The Ex-Presidents' Club

By Maiga

When supermarket manager, Kelvin, went to his part-time night job in the brand-new London skyscraper, he was mainly looking forward to chatting with Sierra, the beautiful Brazilian night cleaner. But within the blink of an eye, everything changed.

Kelvin made a discovery that did not only mean immediate death but also threatene

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duxes Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739739300

Book preview

A Strange Light

Volta Region, Ghana , West Africa.

Thursday, December 10

PRESIDENT TK KOOMSON did not look at the quiet figure of Hephsiba beside him in the back of the car when he decided to try again. He was going hard this time. Something he knew she felt strongly about. He cleared his throat.

Vladimir Putin is the most important leader to emerge on the world stage in the new millennium. Wouldn’t you agree? he said.

Why don’t you tell him at the summit next week? I am sure he’ll like that, Hephsiba said and looked away.

That wasn’t the way the conversation was supposed to go.

President Theophilus K Koomson, popularly known as TK, was thirty-five years old. He had a broad clean-shaven face, light brown complexion, and low-cut Afro hair. He had expected more from that conversation. He kept trying to engage Hephsiba in a discussion to thaw out the frostiness that had crept into their relationship.

I know you don’t agree. Here’s one reason to change your mind. Without Vlad, Syria and Venezuela would have gone the way of Iraq and Libya. He formed and maintained an important counterbalance to American military interference just as Xi Jing Ping did for economical options. You can’t win this one. I’d like to see you try.

He looked at Hephsiba this time, hoping she would take his bait. He seemed nonchalant in his speech and manner but was desperate to finally end their current quarrel. He expected a passionate counter argument beginning with the invasion of Ukraine, but the First Lady did not bite. The little space of luxurious leather between them in the back of the car might as well have been an insurmountable gulf.

Hephsiba Wilhelmina Koomson, also thirty-five years old, sat as far away as she could from TK, in the other corner of the backseat. Her beautiful shoulder-length hair covered part of her heart-shaped face. Her long lashes stood out against her smooth caramel skin. Her petite body was usually much closer to his on such trips.

She usually couldn’t resist putting TK in his place on any side of a debate. Especially her favourite topics in world politics: the historical actions that have shaped current global trends and the parts played by individual leaders. Her pro-America and Western stance made that remark by TK an irresistible provocation. But not even that could pull her out of her shell this time. TK sunk back into his seat and stared out of the car window.

It was a cold misty morning and still dark. Their presidential motorcade made its way down the winding mountain road from the newly commissioned Tanson Military Academy in the Volta Region. A modern facility named after Duke Tanson, a military officer who quashed an attempted coup and restored democracy in recent history.

The mountain road was narrow with a continuous wall of dark rock on one side. On the other side was a flimsy looking low wrought-iron barrier. The only protection from a sheer drop of hundreds of feet.

TK studied the terrain and wondered what lay beneath the now visible treetops forming the canopy of the forest far below. His armoured Mercedes Maybach S600 Pullman Guard led two relatively modest turbocharged Range Rovers.

The three cars were sandwiched by two military escort vehicles and their armed personnel. The escorts were a couple of green, converted Toyota Land Cruiser pickup trucks. They were modified to hold 40mm MK 19 Grenade Launchers near the roof of their cabs. They also carried four extra soldiers beside the two in front and the one behind the mounted gun, in their green tarpaulin-covered cargo beds. The escort vehicles had been hastily assigned to service from the local training camp.

The old Cruisers were akin to relics from a bygone era. But they still looked strong and intimidating enough to augment the President’s protection detail for that unscheduled trip. A visit to the site of a landslide in a village at the foot of the mountain. An unfortunate event that coincided with the President’s visit to the area. There was no real or presumed danger to the President. For the past few years, threat assessments had always been reported as ‘mild’. The country was usually an oasis of peace in a region prone to conflict.

TK thought about his next move. He wished Hephsiba would say something. Anything. He missed that unnatural, deep, almost masculine voice that belied the beauty of the body it came from.

While contemplating possible reasons for his current predicament, President Koomson saw a flash of light in the distance, about a mile away, down the road. Then it disappeared.

Did you see that? he asked the chauffeur.

Before the chauffeur could answer, the lights came on again.

