THE LAST TERM

CHAPTER ONE: THE GATHERING

In the sweltering heart of Elebu State, the sun hung over the city like a molten crown, and in the streets, it was said that the ground itself listened—eager, like a gossiping child—to the footsteps of power. It was a Wednesday. A day neither sacred nor profane, yet this one would sit stubbornly in memory like a thorn in the sole of a slipper.

That morning, the Party House of the Progressive National Party (PNP) stirred like a shrine awakened. Men in stiff agbadas the color of thunderclouds stepped out of long black convoys that crawled through the gate like beetles on pilgrimage. Their shoes gleamed like polished granite, and the air behind them smelled of oud and imported tobacco. These were not ordinary men. These were men who spoke, and roads appeared. Men who blinked, and a contract was born. They had names that sat heavy on radio waves and bulletin headlines—Hon. Tobias Ofoka, Senator Laide Ibraheem, Chief Patrick Ukoha, Mrs. Magret Asibong of the Eastern Caucus, and of course, Chief Dango, whose silence, in recent days, had become more feared than thunder.

The police stood at alert, black sunglasses hiding empty expressions, opening and closing car doors as though tending sacred vessels. There was no laughter, only the clicking of heels and murmurs like the rustling of leaves before the first rain. Inside, the great chandelier above the hall flickered slightly, as though it, too, hesitated at what was to come.

At the high table sat Senator Mohamed Gidado, the National Chairman—his cap high, his voice deep, and his tongue oiled with decades of political survival. His speech, though rehearsed, carried a tremor.

“Distinguished party faithful,” he began, his tone grave as a priest before sacrifice, “The National Working Committee has, after wide consultation and divine reflection, resolved to endorse His Excellency Governor Benjamin Okechukwu Orunta for a second tenure.”

A thunderous ovation rose, as if on cue. Palms clapped not for joy, but for fear of being watched. Behind every handclap was an eye, and behind every eye, suspicion.

But one table remained still.

Chief Dango Ogidigbo, old lion of Umunnachi, sat with the weight of history on his shoulders. His white kaftan billowed softly from the fan above, but the heart beneath it was not moved. Beside him, Barrister Mike Okonkwo, his longtime ally, leaned in.

“Is this how they do us?” he whispered, the lines on his face deepening.

Dango’s eyes did not blink. His lips barely moved.

“I told Ben… four years for him, four for me. He forgets too quickly.”

The murmurs in the hall grew as other party lords noticed the silence from Dango’s camp. Mrs. Asibong nudged Chief Ukoha.

“Is it not Dango that bankrolled Ben’s campaign?” she asked, eyes dancing.

“Yes,” Ukoha replied. “But in politics, the hands that plant the yam are not always the ones that eat it.”

Ben Orunta, meanwhile, beamed like a new bride. Flanked by Hon. Cyril Bako, his Commissioner for Information, and Timi Agbalumo, the party’s youth coordinator, he waved, he smiled, he mouthed gratitude. But his eyes—those calculating eyes—never left Dango.

After the meeting ended and the crowd spilled out into the late morning haze, Ben retired to his office in the party complex—a room too large for modesty, with chairs bearing golden crests and walls lined with framed handshakes. As he sat with his collar slightly loosened, the knock came.

Dango entered.

There was no handshake.

“Ah, Dango,” Ben said, rising, his smile stretched too thin. “You’ve come.”

“You called me your elder when you needed funds,” Dango replied, settling without invitation. “Now you wear the crown and forget who wove the thread.”

Ben’s laugh was small and dry, like leaves crackling underfoot.

“We are in a new season, Chief. The president himself wants me to continue. The party is united.”

“I am not the party?” Dango asked.

There was silence. Then Dango rose.

“I did not come here for an argument. I came to remind you of our covenant. You swore that after one term, the baton would pass.”

Ben waved dismissively. “Politics is not marriage. Things change. But I will make it up to you. There are talks of reshuffling the federal cabinet. An ambassadorial seat... or Minister of State—”

“You think I’m a street hawker waiting for scraps?” Dango thundered, his voice now rising like a gathering storm. “I spent money—real money. Blood money. To install you!”

Ben’s smile vanished.

Dango walked to the door, paused.

“You will see me again. But not as your friend.”

Outside, the sky had darkened, though the sun still shone.

Barrister Mike, waiting near Dango’s SUV, asked nervously:

“How did it go?”

Dango said nothing. He entered the car, rolled down the window.

“It’s time we visited the others. This game is far from over.”

In the shadows of the Party House, a man in plain clothes slipped away from the building. He had no name in the records. He had no badge. But he listened well.

He would tell the governor everything.

Or so he thought.

And so the pieces are drawn.

The game begins—not of chess, but of knives.

And in the land of Elebu, where promises are clay and power is water,

only the sharpest mind survives the flood.