Chapter 1 - Whispers In the Rain
Abuja, Nigeria - 9:47pm
The rain had started slowly, like a warning. Now it pounded the roof of the cab as it crawled through the deserted streets of Maitama. Street lights flickered. The usual security convoys were nowhere to be found. Even Abuja, Nigeria's political beast, seemed to shiver in the downpour.
Dami Onadele started through the foggy window, heart pounding louder than the rain. Her phone buzzed in her purse - again. She didn't need to check. It was Zee, probably sending her the location.
Another message flashed.
Zee: Room 9. Galaxy Hotel. He's here. You sure you're ready for this?
Dami: I didn't come this far to turn back.
She had been chasing the story for months - whispers of contract inflation, fake NGO grants, and now --- this. A secret meeting between Senator Bashiru Lawal, a man grooming himself to be the next president of Nigeria, and Kelvin 'Knuckles' Udoh, a known arms dealer under multiple watchlists. The link was unthinkable - but if she captured it on camera, it would blow the entire election wide open.
The cab screeched to a halt.
"Madam, we don reach," the driver said, peering nervously at the quiet, poorly lit building ahead.
Galaxy Hotel wasn't on Google Maps. A safehouse disguised as a hotel, known only to those who trafficked in secrets.
Dami stepped out, the rain soaking her quickly. She wore all back: hoodie, jeans, boots. No makeup, no earrings. Just her recorder, a pin-camera tucked into her bra, and a press pass that would get her killed if discovered.
Inside the hotel, the reception was dim. A bored woman behind the counter didn't even glance up. Good. That meant no one was expecting her.
She took the stairs. Silent. Slow. The air smelled of dust and cigarette smoke. At the top, she paused. The corridor ahead was narrow, with faded carpet and blinking ceiling lights. Room 9.
She moved.
Her breath was steady. But her fingers trembled.
Voices. Inside Room 9.
"--- we've paid the customs boys already. The containers will pass through Kano without inspection."
That voice. Lawal.
"--- and the arms?" Another voice, gruffer. Kelvin. It had to be.
"Disguised as food aid. No one will check. Nigeria's hungry. Let them eat bullets".
Laughter.
Dami's stomach churned. Her pulse raced. She pressed her chest closer to the wall, heart slamming.
Suddenly - footsteps.
The door creaked.
She panicked and darted into the adjacent utility closet, just as the door opened.
Two men stepped out, Lawal - tall, in a white kaftan, Kelvin - stocky, scarred, dangerous. They walked past, speaking in low tones. Dami slid her hand into her pocket, recording everything.
They stopped at the hallway's end.
"--- What of that journalist? That Onadele girl?"
Dami froze.
Lawal snorted. "She's stubborn. Like her father".
Kemi spat. "Should've killed the father properly".
Dami's blood ran cold.
Lawal leaned close to his associate. "Don't worry. We'll fix her soon".
They walked off.
Dami stood in the darkness long after their footsteps faded. Chest heaving. Mind spinning.
Her father's name - dragged into this. The man she'd buried ten years ago after a mysterious car crash. An "accident" the media had called it.
But now she knew better.
Now she had proof.
Outside, the rain fell harder. Dami climbed back into the cab, her hoodie dripping.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
She hesitated. Then: "Jabi. Daily Pulse HQ".
She had a story. But more than that - she had a war to start.
As the cab sped off, she looked out into the city lights of Abuja.
This was no longer journalism.
This was revenge.
.
