True-blue Countrymen

By Solomon Dahiru

A young journalist stumbles upon one of the most egregious and daring political schemes ever conceived, where a powerful group is planning to usurp power and take over the State by any means necessary. Only he has the power to stop them, as a horde of their damning secrets unwittingly fell into his labs.
But no sooner had he set about doing this that they got wind of his designs and came after him with every arsenal in their chest. For the meantime, they succeeded in taking him out of the picture but soon realized that this only took care of the shoot of their problems leaving the root intact. Someone out there still knew their secrets.
Now with the Journalist gone, focus was shifted to his family – his wife and young son – who although innocent and oblivious, were not to be spared as all loose ends sought to be tied. Now they must run for their lives, relying on nothing but their wit and good fortune
What really are these secrets that are worth killing and dying for, and how damning are they and to whom? What became of the Journalist and his family? As the noose tightened around them, do they have luck enough and wit sufficient to be able to withstand the full onslaught of hate and terror unleashed by these driven, evil men? These are some of the questions that the text sought to unravel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solomon Dahiru
• Release date: Nov 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463034170

Solomon Dahiru

Solomon Dahiru, hails from Gombe state, Nigeria. Born on 23/01/990 at Bauchi state in Northwestern Nigeria. Attended Baptist Academy Gombe where he obtained his O level School Leaving Certificate. He is a graduate of Ahmadu Bello University Zaria, Department of Human Physiology. He is an avid reader, and loves to read and write about things he is passionate about.

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TRUE-BLUE COUNTRYMEN

BY

DAHIRU SOLOMON

Copywrite 2019 Dahiru Solomon

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

DEDICATION

To my nephews and niece, Jerry, Jude and Jedidah. Hope your generation have it better.

Table of contents

Licence notes

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Soul charge

Author’s note

PROLOGUE

He turned and squinted tired, groggy eyes to look at the clock hung on the wall opposite the bed in the dimly-lit room. It gave the time as 2 A.M. He sighed, flung the blanket towards his wife and got out of bed. He stood by the bed and watched her for a while; her breathing was quiet and peaceful; her chest rose and fell in slow, constant, repetitive, rhythmic cycles. A streak of light ‒ probably from the streetlight outside or from the crescent moon above ‒ snuck in through the gap between the curtains and fell diagonally across her face, from the left side of her cheek, over the bridge of her nose to the right portion of her forehead, finally disappearing in a mass of tangled hair. Her beautifully patterned face stood out in sharp relief against the white, rose-patterned bedspread.

She smiled dreamily and for a moment he thought his staring had somehow woken her. But she groaned quietly, muttered something incomprehensible, then burrowed deeper into the thick blanket and continued to sleep.

The phone began to ring again.

He groped in the darkness trying to find the door, not wanting to switch on lights lest he woke her. He wondered who could be calling at such an ungodly hour. Although, as a journalist he was quite used to these ill-timed calls.

The sitting room was also dark. He stumbled against a chair and winced in pain; he swore and cussed silently under his breath. Someone put the damned chair at the wrong place again; they’ll talk about it tomorrow.

The phone had begun ringing again for the third time. He reached over to the table and snatched it up furiously;

Hello.

The voice from the other end was curt and sharp, with a slight hint of an accent, and quite business-like. Hello, Mr. Fabian. I’m sorry for calling at such an inconvenient hour the voice said, sounding anything but sorry. There are some things we need to discuss and I'm afraid that cannot wait, so listen carefully...

Who's this? Mr. Fabian asked quite beside himself.

The response was brisk and given in a disarmingly patronizing tone. Mr. Fabian, your reputation precedes you, and one of such is that you always ask the right questions. But right now I must tell you I'm not impressed. You need to ask the right questions, Mr. Fabian.

Silence.

Good. Now that we are properly introduced let's continue, shall we? The man at the other end cleared his throat and continued. Your country is on the brink of another civil war, Mr. Fabian. A pause, a deep breath, then, I'm not trying to be dramatic; no, not at all. In fact, if anything, that information is quite an understatement.

How so? Mr. Fabian asked, very puzzled.

