Mushin – Akala District, Pre-dawn
The streets of Akala glistened with rain, slick and treacherous under the wavering glow of a few stubborn streetlights. Mutiu crouched behind a rusted gate, breath shallow, senses sharpened to the pitch of a hunting dog. Every distant shout, every scuff of a shoe against wet concrete made him flinch. Water threaded down corrugated roofs, pooling in gutters; the soft roar turned small sounds into threats.
He had been left here hours earlier under the pretense of release. In Akala, nothing that smelled like freedom ever came without a price. Bait. The thought gnawed at him. Whoever orchestrated this wanted him seen—alive, moving on a leash.
The envelope under his jacket felt heavier with every step. Inside: paper that could topple towers—contracts, bank transfers, invoices, cancellation memos, a ledger with names and numbers. Shell corporations, offshore routing, cryptic shorthand. ₦53,000,000,000 circled, with a jagged note: "margin adjustment — Orion/Eze."
He moved through alleys like breath itself: deliberate, silent, on guard. Lamp posts bore tiny black tags—markers more telling than the graffiti on walls. The North Lagos project wasn't about pipes or pavement—it was about seeing who breathed where, mapping who gathered, who spoke, who organized. Whoever controlled the grid controlled the city.
A narrow passage opened onto the main street. Mutiu counted his steps, timed his pauses, ducked behind a heap of debris. A sudden shout behind him—a door slammed somewhere close. Mutiu froze, heart hammering. A pair of eyes glinted from a doorway, a figure darted past. He almost moved too soon; instinct held him.
He climbed the jagged outer wall, fingers cut raw, heart pounding. Once over, he glanced back. The slum shimmered in early light; the alley swallowed sound. Hope flickered for a moment, but caution pressed him forward, faster now.
---
Surulere – Bayo's Office, Early Morning
Bayo watched the skyline, trying to read the city like a graph. Traders shouting, buses coughing, the day demanding. Tope stood behind him, tablet tight in both hands, eyes tired.
"Mutiu hasn't checked in," she said. "The Akala 'release' wasn't random. Whoever moved him wanted him noticed—alive, but seen."
Bayo didn't answer immediately. Finger tracing routes on the map between Akala, Mushin, Surulere, and the northern corridor. "North Lagos is the fulcrum," he said finally. "This isn't just infrastructure. It's a control contract. Tens of billions. Orion Holdings. Shareholders tied to Eze. They don't want fairness—they want complicity."
"Tope's mouth thinned. "And you bid for this?"
"I did," Bayo said. "Our design prioritized transparency and community safeguards. We refused their twenty-five percent kickback clause. They used that to award the contract to someone compliant."
She swallowed. "So they strip a neighborhood, map people's moves, and you're painted the outsider."
"Refusal makes them hate you," Bayo said. "Unpredictability makes you dangerous. Mutiu's alive because he knows streets. But his 'freedom' looks like bait. They expect him to bite."
Bayo paused, fingers on the map. I put him in the line of fire. He knows this. I hope he trusts me.
---
Mushin – Narrow Streets, Late Morning
Mutiu's boots sloshed through ankle-deep water. Every shadow felt like an eye. He rifled through the envelope under a balcony: Orion Holdings Ltd — invoices padded forty percent; Greycoat Services — ghost payrolls as 'consultancy'; Balogun Foundation — offshore accounts in Mauritius, Seychelles.
Names scribbled beside bigger ones: O.T. Balogun, K. Ofori, Eze Holdings. The ledger tied a commissioner's signature to charity payments. Cold clarity settled in him: this thread could unravel them.
A man in a black jacket fell in behind him—calm, patient. A chess player. Mutiu slowed, let him pass, looped around, slipping like smoke. He pulled a crumpled card from his pocket, thumbed Tope's encrypted number. Envelope intact. Offshore trace. Tail obvious. Need extraction.
He hit send and moved. Then—a near-miss: a rusty gate creaked above. A shadow lurched, but he ducked just in time. Heart slammed. They're close. They're always close.
---
Surulere – Office Strategy, Midday
Bayo and Tope leaned over printed pages, mapping flows and possibilities.
"They want end-to-end control," Tope said, tapping the chart. "₦53B, lifetime returns. Shareholders expected kickbacks. You refused. So they escalated."
Bayo drummed fingers. "We need something they can't wipe. Paper leaves a fingerprint. A chain with witnesses. Voices from the inside."
Tope hardened. "And legal counsel, international outlets, physical couriers. Port Harcourt handoff to Ireti's line. Digital trail poisoned? Physical proof remains."
Bayo nodded. "Mutiu?"
"He's bait," Tope said bluntly. "If they think he carries evidence, they'll deploy resources. We can use that—if careful."
Phone buzzed. Mutiu's number flashed.
MUTIU (text): "B… moving. Streets feel wrong. Watchers at every turn."
Bayo: "Eyes open. Trust nothing until safe house. Easy routes are dangerous."
---
North Lagos – Boardroom Shadows, Afternoon
Mr. Eze in a leather chair, polished wood gleaming. "He defies us," he said. "Refuses terms, refuses influence."
Junior partner: "Public sympathy is shifting."
Eze's eyes narrowed. "Isolate before sympathy becomes policy. Freeze accounts, pressure lenders, sue on contract breach. Quiet first. If fails, make loud example."
Younger associate: "Increase surveillance. Harass, don't maim."
Eze smiled: business. political. ₦53B cannot go to charity.
---
Mushin – Afternoon Tension
Mutiu paused beneath a doorway. Expected intercept, pre-planned decoy: burned SIM, trackable bootprint. Tail followed the wrong paper.
Safe house: Aminat, bakery owner. She pressed water and soap into his hand. "You walked into a trap. Fish learn to bite back."
Mutiu laughed, small and ugly. "Then we bite."
---
Surulere – Evening Resolve
Office hummed. Ledger parsed, shell nodes traced, routing mapped.
"Tope: "We need legal chokehold. Affidavits. Whistleblower. Junior partner with conscience. Paper overseas is immutable."
Bayo: "Chain of custody. Protect Mutiu's path. Port Harcourt handoff 0200. Press release in two windows."
"Tope's relief was brief, sharp. "Bold."
"Necessary," Bayo said. "Arrogance confuses silence with safety. Their silence costs exposure."
Outside, Lagos pulsed—vendors shouting, sirens distant, ordinary life preserving city's heartbeat.
---
Closing Note
Night swallowed Lagos. Mutiu moved like a shadow with purpose. Bayo orchestrated a cathedral of truth. ₦53B hovered over the city: contracts, shell firms, offshore accounts, political favors.
They were not safe. Not yet victorious. But awake, and awake was dangerous.
Tomorrow, tables would shift. Lies would spin. Threats sharpen.
"Every breath has a cost," Bayo murmured. Then louder: "Every cost must be met with resolve."