https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaAL9js5kg71fKDY3C1U The black card sat in his palm like a curse. It was heavier than it looked. Smooth, but sharp at the edges, as if it had teeth. The gold letters glinted under the hallway lights: Lady Mona Bimbo-Adeleke. No title. No address. Just a name—and power you could feel pressing into your skin like heat from a fire too close to your face. Charles stood frozen just outside the Blow.ng HQ studio, the echo of her last words still ringing in his head. “You disappointed him.” But how? He didn’t even know what the plan was to begin with. Nobody told him what to say. Nobody coached him. All he did was speak from the same heart that bled in the video. And now that same heart was panicking. "Na 9ja you dey. Watch your back." His grip tightened around the card. For a second, he considered going back into the building to ask questions. But questions never bought safety in Nigeria. Sometimes they just got you killed. He stuffed the card into his pocket, walked down the marble steps, and out into the humid Lagos evening. The Rolls Royce was long gone. He hadn’t expected a ride back anyway. His legs began to move. He walked. Slowly, then faster. Past a woman selling boiled corn. Past a danfo conductor shouting at passengers. Past a shop blasting FAMILY by Priesst through blown-out speakers. Each step felt like a rewind—back through the studio, the applause, the camera lights, Joy’s name leaving his lips. But as he reached the bus stop, Lagos caught up with him. A child ran barefoot across the road. An old man was preaching about hell and sin on a megaphone. Two boys were laughing over a spilled bottle of Coke. Life moved. By the time he reached the bus stop, sweat had baptized his shirt. He waved at a battered yellow-and-black Toyota Corolla; the car slowed. Not a Bolt or Uber—just a dented, Lagos cab with a loose bumper and a driver who looked like he’d been driving since Obasanjo’s first term. “Island to Ikotun,” Charles said, opening the back door. The man squinted. “Omo, no be ₦15k be that o.” “₦15k ke? You wan carry me reach heaven?” The driver hissed. “If you know road, abeg dey go. Island sun dey hot pass pepper soup, you dey talk anyhow.” Charles sighed. “I get ₦7k.” The driver started the car like he was starting a fight. “Enter. But if hold up hold us, you go drop money for fuel.” Charles entered. Inside smelled like sweat, dust, and the ghost of a long-dead air freshener. The windows rolled halfway, the handle on his side broken. As the car pulled into traffic, Charles stared out. His thoughts drifted. To the interview. To Lady Mona… who was she, really? “Call me… if you want to live long.” Then… to Mr. Ahmed. He wasn't a politician. He was who politicians feared. Old money but quiet. Silent moves. No interviews. No photos. Just whispers and warnings. His hands weren’t clean—they were soaked, scrubbed, and re-soaked in the blood of opportunity. If Nigeria was a jungle, Mr. Ahmed was the lion pretending to be a tree. His wealth? Built from a graveyard of partnerships. Oil deals that never made the news. Government contracts that vanished into the mist, Blow.ng was one of his investments. One of his earliest mentors, Honorable Chief Bimbo-Adeleke, was found dead in his Banana Island mansion twenty years ago. Official reports said it was a heart attack. Lady Mona was Mr. Ahmed’s sharpest knife. But not born—made. She was the daughter of Late Honorable Chief Bimbo Adeleke—Mr. Ahmed’s closest friend and mentor during his climb to power. But power has it’s price. And when Honorable Bimbo became a liability, Ahmed paid it. In full. They said the man had a heart attack. They didn’t say who gave it to him. Mona was 8. Her mother, already gone. She saw her father lowered into the ground by men in black suits, and one of them holding her tiny hand. Mr. Ahmed. He didn’t raise her like a child. He trained her like a soldier. She learned the stock market before she learned how to braid her own hair. She learned to shoot before she learned to flirt. She could recite constitutions like lullabies and stab a man with words or knives, depending on her mood. Daring. Dangerous. Deceptive. But somehow… decent. Everything she was, Ahmed had made her. She was his most loyal lieutenant. His fixer. His mouthpiece. His warning shot. To the world, she was polished perfection. But to those who crossed Mr. Ahmed, she was the last face they ever saw. And now… she’d given Charles her number. “Guy!” The cab driver’s voice pulled Charles back. “You dey hear me? I say hold-up dey front o, we go pass inside Ikeja.” “Yeah, yeah. That’s fine.” The driver eyed him through the rearview. “You be that guy wey do that video abi?” Charles didn’t answer. The man smiled, shook his head. “Na wa o. You get mind. Make dem no go pick you sha.” Charles smiled, and they continued their journey, the driver took a detour to beat the traffic, and Charles left his thoughts to admire the streets of Lagos. The Corolla suddenly screeched to a stop. Charles blinked. A police checkpoint. Three officers with tired faces and full belts waved them down. “Driver! Park!” The cabbie rolled down his window. “Officer, how market?” One leaned in. “Where una dey go?” “Ikotun" The officer's eyes shifted to Charles. “Wetin be your name?” Charles answered. Slowly. The second officer squinted. “Wait… Na him be this? The guy from that video?” The third leaned over, torchlight now shining in Charles' face. “Oga na you be the social media boy? Wey dey insult police?” “Come down!” Charles stepped out slowly. His heart racing. He obeyed. "This na the problem wey we dey talk! Na una dey paint police bad online. You think say we no get data? We dey see all una nonsense." They searched his pockets. Found nothing. "Where your laptop?" "I don’t have one. I was at an interview." "Interview as yahoo boy or as musician?" He chuckled nervously. Wrong move. A slap came. Not hard. Just enough to remind him that his rights were optional. "You dey laugh abi?" A second officer grabbed him by the collar. "You go follow us go station. Until we confirm say you no be yahoo boy." The driver said nothing. He just started the car and drove off without him. Within minutes, Charles was in the back of their patrol van. The sky darkened. And the road turned silent. At the station, they shoved him into a holding cell. A senior officer walked in. Fat, bald, and smiling. "You know how this thing dey go, abi? Who you wan call?" Charles’s hands were trembling now. He scrolled through his phone. He didn’t know who to call. Joy? Gone. His mum? No money. Then his hand went to his pocket. The card. He looked at the black card. Stared and thought. *Lady Mona Bimbo-Adeleke....* > #3 - Theebardman