The Babel Script

By Yemi Adebiyi

In Paris, Rosemary Ojinta gets the assassin’s bullet meant for drug pusher Grace Ekpeyong. In London, a lady talks about it to a journalist from Lagos. Wagi Delta flies the kite about the dead that resurrected. Wagi discretely sends coded messages to his British Jamaican friend, Cecil Bestman, on the scandal brewing in Nigeria.
Cecil came to Nigeria, years after Wagi was assassinated, and discovered he had to maneuver through the criminals in government who wanted to kill the story.
The Babel Script is a story on drug trafficking, espionage, arson, deceits and betrayals perpetrated by a ruthless drug baron, Moshood Babagana, whose vaulting ambition to be Nigeria’s life president incorporated terrorism and confusion in the polity.
Historically events-filled, engaging and entertaining.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728391380

Yemi Adebiyi

YEMI ADEBIYI is a biochemist, a journalist and a quality control expert. He attended the prestigious NOTRE Dame Grammar School, Ushi in Ekiti, Nigeria. He had his tertiary education in Nigeria, UK and USA. Yemi is the current Chairman of Association of Nigerian Authors in Lagos. He is the author of the novels: THE BLOOD SAMPLE, ESCAPE FROM THE SOUTH, THE PASTOR’S PROSTITUTE and PASS ON THE BATON. He is still a consultant in thechemical and allied industries in Nigeria. Yemi lives in Ajasa County in Lagos with his family.

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© 2019 Yemi Adebiyi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/31/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9137-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9138-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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Epilogue

"At first the people of the whole world had only one language and use the same words…"

This one is for

                                          Dayo

                                          Dapo

                                          Doyin

                                          Dife

&

Detunmbi

PROLOGUE

W agi Delta was angry. He declined the food and drinks served in the airplane. He was angry because he had not been able to get any lead on Grace Ekpeyong’s story. The source of good story deleted with her bloated remains in Paris. Wag iwas misled by Vox Poppulli Correspondent who insisted that Grace was arrested in Paris after her recent visit to Nigeria. He eventually found out through the manifest at M/M Airport that It was a Rosemary Ginieka Ekong that came to Nigeria. It was Rosemary that visited Moshood Babagana at Bankat Hotel. Not Grace. Grace made the reservation but it was Rosemary that spent the night there with a military officer. President Babagana had cajoled him not to publish any story on that social lmeeting. The president told Wagi he was the officer with Rose at Bankat. Wagi merely complied until he could lay his hand on more info on either Rosemary or Grace, and their connection with the new military president.

He came out of Heathrow and breathed the fresh, cold air that welcomed him. As usual he said in self-reassurance, here I come. London remained his second love after Lagos. The two cities were his parents: Lagos, the father that drills him to shape and London, the loving mother in whose bosom he seeks solace and comfort.

‘Cecil is not in London.’ Maxwell Otti, the Newsreel’s chauffer, sent to pick him at the airport, said.

‘I know that already. What I don’t know is when he will be back.’

‘Two weeks assignment in Kuwait.’

‘I will come over to see the editor in case the stranger who wanted to contact me through Cecil turns up again.’

‘I saw the lady during her second visit. She’s queer. She wasn’t ready to take your phone number or Cecil’s. She insisted on personal contact.’

‘Is she a Nigerian?’

‘Maybe. Or a Jamaican. Definitely not British or American.’ The immigrant from Sierra Leone recaptured the stranger’s outlook.

‘I have a hunch she might be the Rosemary in the wanted list of my home government.’ Wagi reflected on his futile efforts during the last two visits to know more about the whereabouts of the two ladies with the name Rosemary that are connected with the late Grace Ekpeyong and the president.

‘Your visitor is not Rosemary. Her name is Naomi.’

‘I am interested in Rosemary Ojinta and Rosemary Ekong. Both are Nigerians living in Europe.’

‘You can count on me if any of the two turns up at Newsreel.’

‘Thanks, Maxwell.’