Bright blinding lights, now about half a mile

away, headed towards them at a breakneck speed.

WHILE THE PRESIDENT dealt with his marital difficulties, a one-sided conversation transpired between two of his top ministers in the first Range Rover behind his Maybach.

Joseph Quartey, Minister of Defence, and Nicodemus Asiamah, Minister of Information, were comfortably ensconced in their luxurious individual Captain’s Chairs at the back. But both would rather have been anywhere else at this moment in time.

It was too early after a day like yesterday. They had commissioned the new Military Academy, followed by a short rest before an official party. Truth be told, Asiamah had indulged a little in the local palm wine. Apparently, some enterprising fellow had found it necessary to add a little local gin to give the brew some kick.

Asiamah imbibed a little more than his fair share. Now he had a slight hangover and would rather be left alone, but Quartey insisted on making conversation. Asiamah looked away, but Quartey didn’t take the hint. He kept on talking.

Jesu Christo. Somebody save me from this man, Asiamah muttered softly to himself.

Quartey, a shortish stocky man with bushy hair and eyebrows, pointed a stubby finger at the much taller and stockier Asiamah.

Mark my words. In the end, the President will realise that this trip is unnecessary. We are not getting any more votes from these people even if Jesus Christ came back to them sitting on a white horse, in white robes, and pointed his staff commanding them to vote for the PNC Party. And why so early in the morning?

The people still go to their farms very early in the morning. Going at any other time is pointless, Asiamah said.

Be that as it may, I still think it’s a wasted effort. A junior minister could have done all of it. Your boy needs to delegate more. I only slept like half an hour.

Quartey continued his mostly one-sided conversation.

Asiamah looked out of the window again. He nodded slowly in agreement to Quartey. He was only half listening by now. For a moment he thought, Quartey must have a good picture of Jesus Christ in that round bushy head of his. Then he thought about the seemingly endless energy of their youthful President and how he had burst onto the political landscape.

He reminisced about how he had helped make that young, almost unknown candidate the flag bearer of his People’s National Convention Party. The corners of his mouth stretched into a smile when he remembered how they had eventually won the last presidential elections against all odds.

What are you smiling about? Quartey asked.

Asiamah turned around but did not get to form the words to convey his thoughts. An explosion and shock waves interrupted those thoughts. Their vehicle shook violently as it slowed and finally jerked to a stop.

A sudden onset of a piercing buzz in both of his ears did nothing to mask the next explosion. This was accompanied by unmistakable machine gun fire, dispelling any misguided foggy thoughts of a random road accident amidst the initial shock and disorientation.

He could strangely distinguish certain sounds as if they were isolated from the larger cacophony that sang the doom of his convoy. The tinkling sound of shards of glass falling in fragments as the windshield disappeared. A sharp intake of breath accompanied by the deceptively innocuous whisper of a high-speed projectile impact on soft tissue. Blood and brain matter splattered on his face and body. The driver sagged down his seat.

Asiamah looked to his left. His loquacious cabinet colleague, Quartey, stared at the ceiling of the car with vacant eyes. A large hole in his neck area oozed blood, soaking his shirt.

He was no longer talking.

The car and the ground itself shook as another loud explosion brought Asiamah out of his semi-conscious state. The leading escort Land Cruiser disintegrated amid crunching and grating sounds of twisted and torn metal. The Presidential car behind it veered to the side under sustained gunfire and RPG explosions. It somehow remained mostly intact when it broke the roadside barrier.

Oh God, Asiamah blurted in a tinny voice.

The car containing the President and the First Lady gathered speed towards the edge of the cliff.

MINISTER OF INFORMATION Nicodemus Asiamah had never known this kind of fear. He sat immobilised in his deluxe seat in the back of the first Range Rover. His hands shook. He could almost hear the violent beats of his own heart.

Through the car window, he could see pieces of wreckage of the exploded leading military escort Land Cruiser. They still smouldered among scattered charred remains that were its unfortunate occupants. The echoing chorus of automatic weapons unloading their lethal contents continued in their deadly song. He turned around slowly, almost involuntarily, to have a better view.

