, and **#JusticeForDeji**. "I said it from the beginning, there's something fishy about this case," he declared in his videos, replaying clips from the police press conference and dissecting every inconsistency. 

     The response from his massive following was immediate and intense, flooding in with an outpouring of comments, shares, and retweets. The conversation began to shift, and public sympathy swung in Ada’s direction, rallying for Deji.

     As Ada watched the rising numbers on her post, comments began pouring in:

    @KemiWrites: “This is disgraceful! The police can’t keep getting away with this. We see you, Senator Bala. #JusticeForDeji #PoliceBrutality”

    @NaijaVox: “If this can happen to an American citizen, think of what’s happening to regular Nigerians every day. #FreeDeji now!”

    @TruthUnplugged: “Shady politicians like Bala need to be exposed. We’ve had enough. #WeAreWatching #StandWithDeji”

    @SamTheThinker: “This isn’t about Deji alone. This is about police oppression in Nigeria. #EnoughIsEnough #FreeDeji”

     The hashtags started trending within hours, with #FreeDeji and #PoliceBrutality climbing the ranks. People tagged mainstream media, influential activists, and government agencies, demanding accountability. Accusations against Senator Bala grew louder as more users posted about his reputation for corruption.

     Then, as Ada’s phone buzzed with an unexpected direct message from Onos himself, asking to hear her side of the story, her heart raced. She was about to type her response when the piercing sound of gunfire shattered the night, yanking her attention to the present danger surrounding her.

     The first shots were deafening. Ada froze in place, her eyes wide with terror. Aunty Ify moved fast, grabbing Ada and pulling her to the ground. “Stay down!” she hissed, her voice a low command.

     Outside, chaos erupted. Razor and his boys had entered the neighborhood, thinking it would be a simple extraction. But the rival gang had been waiting. As soon as Razor’s   Hilux rolled into the area, gunfire rained down from all sides. Razor’s convoy was caught completely off guard.

     Razor had expected backup from local boys loyal to him, but they didn’t show. Instead, he was greeted with bullets. The rival gang opened fire, not wasting a second. Razor’s boys tried to fight back, but it was clear they were outgunned and outnumbered.

     Razor himself was hit multiple times but managed to crawl back into his car, bleeding heavily from his side. He ordered his driver to speed off, but fate wasn’t on his side that night. As the car careened down the road, Razor’s escape was cut short by a police checkpoint. The officers flagged the vehicle down and, seeing the blood-soaked Razor and two dead men in the back seat, arrested him immediately.

     Inside Aunty Ify’s house, the gunfire raged on for several more minutes before it finally died down. Ada lay trembling on the floor, her face pale with fear, but Aunty Ify remained calm. “No worry,” Aunty Ify whispered, her tone surprisingly soothing. “You dey safe. No be today I start this kind life.”

     Ada nodded, her breaths still coming in shaky bursts, but she knew Aunty Ify was right. The chaos outside had been part of the plan, a carefully orchestrated move that Aunty Ify had executed flawlessly. Razor had been neutralized without them even lifting a finger. 

     Ada looked at her aunt, realization dawning. “So this was your plan all along?” she asked, her voice filled with a mix of awe and relief.

     Just then, Ada’s phone buzzed again. It was a text from Femi: “Pressure is building on both sides. Now it’s time for us to tip the scales.”

---

     Deji awoke to the sterile, cold air of a private hospital ward. The room was quiet, the faint beeping of machines the only sound. He blinked, his vision blurry, trying to make sense of where he was. His body felt weak, his limbs heavy, and a strange taste lingered in his mouth. Oxygen tubes were strapped to his face, and as he slowly raised his hand, he realized he was handcuffed to the bed.

     “What... what happened?” he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. Then it all came rushing back.

     He remembered being in his cell at the police station, helpless and desperate. Then, there was the note. The piece of paper that Femi had tossed into his cell. Chew these tablets and pretend to be sick. This is your only ticket out. In his desperation, Deji had obeyed without thinking. He had swallowed the tablets, and moments later, everything went dark.

     Now, here he was. In a hospital, but still a prisoner with two police officers standing watch at the door of his private ward in the hospital. Why would Femi give me something that made me sick? Deji wondered. Was he trying to kill me?

     As his thoughts raced, the door to the ward quietly opened. A doctor walked in, moving slowly toward the bed. Deji watched carefully, his instincts sharp. There was something familiar about the doctor’s movements.

     “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked in a low whisper.

     Deji’s eyes widened. It was Femi.

     Before Deji could speak, Femi quickly placed a finger to his lips, signaling for him to stay quiet. “Everything is going as planned,” Femi whispered, sitting down next to him. He pulled out his phone and showed Deji the news reports, the rising wave of support on social media. The country was talking about Deji’s case, and the public was starting to turn against the police.

     “I’m sorry I had to poison you,” Femi said, his voice calm but steady, meeting Deji’s bewildered gaze. “But it was the only way to get you out of that station. Without the drug, faking a convincing illness would have been impossible. Now, the story is building, and the police are under pressure.”

     Deji, still feeling weak but beginning to understand, listened as Femi explained his plan. “I’d been nursing this idea for a while,” Femi continued, “thinking that if we could make you sick enough, they’d have to bring you out for medical attention. It was a long shot, but I had a hunch it could create an opening.”

     Femi went on to describe how he had approached a pharmacist friend, asking about a prescription drug that could mimic a severe, temporary illness without any lasting harm. His friend had recommended **scopolamine** in a controlled dose, which could cause dizziness, disorientation, and convulsions when taken at a slightly higher dose. Femi had carefully noted everything—how much to use, the timing, and the possible side effects.

     “When I saw the lawyer being arrested, I knew the time had come to try it. The timing felt right, like the chaos could help us. So, I quickly wrapped the tablet in a note, explaining the plan, and slipped it into your cell. I knew they’d rush you to the hospital once you started showing symptoms.”

     Deji watched as Femi recalled the tense moments. “And during the commotion,” Femi added, “I made sure to retrieve the note and destroy it before anyone could find it. 

Deji, still weak, managed to ask, “What about Ada? Is she safe? What about the documents?”

     “Ada is fine,” Femi reassured him. “Relax. Focus on recovering. We’re far from done.”

      With that, Femi stood up to leave, glancing around to make sure no one had seen him. “I have to go before a real doctor comes in here and blows my cover. But remember—everything is going according to plan.”

      Deji watched as Femi quietly slipped out of the room. The weight of everything that had happened that night began to settle in. He was alive, but the war was far from over.

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