‘Don’t mention, Mr. Delta.’He looked back at Wagi briefly and quickly turned again to concentrate on his driving. ‘I wannamake up for my slip of tongue. I told the lady that you’ll be visiting Newsreel, Oxford’s FaceBody and Helzinberg this week. It’s damn unethical. Thebabe’s readiness to part with five hundred pounds for any info that will connect her to youquick, made me frog-jump to help her. Beyond her outward coolness, I could see some desperation in her.’

‘Is your boss aware of this?’

‘Nay. What I did wasn’t cool. I want you toforgive me,’ Maxwell sounded remorseful. When Wagi did not respond, he continued. ‘Her request for an old issue of our Magazine triggered mycuriousity.’

‘That must be the issue that carried the assassination story of the Nigeria drug courier in Paris?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you recollect her person and match it with that of Rosemary Ojinta whose picture appeared in Cecil’s column last week?’

‘The visitor and Rosemary are not same. Naomi is black and beautiful.’

‘So I should watch my back for a black and beautiful babe during this visit. If I am killed, you are responsible.’ Wagi’s voice was friendly.

‘If the acquaintance led to a scoop or a hook, I must share from the booty or the hooky.’

‘You’ve had your booty already. Since you believe that the lady is loaded, it is my turn to feel the heat.’

‘That’s saying you don’t mind my disclosure of your itinerary.’

‘Whatever motivated you to do so, either her beauty or her money, I approve your slip. It might lead us to either Rosemary Ojinta or Grace Ekpeyong story.’ Wagi knew it was only through the hide-and-seek tormentor of the new President - Rosemary Ojinta - that could lead tounravelingGrace Ekpeyong death and Babagana’sdirect or remoteinvolvement. The new administration wanted him to help in fishing out Rosemary Ojinta but he saw the tapestry of a bigger story in a man-hunt that the government wanted badly but distanced itself from taking part. Wagi hoped that his new tabloid will be the front runner in the drug murder story.

A brief silence followed. Wagi’s mind strayed to Rosemary Ekong, the postgraduate student at University de Paris. She abandoned her studies and disappeared. And the president wasn’t sure it was the same Rosemary threatening him with blackmail. The tale of two Rosemary, he mused.

Maxwell brought him back to the present as they arrived at Piccadilly Hotel. ‘When do I come for you tomorrow?’

‘9 am.’ Wagi responded, disembarked, and entered into the familiar atmosphere of the hotel hepreferred to other holiday resorts in London. Reason. Martha Florry plied her trade there thrice a week, until recently.

The following morning, Wagi got to FaceBody shop early. He wanted to confirm when the artificial boob he ordered for recuperating Martha will be available. He had to wait outside the shop to allow the shop hands settle down for the day’s business. He noticed a black ladywith restless disposition, waiting too. This cannot be the black beautiful babe of Maxwell, he thought, unless a heavy layer of cosmetics translates to beauty.

The lady smiled and approached him. She spoke the adulterated language of local Nigerians rapidly. ‘Oga, una good morning, I beg una if you fit spare me fifty pounds. I need am bad bad.’

Wagi was stunned and embarrassed that Nigerians have migrated to London with their laziness and bad attitude. He was happy that nobody else heard her spoke. He instantly drew her away from the entrance. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing wetin?’ She raised her eyebrow tolook directly into his eyes.

‘I become sad whenever I witness this begging culture. More so when there exist opportunity to work and earn a living.’

‘I am not really a beggar,’ she reverted to good english. ‘At least I slept in Piccadilly last night, too.’

‘That’s good, provided that you were not there to hawk your young body and soul.’

‘I am not a prostitute. I have a fortune stacked in vaults around the world.’

‘That’s good.’ The alarm of a trickster on patrol sounded in Wagi’s head.‘But why are you begging for fifty bucks if you can afford a 200-buck-a-night bed?’

.’I am desperate to talk to Cecil Bestman. Not you. I don’t trust any Nigerian. And you are an associate of Kasima Cash who is a very intimate friend of the new president.’

‘Who are you?’ Wagi could see that she disguised with the makeup.

‘I don’t want you to get involved, Mr. Delta.’

‘But you are involving my friend, Cecil. Are you not the same Naomi that visited Newsreel?’