The rear military escort Land Cruiser was almost in tatters. There was a man slumped on the mounted 40 calibre gun on the roof. The green tarpaulin covering of its cargo bed, along with some of the occupants, were torn to shreds. One soldier was lying prone on the tarmac, firing at unseen assailants. He fired his M16 rifle in bursts, in different directions at moving shadows. The soldier’s head suddenly dropped as Asiamah watched in nightmarish fascination.

Then the only gunfire he could hear came from the side of the road near the broken barrier by a couple of the assailants he could now see. They fired towards the edge of the cliff. They looked like any of the soldiers they had just slaughtered. At least the uniforms were correct even though there weren’t any visible unit or rank insignia. What were they shooting at? And why were these soldiers attacking the convoy of their commander in chief? But he had no time to dwell on those questions. The small matter of escaping with his life seemed to take precedence.

The second Range Rover containing the Chief of Protocol and other retainers laid on its side. No sign of life came from it. Someone shouted an order straight ahead behind the blinding headlights that blocked the road near the unfortunate first truck.

Life check! Asiamah heard.

It was a sharp commanding voice. It reminded him of the crack of a whip.

Two soldiers went around from body to body shouting, affirmative! after briefly examining each body, before moving on to the next.

A few more moved about, collecting indeterminate items from the ground. They took them to their vehicles, which Asiamah now saw as two headlights in front and two to the rear of his dead and dying convoy.

Gunshot! A single gunshot rang and echoed in the silence that followed. The rest of them came to attention, staring in the direction of the sound. Then another shot came from a slender featureless shadowy form towards a target on the ground. Presumably, someone showed signs of life.

Affirmative, the shadowy figure shouted in a high effeminate voice that made the whole scene more terrifying for Asiamah.

Another affirmative, came from the edge of the cliff, followed by yet another in the same area confirming the first. That was likely to be for his youthful and dynamic protégé, then colleague, then boss and President of the Republic, T.K. Koomson. Also, his wife and First Lady, Hephsiba Wilhelmina Koomson, as well as the poor soul who drove their car.

But Asiamah did not have time to grieve for his President.

Oh God, he muttered to himself.

His trembling became more pronounced. They were coming towards his car. They were coming. The Right Honourable Nicodemus Asiamah, member of parliament for the Ayawaso East Constituency, Honorary Doctor of Law at the University of Ghana, Party Secretary of the PNC, Minister of Information, and renowned Doctor of Spin, shook violently and peed himself a little.

His mind raced like never before. It looked like he was about to die. But he was yet still alive. Where there was life, there was...He looked out the window and saw the shadowy figures much closer and purposefully, walking towards him. He broke down into tears.

They had not opened fire yet. It was time for action but what could he do? Close his eyes and pretend to be dead? He remembered affirmative, and quickly gave up that idea.

He thought about his life. He had been a good man in a fluid, flexible way. Not a paragon of virtue by any stretch of the imagination if one was being honest. But still a good man. He could probably make that argument with Saint Peter at the pearly gates. It was all a matter of perspective and a little spin. He had done more with less. It was all in the presentation.

But wait. He had also been an immoral man who had cheated on his wife many times and accepted bribes in cash and kind. He had used his office to benefit himself and his friends and family, as well as to make life difficult for those he considered enemies.

But then he had done many good things to balance the scales, surely? He was instrumental in the success of the last election. Everyone said so. That was a good thing, right? Wasn’t what was good on earth also good in heaven? It said so right there in the Lord’s Prayer. Thinking about the Lord, he also gave good money in church. That was an afterlife insurance policy he was about to collect. There better be no tricky insurance investigators up there in heaven. Pastor Heysus Maldonado at the Christ Apostolic Church better be right or there will be some serious haunting in that church.

Suddenly, he became still. No longer shaking. A hint of resolve was creeping into his mushy spine. If he was going to die anyway, then what had he got to lose? It wouldn’t do to die a coward in front of his enemies, even though he had already peed himself. No one needed to know how terrified he was.

It was time for a little spin. The bluff of his life, literally. Negotiating had always been in his wheelhouse. All he had to do now, was get out of the vehicle and face them with confidence. Just move. Get out there. Who knew? There may be an opportunity for that last-minute bargain. At this point, he would promise anything up to and including his dear 80-year-old mother. Oh yes, she would want to save him. It made sense. He was also a pragmatist.

