Chapter 8

 The Clean Up

The quiet Friday morning stretched over the city, deceptively calm after days of chaos. As the first call to prayer echoed across the cityscape, stirring the faithful from their sleep, something ominous was already unfolding behind closed doors. News of an upcoming presidential address spread like wildfire across every media outlet.With a tension that hung in the air, people where eagerly waiting to hear what the president has to say.

Inside the presidential villa, aides shuffled nervously around the president, whose face was a practiced mask of calm. He sat at his grand desk, leaning back as if at ease, but the silence in the room hinted otherwise. They briefed him on the security fallout—the protests sparked by the Bala scandal were spreading like wildfire, and tensions were high in several major cities. People wanted answers. People wanted heads.

One of the aides, visibly anxious, leaned in close. “Sir, we’re seeing mass gatherings. Citizens are furious; they want a strong message.”

The president only nodded, gaze steady. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced a national scandal, but this one felt different. The people were angrier, louder, less willing to be pacified by the usual half-hearted promises. This time, a figure high up had been exposed, and for the first time, the public could smell blood. Still, he exuded an aura of confidence. His eyes shifted to the clock on the wall: 8:45 a.m.

He had only fifteen minutes until he went live.

Just then, an aide approached, passing him a secure line phone. “Sir, you have a call.”

With a brief nod, he dismissed his aides, watching them file out and close the door. Once he was alone, he lifted the receiver to his ear, his expression unchanged, but his eyes sharpened with quiet anticipation.

“It’s done, sir,” came the calm, emotionless voice on the other end. “The target is down.”

The president’s lips quirked slightly into a faint, cautious smile. “And all loose ends?”

“Secured. It will be reported as a suicide. He Poisoned himself—an overdose.” 

“Sad,” he replied, his tone light but distant, as if discussing a small unfortunate mishap. “So sad it had to end this way… Anyway, I have a country to address in a few minutes.”

He placed the phone down, his expression now cold and calculating. For him, Bala was a liability whose usefulness had ended, and this ‘cleanup’ was nothing more than a necessary action in the high-stakes world of politics. He composed himself, rising to face the nation, knowing he would deliver not just a message, but a careful performance, orchestrated to divert the rage of millions.

---

When the broadcast began at 9:00 a.m., every television and mobile screen across the country was tuned in. The president’s face filled the screen, a carefully crafted look of weariness and empathy across his face as he addressed the nation with calm, measured words.

“My fellow citizens,” he began, his voice laced with a subtle urgency, “in the past few days, we have witnessed events that have shaken the very core of our nation. These revelations have been painful. Your anger is justified. I, too, feel the weight of this injustice. Together, we are grieving for what has been lost—the trust, the faith in the leaders we rely upon.”

The camera zoomed in on his face, revealing a flash of emotion. The speech was hitting its mark. He was speaking to the anger, the disillusionment, and the cries for justice that had spilled into the streets.

“To those of you who have taken to the streets, I hear you. I have personally granted amnesty to all persons arrested during the protest and have ordered the police to release them and drop all charges against them.” He paused, letting that sink in. A murmur went through the crowds watching in squares, markets, and homes. He was giving them something, a symbolic olive branch.

“And to the communities who have been wronged,” he continued, “who have been let down by failed projects and empty promises, I assure you: intervention is coming. We will rebuild what was taken from you.”

The protests simmered as people listened. Slowly, they started believing that maybe, just maybe, someone up there was listening.

Then, almost casually, he addressed the elephant in the room—the role of the youth in driving the exposure of corruption. “To our young citizens, I commend your courage to stand up for what is right. You have given a voice to those who felt voiceless. But I must remind you,” he said, his voice carrying a slight edge, “our country is not governed on the keyboards of your phones. We have institutions in place. They are not perfect, but we must work within them to bring change.”

To the likes of Onos, watching from his room with a look of simmering anger, this part of the speech felt like a slap in the face. A subtle threat, a reminder of the power structure that wouldn’t change. He wanted to scream at the screen. But he knew that wouldn’t be enough to reach people. 

As the president’s words lingered, stirring emotions across the nation, an air of reckoning hung heavy. People watched the broadcast, many of them caught in quiet reflection. But then, something shattered the moment entirely. Every news station lit up with bold, flashing text: Breaking News: Senator Bala Found Dead. Possible Succide.

At that moment, Tunde sat in his  apartment, watching the president's address while preparing to face what he feared would be his last day at the news network. He tugged nervously at his shirt collar, his stomach in knots. The unfolding scandal had upended everything, and he couldn’t shake the shame of knowing he’d betrayed a friend who never saw it coming. Today, the investigative committee would reveal their decision about his fate at the network, and regret tightened its grip with each second of the broadcast.

Reaching for the remote, he prepared to turn off the TV and head out to face whatever was waiting for him, when the breaking news banner blazed across the screen. Bala Found Dead. His hand slipped, and his car keys fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. For a second, Tunde froze, his mind blank with shock as he struggled to process the announcement. A question he didn’t want to ask rose in his thoughts—"Am I going to end up this way?" Before he could collect himself, his phone rang, startling him back to reality.

“Where are you? You’ve got a meeting with the investigative committee at 10 a.m. sharp,” came the voice on the other end.

After a weak, mumbled response, Tunde picked up his keys with trembling hands and headed out, murmuring to himself, “Every man for himself… Let me go and face mine.”

At the Force Headquarters, CSP Adebayo sat in the lobby, waiting for his own disciplinary panel. The president’s address played on a large screen, but Adebayo was only half-listening, his thoughts turned inward as he reflected on how he’d landed here. Memories came unbidden, taking him back to his early days in the force, back when he was a corporal. He could still recall his first meeting with Bala—how that single, questionable favor had set him on a path paved with small compromises that soon turned to corruption. Over the years, Bala had helped him rise through the ranks, and for a while, Adebayo thought the future was bright. But now, as he awaited his judgment, the dreams of high rank felt distant, like something from another lifetime.