She ignored his question. ‘Cecil had written something about Grace in his regular column and I think he might be able to get you interested in the bad happenings in Nigeria. Up till now, I have seen nothing about dead Grace from unofficial point of view in the newspapers, and in your Vox Poppulli.’

‘You are right, Lady. But I am the one feeding Newsreel with all you read about Grace Ekpeyong.’ He noticed her eyes widened either in surprise or relief.’You can trust me if you know something more than I have. Grace’s body was already decomposing before I got to her and the other Rosemary disappeared from her University apartment.’ He paused and spoke with all sincerity, ‘I want to know the truth before I exposed the truth – Grace, two Rosemary and one Moshood.’

‘You left out the real dramatis personae in your list.’

‘Who?’

‘Guess who.’ She smiled.

Wagi was confused. ‘I thought you are just an informant or a messenger of one Rosemary Ojinta.’

‘Maybe I should let you transact your business in Face- Body before we talk.’ She deepened her smile.

‘Tell me now what Cecil or I shouldknow.’ Wagi requested.

The lady sighed. ‘Mr. Delta, I know how to get to Grace Ekpeyong, the dead drug courier and Moshood’s mistress. Recently, sheimpersonated Rosemary Ojinta to threaten the new president with exposure. Rosemary Ojinta was assassinated in Paris, not the Grace that Moshood knew, loved, used and attempted to dispose.’

Wagi grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. I need the story more than anything else in the world.’

‘When I download what I have, you will see why it is necessary that you allow a foreign tabloid to handle the story. I don’t want the assassination of a journalist as a follow up to Ojinta’s brutal murder.’

An hour later, Wagi and Naomi were having a late breakfast at the Piccadilly.

*        *        *

1

C ecil Bestman was satisfied over the outcome of his job in Iraq. The last four weekly editions of London’s Newsreel featured his stories. Efforts rewarded. His fifth and concluding expose on Gulf Guns Eruptions already faxed to his editor. Earlier in the day, on board Saudi-bound Emirate Air, Cecil thought that he could catch some fun in the Holy Land. He wanted to compensate for his weeks of celibacy in the Gulf. But he got to Mecca and Medina, the spiritual twin cities in the focus of his journalistic foray, at a period of no-women-no-wine . It is the yearly pilgrimage week in this most westernized country of the Arabs. He would be busy in Saudi Arabia for a week before going to Nigeria. He would have loved to honour the invitation to the on-going seminar on Female Circumcision in Abuja, but his early arrival in Nigeria wouldn’t have gone well with his BlackMusicpartners. For now, his assignment in Saudi appeared exciting; a comprehensive expose on the business angle of the yearly holy pilgrimage. He had suggested a controversial title for this investigative work – Holy Business: Spiritual Rebirth and Economic Healing in Mecca . A screaming headline, he mused.

Cecil lay on his hotel bed wishing for a sound sleep but the inviting warmness of Saudi evening kept him awake. He was tempted to dial the number given to him by his host in case he needs escort. Yes, he needs one now; female gender, not as guide through the labyrinths of the back streets of the holy cities, but a pilot that could provide the landing backyard for the man in him. But he was weary of rain-coating and doubly weary of AIDS. He dropped the idea. He had never invited call girls, in the guise of escorts, to share his bed. All his escapades on trips like this had been either female war correspondents or Red Cross officials who were also in need of coital therapy. It had always been a sort of mutual infidelity of decent people. Cecil remembered his past flings that were actually benefitting for his job; borrowing from detailed war front reports of his dates to juice up his economic and business reports, acting a double role for his tabloid. His editors relied on him, and trusted his ability to go extra miles on his assignments. It was only he that knew that the extra miles were actually done on hotel beds or make-shift camps. His accomplices were always engrossed with fulfilling their fantasies with the storm rider to ever think they were working for him on the field, also.

He stood up from the bed to have a cold bath. As he was returning from the bathroom the phone was blaring.

‘The room is okay.’ He knew that the call must be from the reception.

‘We know that you like the hillside view.’ The receptionist said patronizingly. ‘Your dad is on line, Sir.’