But Asiamah could not move. He felt the hot liquid this time and looked at his crotch. He felt ashamed of himself. For some insane reason, he hoped his underwear would be dry by the time his body was recovered. Then an even more depressing thought crossed his mind. What if his body was never recovered? What if he never got a decent burial?

There was a tap on the car window as he closed his eyes for a last-minute prayer. He opened his eyes, looked out the window and found himself staring into the gaze of a beautiful Asian woman with long blonde hair. Only the few fragments of glass left of the window separated their two faces. He blinked a few times and touched his chest to assure himself he wasn’t already dead and seeing an Asian angel.

Another tap on the other side, and he was looking at an equally stunning Caucasian woman with the same style of blonde hair, staring down at him through the mostly shattered window.

His jaws dropped in complete surprise. He looked back to the first face, his eyes nearly falling out of their sockets. Those two faces had flashed across his mind when he thought he was about to die.

Ying? he said to the first, then looked to the other side and said, Yang?

Chapter 1

Work

Docklands, London, United Kingdom

Thursday, December 3

About A Week Earlier

KELVIN ERAMERSON FELT restless again. Prolonged periods of inactivity could do that, even to a patient man. It was the most difficult part of this night job.

He wore down the thick burgundy carpet on the eighteenth floor of the new Radiant Way building walking back and forth. To his left on this pass was the glass wall beyond which the picturesque majesty of the clustered skyscrapers of Canary Wharf unfolded. To his right were offices and a glass-enclosed foyer that led to more offices and conference rooms.

Thirty-year-old Kelvin’s six-foot-tall athletic frame was clad in a dark slim-fit suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His hair was cropped low, his beard neatly trimmed. The darker grooves under his eyes, which contrasted with his still boyish face, gave him the impression of permanent sadness. An aura of melancholy that, paradoxically, had the effect of drawing people to him.

Kelvin had joined a new security firm after just a telephone conversation, two forms, and a short Zoom interview. In-person meetings were still the options of last resort, years after the devastation unleashed on an unprepared world by a series of strains of coronavirus. He was now an integral part of the Proton Security Company’s night-shift team covering the new building in Canary Wharf.

It had been a couple of weeks already. He was on a zero-hour contract and self-employed. This meant he had no job security and no fringe benefits. But he enjoyed the freedom of working whenever he wanted. He wasn’t being micromanaged by an overzealous area manager like in the day job he’d just quit, running a supermarket on the High Street. The downside of this job was not the relatively lower pay and prestige, but rather the long spells of inactivity.

Kelvin responded to a status check on his radio and returned to his thoughts. He hoped his journey back home to Walthamstow in the morning wouldn’t be like his journey to work. He’d had to walk in the constant drizzle from the Docklands Light Railway station in the new expensive Italian shoes he had worn for Sierra, the Brazilian night cleaner he met on his first night working here.

Sierra Manucho was a postgraduate foreign student. The Brazilian government apparently sponsored her entire study under a new scholarship program for people in deprived areas commonly known as Favelas. She worked part-time at night to supplement her allowances. At least that was what Kelvin had gathered so far.

For the first time in a long time, Kelvin found himself drawn to someone and had to make a concerted effort. Sierra didn’t exhibit the saviour complex most women seemed to have where he was concerned. His naturally sad and mysterious vibe didn’t seem to do it completely for her. Sierra was into shoes and nice cars, and she wasn’t shy about it.

She seemed particularly interested in expensive Italian and French shoes. Kelvin was sure he had a thing for slender but curvy Sierra, with the exotic accent, luxurious cascading curls, and almond-shaped eyes. Her obvious aversion to the cleaning work she did was strangely part of her charm. Her complaints after every wipe of a window or a desk as she chatted with him were like foreplay to something incredibly beautiful.

Everything she did was magic to Kelvin. The way she angled her head, put one hand on her hip, and looked at him sideways slowly from head to toes. No, that’s not right. From head to shoes. How her eyes lingered on his shoes and depending on whether she approved or not, a smile or a quick return to her task.

Kelvin finally understood the importance of shoes. He blew half his savings the next day on designer shoes from designer outlets in Central London after her first look of disapproval at his unpolished brogues. His friends, Alandio Clement and his wife Tasha, happened to visit that day.