His phone buzzed with an onslaught of notifications, snapping him from his thoughts. A stream of headlines about Bala’s sudden passing flashed across his screen. Heart pounding, he looked up at the lobby television and saw the same news banner, confirming it wasn’t some cruel rumor. Bala was gone. With him, any promise of protection or influence was gone, too. A cold realization hit Adebayo: this was the end of everything they’d built.

Meanwhile, across the nation, the announcement hit like a hammer. Phones buzzed, websites buckled under the sudden surge of traffic, and social media flooded with a whirlwind of disbelief, speculation, and outrage. News blogs and major outlets framed the incident as a tragic close to Senator Bala’s career—a man supposedly overcome by his own mistakes and guilt.

Online, reactions were mixed. Many people questioned the “official” story, unwilling to accept such a tidy ending:

“So we’re supposed to believe he just decided to end things on his own? This stinks of a cover-up.”

“Bala had too many skeletons. They got rid of him—open your eyes, people!”

Others, however, were ready to leave the whole ordeal behind, grateful for a conclusion to the endless chaos.

“Good riddance. This saga’s finally over. Can we please just move on now?”

“He’s gone, and that’s what matters. Let’s focus on rebuilding, not on more conspiracy theories.”

In the midst of this frenzy, Onos’s frustration blazed onto his timeline. His posts erupted with raw anger, each one challenging the convenient narrative that most people seemed eager to accept. “Just like that, huh?” he typed furiously. “A man with secrets darker than a midnight storm suddenly decides to end it? Too convenient. Remember when Deji was first arrested? I told you something wasn’t right, but no one listened. Now Bala’s gone, and you still don’t see it!”

But his anger seemed to fall on deaf ears. Comments flooded in, dismissing his insistence as another outburst from an eternal skeptic:

“Give it a rest, Onos. Not everything is a conspiracy!”

“We’re tired of your endless rants. Ever think he felt actual remorse? It’s possible.”

“It’s over, man. Let us move on.”

Onos scrolled through the backlash, frustration building as he saw just how many people wanted to turn the page without questioning the past. For the majority, this "conclusion" was a welcome one, a neatly wrapped package that let them look away from the darker truths. Onos, however, couldn’t ignore the feeling gnawing at him—that this story was far from over.

—

In the quiet of the hospital, Deji’s ward felt like a world apart. He sat up in bed, eyes locked on the television, absorbing the full impact of the scandal sweeping the nation. The public’s demands for his release, the outcry for Ada’s safety—it all felt surreal. Now, with the breaking news about Bala, a small spark of hope flickered within him. For the first time since his arrest, he dared to believe that justice might finally be possible. Yet the cold bite of the handcuffs tethering him to the bed was a sharp reminder of his reality.

Beside him, Chief Okafor flipped through his files with a steady, determined focus. His presence was calming, a solid anchor amid the chaos. “We’re close, Deji,” Okafor said quietly, without breaking his concentration. “I’ve filed for your bail, and to dismiss Ada’s warrant. It’s early, but Fridays are tight; courts close early today.”

Deji swallowed, his voice a murmur of gratitude. “Thank you, Chief. And… Ada? I need to see her.”

The lawyer looked up, his expression softening with understanding. “Give me a moment. I’ll set up a video call.”

As Deji waited, his thoughts drifted back to the previous day when members of the investigative committee had come to question him. They had probed every angle, even asking about the poisoning incident. When they’d pressed for details, he had felt a moment’s hesitation but then crafted a story that shielded Femi’s involvement. A pang of guilt had gnawed at him, knowing that his answers cast suspicion on Adebayo, a man not directly involved in this incident. But another part of him, hardened by the injustice he’d endured, reasoned that Adebayo’s long history of corruption made him far from innocent. In a way, it felt like a strange balancing of scales.

Moments later, the screen came to life, and there she was—Ada. Her face was a mixture of relief and exhaustion, her smile faint but unmistakably warm. Deji’s heart leapt at the sight of her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Ada,” he breathed, his voice catching in his throat.

Her smile widened just slightly, but her eyes shimmered with worry. “Deji, I was so scared. I thought…” Her voice broke, and she quickly wiped at her eyes.q

“I’m so sorry, Ada. For everything. You’ve been through so much because of me.” His words faltered, emotions rushing up to the surface as he fought to stay steady. “But I promise you, this will be over soon, and we’ll be together. Very soon.”

Just then, a familiar face joined the call. Deji’s mother appeared on the screen, her gaze fixed intently on Ada. Ada blinked, momentarily taken aback, her voice soft with surprise. “When did you arrive in Nigeria?”

Deji’s mother’s expression softened, her tone unexpectedly warm. “This morning. I came straight from the airport to see my son.” She glanced at Deji, her face softening further, then looked back at Ada, her eyes filled with a blend of gratitude and regret. “Ada, I owe you an apology. I misjudged you, unfairly, simply because of your tribe. But I see now that true loyalty knows no boundaries. You’ve stood by my son when others turned away. For that, I am deeply grateful.”

Ada’s eyes filled with tears, and she managed a quiet, heartfelt, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Deji reached out toward the screen, as if reaching for Ada despite the digital divide. “We’ll get through this, Ada. Together.”

In that moment, as they sat on either side of the screen, the weight of all they’d endured pressed down on them, binding them closer. They weren’t the same people they’d been just a week ago. But now, whatever lay ahead, they knew they would face it side by side.

Click on this link to go to chapter 9 "Freedom At Last"