‘Oh! Put him on.’ Cecil remembered his last discussion with Lucas on the need to visit home regularly for the sake of the kids.

‘Cecil.’ Lucas Bestman called his son’s name emphatically.

‘Dad!’

‘I have been trying your hotel number since noon.’

‘The journalist is just checking in. Flight delayed.’

‘That’s saying you have not seen the latest news about Nigeria.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Don’t miss the repeat broadcast of Focus on Africa. BBC Network.’

‘Is it on the conference being organized by Nigeria’s First Lady?’

‘No, Cecil. The conference kicks off tomorrow. It is not the topical news.’

‘What’s the gist, dad?

‘Make a guess.’

Has it anything to do with Wagi Delta?’

‘What else from that God’s special country will make me want to reach you urgently? They are still on the trail of whoever they suspected has any knowledge of truths that led to Wagi’s brutal assassination.’ Lucas paused. ‘They are already talking about your impending visit to Nigeria and their readiness to let your paper have a good insight into the situation in the oil fields. The British High Commissioner to Nigeria, Sir Lee Baron, confirmed your professional mission, this time, and his readiness to give you logistic assistance if need be. But I want you to be careful when you meet those Princes who will demand for your bank account info, ready to deposit and share millions of their oil wealth with you for your acceptance to be their conduit.’

Cecil smiled at his dad’s reference to the oil scammers in God’s special country, Nigeria. ‘I will listen to the repeat broadcast before I hit the sack.’ Cecil was already checking through BBC programme as he spoke.

‘Moshood Babagana is rearing to end military rule in Nigeria. BBC said he was yet to denounce the rumour that he is planning to transform from being a military president to a civil president. It is equally interesting that the woman accused and detained for her clandestine affair with Wagi was reported missing from custody. She was the twin sister of Wagi’s singer-friend in London.’

‘That must be Mary. You are still following tidbits on Wagi’s death all these years?’

‘Wagi Delta is your brother. You must not forget that, son. I am still hoping that the bastards that killed him will be exposed before my obituary.’

‘This missing Mary, I don’t like the timing. Maybe I should postpone the trip.’

‘Don’t miss the opportunity your employer provided this time around. Besides, you are not going there to investigate your friend’s death but to let the world know about the causes of the restiveness in the oil producing areas of that morbid nation.’ Lucas Bestman thought that Cecil’s scheduled visit to Nigeria is purely on Newsreel assignment. ‘But if I were you, my son, I will use one stone to kill two birds. You owe me a duty to know the truth about Wagi. You need to honour the wish of our beloved no matter the danger involved. Don’t forget your pledge. You said, ‘if I can’t prevent his death, I will do everything humanly possible to preserve or reinstate his honour.’ Lucas was coughing as he spoke. ‘You can hire a private investigator to do it for us while you are busy doing your news-reporting.’

‘That’s okay, dad. I will call you when I get to Nigeria. And I promise you if I get the cooperation that Wagi’s army on the ground there assured, I will expose the truth.’ By now, Cecil’s randythought was replaced by hatred for those who murdered his very good friend. ‘I will act like a true friend and brother. Goodbye.’

‘Not yet, Cecil. We are spending my money, not yours.’

‘What else, dad?’ When Lucas did not respond, he added, ‘how is mummy doing?’

‘She will be fine when you bring home a wife to mother your twin kids, a fine and homely specie that will warm up that dull, empty living room of yours in London.’

‘That’s not the type of woman I need.’

‘I don’t understand you, son.’

‘I will go for a woman that will set my bedroom on fire, every night.’ Cecil laughed and Lucas smiled at his son’s tantrum.

‘That’s my boy speaking. You don’t need an exotic antique to decorate your parlour.’ Lucas put the phone on speaker mode for Leila’s benefit. He wanted to share firsthand Cecil’s maiden concession to their age long request for a daughter-in-law. ‘That’s the Jamaican speaking with his African soul. Give us a woman that will make you happy as she burns down your bedroom. Your mum and I will be there when you resurrect with another twins…’ Lucas was smiling as he spoke.