True love doesn’t care about shoes, bro, Alandio had said to his enamoured friend.

Don’t mind him Kel, you have to get in there first. I am glad you’re finally trying. Maybe a little trim of the beard and a manicure. I mean a proper...

Let me stop you there, Tasha. This is as far as I am going. It was only because she frowned at my shoes. I want her to know I care about what she thinks. Besides, these babies ain’t cheap. I am not spending any more money.

You should have gone to TK Maxx bro, same quality but much cheaper, Alandio said.

You should go to Specsavers if you can’t see these are custom limited editions, said Tasha.

Kelvin wore new shoes to work that night. Sierra rewarded his efforts with that sideways look she seemed to have perfected for him. He was right.

He listened to more chatter on the radio as he came by the glass enclosure again. According to the messages, the guests had started to arrive for a private meeting on his floor. The whole building was shut down for that purpose. One would think there was something of great significance going on, but the almost empty building suggested otherwise.

Two beautiful blonde-haired women emerged from a small conference room. They stood by the door as if expecting someone imminently.

Both were tall and slender with similar dress and demeanour. They wore the same short black sleeveless body-hugging evening dress, with black lacy stockings. Their red high-heeled boots made them even taller and climbed to their thighs.

They did not seem to notice Kelvin taking a position outside, near the corner of the rectangular glass enclosure that led to the conference room area. Kelvin had no access to that area. He could only observe through the glass. A private lift opened directly into that enclosure.

He stayed in that position. Finally, something to break the monotony. He was intrigued by the two women who now stood on either side of the private lift’s door. Their attire was a bit incongruous in that setting. It was what he would expect on his bouncer jobs at the doors of nightclubs. Who were they waiting for?

A muffled ping came from the lift through the glass. Then the doors to the lift opened. Three suited men walked out and looked around, not saying a word or directly acknowledging the presence of the two women. Kelvin could see three more dark-suited men in the lift blocking the view to another person behind.

Soon he heard a muffled, clear, from one of the suited men outside the lift. He assumed the men were security personnel, not unlike himself. But there were subtle differences to the keen eye. The black suits they wore seemed to be tailored, not off the rack. They looked like expensive bespoke Savile Row work. He should know.

A slight bulge in the breast area of each suit indicated active shoulder holsters. They were all armed. Their movements were coordinated and precise. Minimal wastage of time and effort. These were not your average SIA door supervisors or close protection operatives. These people were the real deal. They had to be elite in the world of armed forces. Thank God Sierra was not around to see their highly polished expensive shoes. He didn’t need any competition in that regard.

One of the first three took a position by the inner door to the conference room. The other two flanked the two women. One of the three in the lift came out and went to the door of the glass enclosure. He nodded to Kelvin and took his position on the other side of the glass door. He must have rightly assumed Kelvin to be one of the in-house security men.

Next came the remaining two on either side of a tall fleshy, potbellied man. He had huge, pockmarked cheeks, large eyes, and close-cropped white hair. Kelvin only saw him in profile as he came out of the lift.

There was something familiar about the man and his movements. The man went over and hugged each of the women. He kissed each on both sides of the cheek. Then he turned briefly to look around as he was ushered into the conference room by the two women. That was when Kelvin finally saw the full face of the man and froze.

Chapter 2

Marked Man

Kelvin was struck with consternation. He just saw former President Sunday L. Johnson of Nigeria in person. The man who offered him sanctuary and protection after he left his own country for a life in exile. The man who then acted to silence him after the incident in the North.

Kelvin’s mind drifted to the image of a burning bungalow with dark-clad armed men watching the house burn, bathed in the shimmering light of the flames. He heard their gunshots when they put down the odd person who made it out of the burning building with impunity. He recalled his shock and sorrow returning home that fateful day. His jump over the fence into his compound and the ensuing firefight.

He relived how he made each of his bullets count until he ran out of ammo in the only pistol he carried. His subsequent escape and the pursuit that followed. Kelvin was technically still on the run from this man he had just seen. This man was ultimately responsible for the death of the beautiful soul, Ayesha Toure. Ayesha of the golden voice. Ayesha the gem of the Sahara...

