THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
Chapter 1 – The Calm Before the Storm
Morning light slips through the curtains and rests on Sheriff Abdullahi’s face.
He lies still for a while, listening to the faint call to prayer echoing through Jabi. The room smells of soap and the faint cologne he always wears. His apartment is neat, almost too neat—bed made with hospital corners, books stacked like soldiers, laptop closed and centered on the table.
He sits up, rubs his eyes, and stares at the wall for a few seconds before moving. His mind already feels full even though the day has barely started. There’s always a low hum inside him, like a machine that never turns off.
He performs ablution, the cold water clearing his head. When he prays, his voice is steady, but his heart drifts. Verses roll off his tongue, familiar and safe, yet they don’t settle the way they used to. Somewhere deep inside, a small ache keeps whispering.
After prayer, he sits back on the prayer mat, scrolling through his phone. A few unread messages blink at him—some from clients, some from people he doesn’t want to think about. He hesitates, then locks the screen. Not today.
He dresses in a pale blue shirt and dark trousers, sleeves rolled, watch polished. Everything about him looks calm and measured. That’s how people describe him: collected, thoughtful, dependable. It’s the image he’s built, brick by brick.
But when he looks in the mirror, he sees the tiredness behind his own smile. A part of him almost laughs. How easy it has become to live two lives—the one the world admires and the one he can barely admit to himself.
He grabs his keys and steps outside. The Abuja morning greets him with soft sunlight and a breeze carrying the smell of wet dust. Cars move lazily along the street. He nods to his neighbor, an older man watering flowers.
“Morning, Sheriff,” the man says with a grin.
“Morning, Mallam Musa,” he replies, smiling back. His tone is gentle, warm. He’s good at that—warmth on command.
At the corner café near his office, the air smells of coffee and pastries. He stops there most mornings. The barista, a cheerful young woman named Rukayya, brightens the moment she sees him.
“Ah, my best customer! Usual cappuccino?”
He chuckles lightly. “You already know me too well.”
“Some people are easy to remember,” she says, sliding the cup toward him.
She laughs at something small he says, her eyes soft. Sheriff notices the way people lean in when he talks—the way they feel seen, comfortable. He isn’t proud of it anymore. It’s just something that happens.
While waiting for his drink, his phone buzzes. A message pops up from a name that makes his chest tighten for a second. He flips the phone face down on the table, picks up his cup, and walks out.
Outside, the sun is higher, the streets busier. Sheriff crosses toward his office building, greeting the security guard with that same polite smile. The guard beams back. Everyone always seems to like him.
Inside, his small tech workspace hums with the sound of keyboards and soft music. His colleague, Idris, waves from a desk.
“Boss, early as usual!” Idris teases.
Sheriff grins. “You know me—old habits.”
He sits, powers on his laptop, and gets to work. Lines of code fill the screen, each one neat and organized, just like everything else in his life. He likes that about coding—the control, the predictability. Machines don’t lie. They do what you tell them.
When Idris asks for help fixing a bug, Sheriff slides over, studies the code for a moment, then explains the solution in simple words. Idris nods, impressed. “Wallahi, you make everything look easy.”
Sheriff smiles, almost sadly. “Practice, that’s all.”
But as Idris walks away, Sheriff’s thoughts drift. He remembers laughter over dinner, a soft voice saying I trust you, and the weight of that trust pressing heavy on his chest. He blinks it away, focusing again on the screen.
By noon, the office fills with chatter and the smell of lunch. Sheriff’s phone lights up once more. This time he reads the name but doesn’t open the message. The guilt sits quietly in his stomach, waiting.
He leans back, eyes half-closed, pretending to rest. From the outside, he looks peaceful—a man with a good job, a calm mind, and a kind smile. But inside, the storm is gathering, quietly.
He tells himself what he always tells himself: You’re fine. Everything is under control.
He even believes it for a second.
Then he opens his eyes, the screen reflection shining across his face, and the small ache in his chest whispers again. It never really goes away.