Leila cut in. ‘I am happy you will find yourself a woman. I am advising you to choose wisely because of your bitter racial experience. I have met two ladies in recent years. If you meet such like I saw at close contact, they could melt your heart and apartment. Look for your own Dorcas in Africa, Jamaica or America.’ Leila Bestman knew that Cecil was comparing his affairs with Dorcas to other encounters.

‘I heard you loud and clear, mum. How are the kids?’

‘They are terrific. They lack just two things we cannot provide, Cecil and a step mum.’

‘But they have Lucas and a grand mum.’

‘Those are extras, my son. The kids deserve a mum and a dad.’ Leila insisted.

‘I assure you that they will soon get both.’ Cecil made himself comfortable on the bed as he gave the empty promise to his mum. To his advantage the conversation got disrupted. Credit expired, probably. He was deep in sleep when the BBC repeated the news on Nigeria.

*        *        *

2

C ecil woke up at mid-morning the following day. Just on time to get ready for his assignment. He switched the television from BBC to CNN, his favourite news channel. He caught a glimpse of the Nigerian President been escorted to a seat beside his wife. A live telecast. Cecil won’t allow the Nigeria news to distract him at the moment. He entered the bathroom.

By the time Cecil stepped out of his hotel room to the hot streets of Mecca, President Moshood Babagana had just finished his opening address to the congregation at the famous Women Development Centre in Abuja. It was a pan-African conference on the Evil Effects of Female Circumcision Walking back to his seat, the military president felt the pain again on the right side of his fore-head. He managed to flash his cherubic smile and he took his seat, while the applause that greeted his speech seemed unending. He was sure he needed medical attention. He told his wife, Abibat.

‘If you take your exit now, your leaving will be a minus to an otherwise grand occasion. I didn’t expect this heavy turnout. Lee Baron and Walter Washington and all other envoys are here.’ Abibat pleaded with her husband to endure further.

Moshood smiled with some pain spreading to his mouth and jawbone. "If I don’t leave, the President might collapse and that could end a grand and purposeful conference abruptly. I am not a doctor but I think I’m having cerebral malaria.’

Abibat studied Moshood’s facial expression and realised the seriousness of the President’s complaint. She summoned the personal assistant sitting behind Moshood, whispered some instructions to him as the applause from the audience ebbed. The moderator of event was quickly put into the picture and he told the gathering that the President had to be excused for a few minutes to attend to urgent state matters.

In another minute, Moshood was at the Medical Room of the Women Development Centre while Abibat took to the podium to express her concern on the plight of women in Africa. She remarked that the domineering attitude of the average African male, rather than culture, made it impossible, up till now, to stop the barbaric act of female genital mutilation. She supported her husband’s opinion that one of the few reasons that decided their marriage and faithfulness to each other was their sexual compatibility since she was lucky to be spared of genital mutilation. She reflected that many female children have died in the past of genital infections therefrom. She further stressed that those that survived such infection to adulthood, could hardly become mothers. She expressed her opinion that the conference should come up with unique guidelines and firm declaration to stop the killing of female children by those people she described as glorified moralists. She equally canvassed for the African woman, the opportunity to equal enjoyment of the conjugal act between husband and wife.

Moshood was back on his seat before Abibat ended her inaugural speech. She was really beautiful, looking sensual and enticing in her Vivid fashion wear that revealed the cleavage on her chest. Anyone who saw Moshood look at her pronounced figure and licked his lips would think he was savouring his wife’s frontal fullness and firmness. It wasn’t so. Moshood was trying to feel the bitter taste of the pain killer drugs administered on him.

As she looked back and saw Moshood, she was happy and expressed her joy. ‘Every married couple deserves happiness, not the happiness money and wealth can give, but the basic happiness that makes a woman looks at her husband or vice versa, and there is secret communication that only their two bodies can understand, a conspiracy that gives a couple bundles of joy in their offspring and total fulfillment in their physical union. She glanced in her husband’s direction. ’Our happiness is not in our position as the President and the First Lady. Those positions will shift to others, someday. But our unending happiness is in the fact that we found ourselves. The happiness of individual families translates to the communities, to the local governments, to the states and the nations. Let the conference give us a blue-print that will help the generations to come to blossom in love, happiness, and fruitfulness in their families.’ She paused, and added, ‘Thank you all, wishing you happy and fruitful deliberations.’