A ping from the lift brought him out of his reverie. He realised he was being watched. His reaction had not gone unnoticed. The bodyguard on the other side of the glass enclosure stared at him.

The lift doors opened behind the bodyguard and a man emerged, flanked by two suited attendants. It was a boon night for the security industry in London. But wait a minute. Who was that man being escorted now into the conference room? It couldn’t be.

It was none other than Etienne Kabila. Former President-for-life of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Etienne Kabila was another despot who claimed a relationship with previous rulers of the same name. His real name was a matter of speculation and dispute. A web-based Congolese newspaper published what they believed to be proof of Kabila’s link to the infamous warlord, Laurent Kabemba. A man who was tried and convicted in The Hague for unspeakable atrocities. Rumours had it that Etienne Kabila put a two-million-dollar bounty on the head of the man responsible for the capture of Kabemba.

Kelvin wondered if seeing two of the last people he would ever wish to meet again in the same place was pure coincidence. Could it be possible he had unwittingly walked into an elaborate trap designed as a security event? It sounded far-fetched.

The bodyguard on the other side of the glass took a glance at the newcomers as they entered the conference room. Then he resumed his interest in Kelvin.

Kelvin walked back and forth, always keeping the lift in view. He took deep breaths and tried to remain calm. Repressed memories of loss and rage threatened to burst forth. A part of him wanted to break that glass door and go after Sunday Johnson. This was probably the closest he could ever hope to get to him in his current circumstances. But that would be suicidal.

He needed to control his emotions. At least until he had left this place and decided what to do. For that to happen, he must keep calm and protect his current identity.

The next guest to arrive was accompanied by only one bodyguard. He was a short potbellied man whom Kelvin immediately recognised. The man who united Anglophone and Francophone Cameroon in blood. Former President of Cameroon, Blaise Song.

In quick succession, and accompanied by at least one bodyguard, were former leaders of Benin, the Gambia, Burkina Faso, and a couple more Kelvin did not recognise.

Was this a subcommittee of the African Union? He doubted it. Something sinister was going on.

He knew he had to leave before this unholy gathering began to disperse. There was no telling how long that meeting would take. Better leave now when he could.

Do it. Just go. The infernal bodyguard by the glass enclosure still stared at him. He continued to walk back and forth. Do it. Just go. He still deliberated his exit when the decision was taken out of his hands.

The lift doors opened again. This time it was a solitary figure. A tall, fit looking man in a bespoke black suit stepped out of the lift. The man’s red striped tie belonged to a regiment Kelvin knew well. The Scorpio Regiment of the Ghana Army, founded by himself eight years ago. A selection of the best from all over the army to form the core of what he imagined would have the sole task of guarding democracy.

The man looked stern with a slight frown across his face. He had a cleft in his chin, which was slightly raised as if in disdain of all he surveyed. Kelvin had the presence of mind to internalise his surprise and avert his gaze. The newcomer walked into the small conference room.

If anyone could recognise him on sight, it was Captain Elvis Ansong. One of two brothers whose destiny seemed intertwined with his, in sharply contrasting ways. Captain Elvis Ansong’s presence here confirmed the nature of this meeting. He had stumbled onto a secret: he couldn’t be allowed to live if his true identity was discovered. It was time to burn rubber, or at least wear down the soles of those expensive shoes Sierra didn’t get to admire that night.

Kelvin touched his earpiece, ostensibly listening to a message on the radio. Then he held his mouthpiece, attached to the lapel of his coat, while he walked towards the door at the end of the room.

He kept walking until he got out of the office space and into a long corridor. He made for the general use lifts at the end of that corridor, walking as fast as possible without running.

HALIDUN DANDOYA WAS one of the three most trusted bodyguards of former President Sunday Johnson. Halidun was in a quandary. They had run drills about tonight. He must remain in this position by the glass enclosure. He must spot any danger and call for an exit only when necessary. An evacuation plan of the former President using two lookalikes as decoys would be activated on his word.

His position was assessed as the most likely point of entry for any hostiles. Halidun knew unless he was sure about a threat, there was to be no interruption to the meeting.

But he had seen a familiar face. He couldn’t be sure at first and was still not completely certain. But the suited