The ovation that greeted her impromptu address was cut short by the moderator, Bimbo Dabiri, who said she was giving the participants the chance to ask questions that could help them to know how the mind of the first family is working on the issue at hand. Earlier, Abibat had asked her not to give a Cecil Bestman of London’s Newsreel the opportunity to ask her any question if Cecil appeared in the press gallery. Bimbo confirmed his absence.

One of the participants in a dress mode of the emerging group in the Islamic faith, Nasfat, came to the front and took the microphone. ‘Your Excellency, it is universally acknowledged that clitoris or genital mutilation should be discouraged because of the medical complications therefrom, but there is another school of thought that believes that women with genitals that are not cut become promiscuous. Promiscuity will lead to prostitution. How do we curb this unexpected side-effect?’

First Lady Abibat smiled before she answered. ‘When the girl child is given education at home and in the school, the majority of them will remain zipped-up until the right moment in their lives. Whatever happens between uncircumcised girls and their husbands cannot be termed as promiscuity but love expression.’ There was satisfactory smile from majority as Abibat paused.

President Moshood Babagana signified his intention to speak and Bimbo went to him with the microphone.

‘To buttress what my wife has said, non-mutilation of genital organ will not lead to promiscuity.’ He paused and looked at the audience, stepped forward to stay by Lady Abibat’s side at the podium. ‘Many of you read our love story in Vox Poppulli, a few years ago. That portion of the story that said that Abibat was a virgin when I married her was true.’ He paused, and put his hand around his wife’s neck. ‘The First Lady was lucky to have escaped genital mutilation and we are enjoying that act of omission by Pa Eze and Mama Emily in our home today. Promiscuity between husband and wife is no crime; instead, it helps to sustain mutual fidelity.’ He smiled and waved to the delegates as there was a standing ovation, even from the press gallery.

When it was time for the last question, a lady in the front row took the slot. As she collected the microphone, the President took a closer look at her. It was the same lady that smiled and made a familiar sign to him when he was giving his opening remarks. Her action affected his concentration and the instant headache he felt. The same lady was holding the mic now and looking directly at him. ‘I am Rosemary Ekong, a school teacher in Ghana. My question goes to His Excellency, the President.’ She said and looked at the attentive audience. ‘My question may appear a bit intimate but it will help many participants, who have not made up their minds on the need to abolish genital mutilation of female children,’ she paused again. Moshood’s heart skipped. The pain that was almost gone started gathering up in his cerebral veins as he recognised the woman. ‘The President and the First Lady are role models in this crusade, at least from stories, to grapevines and now public confession. From personal experience, can the first couple guarantee that abolition of genital mutilation will guarantee loyalty, sexual faithfulness in marriage and best physical fulfillment between couples of our future generations?’

As she spoke, the President recognised her completely. She was Grace Ekpeyong’s friend. Moshood remembered the face, Rose. Rosemary Ojinta? Was that not her name? Moshood instantly remembered what happened between the Lady and him when Grace got caught with drugs in Paris.

Moshood was not the President then, but a general officer commanding the first division of the army. General Muazu Katsina was the Head of State. Moshood remembered he had taken a dose of local herb, brantashi, waiting in their hide-out for Grace to return from Europe that fateful night. It was Rosemary that turned up and told Moshood that Grace was caught with some of the drugs at Charles De Gaulle Airport and was taken away for interrogation. Grace had wanted Rosemary to contact Moshood at the expected place to alert him and arrange for her release.

‘Why was the consignment still on her at Charles De Gaulle?’ Moshood remembered his first statement after listening to Rosemary.

‘The contact failed to turn up at the park as arranged.’ Rosemary had informed him.

‘She ought to have smelt a set-up.’ Moshood had said, more to himself, and trying to suppress the drug induced hardness between his legs. ’Apro bringing back the carcass with vultures looking.’

‘She sensed the danger.’ Rosemary had paused. ‘That’s why she involved me to be on her tail to the airport. I offered to keep whatever it was but she refused. She said that her employerwon’t believe her story. She said that in the business if the trap fails to catch the game, the bait must be returned to the hunter.’

Moshood had studied her for a few seconds. ‘How long have you been in this business?’

Rosemary had smiled. ‘I am not a courier. Grace needed my help. She’s the one sponsoring my postgraduate studies in Paris. It was this emergency errand that made me understand why she ensured I have travelling ticket.’

‘You are welcome to the fast lane, Rose.’ Moshood had said, inviting her to move closer to him.

"What do you mean, Sir?’ Rose had looked confused.

‘Drug business. Hard Drug.’ Moshood had smiled at the realisation that Rosemary would take the place of Grace for the usual welcome party between them after each trip.

‘I don’t understand you.’ Rose’s sudden realisation of what Grace had pushed her into made fear jumped into her eyes. A concealed anger transposed her look to a female tiger’s.

Moshood was sure a tigress could handle the powers stored in branthasi. ‘You understood me, dear. Come over for your initiation.’ Moshood had stood up while the expression under his pajamas was clearly showing.

‘Grace is languishing in jail, yet, fun pre-occupies your mind.’ She tried to look away from his growing manhood.

‘We’ll resolve that problem afterwards. It is necessary that you bring normalcy to my body, now.’ He responded

‘But this is meant for Grace.’ Rosemary had pointed to the leaping movement under his pajamas.

‘Grace knew, and that’s part of the reason she sent you here,’ Moshood had paused. ‘To liberate me and secure her freedom.’

‘Grace’s freedom first.’ Rosemary tried to bargain.

‘My liberation first.’ Moshood moved to her and held her close. ‘The covenant of trust will be made between us. Grace would have approved it. She would have stepped aside to let us perform the rite.’

Rosemary had stayed within grip. She had no choice now. She could not stop his travelling hands, making repeated journeys all over the areas that mattered most. ‘I could calm you down without my taking what belongs to Grace.’ She had said as his manly touches started to weaken her resistance.

‘Grace took it from Abi, the legal owner. This is for business.’ Moshood smiled as he noticed her nipples responding inside the clothes.

‘I make love for pleasure, not for business. Besides I don’t know you well and I am not protected.’ Rosemary had found herself yielding grounds because of his touches and circumstance; she made up her mind to take over control of the act and prevent an imminent rape.

‘You don’t need any protection. I am a Muslim. I can marry more than one wife. I will need a highly educated lover and business associate when I become the President of Nigeria.’ Moshood had spoken before he realised what he said.

Rosemary jerked her head back to look at him directly. ‘You, drug baron becomingHead of State?’

"Yes, I am just thinking aloud. My enemies might be using Grace to eject me from the army. I will flush them out and take control in order to free Grace and avoid an abrupt and ignominious end of my military career. That will not happen,’

‘Oh, I see. Nigeria is finished.’ Rose was thoughtful. ‘Rather I shouldsaythat we are about to usher in a new Nigeria.’ She paused to gauge his mood. ‘That mission is more urgent than having fun.’

Moshood had disagreed. ‘Liberate me first, Rose, so I can think properly. You’ll know me better as we travel through the liberation road, my liberation road.’

Expertly, like a solider crisis-crossing in a known terrain of the war zone, Moshood remembered he had taken control as she caved in to his pressure and aggressiveness. She had told him afterward, that she had never experienced such an encounter that sent her to accomplish three successful arrivals at her treasure base before he finally enveloped the mine with sweet nothings.

‘You can kill, Brigadier,’ she had said as they disengaged, lying separated and exhausted on the bed.

‘That’s my job: Killing at war.’ Moshood said and smiled, touching her relaxed body. ‘But when I kill your type, they resurrect, instantly.’ He had given her his cherubic smile and she loved his facial expression. She kissed him, almost involuntarily.

‘What’s that for?’ Moshood was surprised.

‘For taking me down to the trench. I didn’t know I have the capacity and endurance to climb up to the surface.’ She paused. ‘I know now, why Grace is hooked on you.’

‘Grace is complex. She introduced the branthasi when she discovered I was becoming too weak to make her glow.’

‘You should preserve this unusual energy