Very good, the slightly accented voice boomed. Now that's what I call a good question. You see, Mr. Fabian, the plan is an ingenious one, to be executed with patience and absolute ruthlessness over the next couple of Years. As a matter of fact the plan is already underway. Over the next couple of years a cascade of events will unfold in your country, these events will be pandemic in their scope and devastating in their effect. In short, there'll be far reaching consequences.

He paused, probably for effect and then continued. Over the next few years, the crises in the northern part of the country will deepen; the Southeast will resume their popular agitations. New groups will emerge in the South-south and join forces with existing ones and will lay siege to the nation’s golden goose. Politicians will become more brazen and will plunder with impunity. Foreign relations between your country and several others will be advertently strained and ultimately severed, to the end that when there arise a national outcry against these injustices – and there will be – the other countries who would have otherwise been inclined to intervene will remember their grievances against your country and will turn their backs, the natural...

How do you know this? Mr. Fabian asked, finally out of patience.

Oh come on now, Mr. Fabian! I thought we'd agreed to drop the wayward questions. I'll let this slide because I can imagine the amount of curiosity eating at you, but you have to do better. Now, why don’t you try again?

Mr. Fabian breathed deeply, in and out, to control his impatience and rising irritation. He thought his question was quite legitimate, but he was determined not to argue with this glib diviner of doom. To what end? He asked instead.

Excellent! Very good, Mr. Fabian, that's more like it. Now, since you've asked I'll tell you. You see, Mr. Fabian, after all these things I've mentioned begin to take place, the country will be ‒ needless to say ‒ plunged into chaos. The powers that be will, as part of their elaborate plan, ensure that a weak man remains in power; someone they can control, at least that's what we believe. Then when the time is right ‒ mind you there's no telling when that will be, we can only speculate at this point, but certainly sooner than you or I imagine. When the time is right, I say, the high and mighty will step in and take over with minimal effort and virtually no resistance because ‒ also, needless to say ‒ your country will then be too fractured to resist them. It’ll be a hostile take-over Mr. Fabian.

This information was disconcerting to say the least, and quite unexpected. So much so that the man called Mr. Fabian could not speak for some seconds. The man at the other end let the silence drag on, apparently relishing the fact that his brilliant, climactic summations could provoke such stunned silence. Finally, Mr. Fabian found his voice and asked, who are these people?

All in due time, Mr. Fabian, all in due time, came the reply.

Why are you telling me this?

Because, Mr. Fabian, we want you to stop them.

Me? He asked incredulously, certain now that all this is one huge joke.

Yes, Mr. Fabian. We have sent you a package, retrieve it from your doorstep at the end of this call; in it you'll find some information that'll help you in your quest should you chose to accept this mission. There was silence on the other end so the man continued, I know it's a lot to take in, frankly I'd be stunned too; so take some time and think about it. Your reputation precedes you as I said, so we are confident... well... reasonably so, that you can do it. But we'll be remise not to warn you to be very careful in all you do from this point moving forward because these are dangerous people with deep pockets.

If you have your precious little package and so much information why don't you just do it yourselves, you and whoever it is that you represent. Mr. Fabian snapped.

There was a short, impatient, dry cackle from the other end. Like I said, it is your country, Mr. Fabian, not mine. And to tell you the truth many of these other countries you see, mine included, are dying to get a piece of yours due to ‒ again, needless to say ‒ the enormous resources you have, which sadly your people foolishly squander on dim-witted politicians and hare-brained policies. But it's not my place to judge; we too have our own problems. But believe me when I say this: the sooner your country falls apart, the sooner the vultures will swoop in.

At that point what Mr. Fabian desperately wanted to know was who this man was who seemed to know so much about this alleged, malevolent political inner-workings of certain individuals in the country and who exactly does he work for? These questions nagged him. He started to ask them but instead he asked, so what do you need me for?

It's all in the package, Mr. Fabian. All in the package. Silence, then, good luck, Mr. Fabian.

Before Mr. Fabian could speak he heard a click, followed by the dial tone. He stood and stared at the tiny phone in his hands for two, long, distressing minutes, not believing what he'd just heard. Finally, he shuffled to the door, released the bolts and pulled it open. There, on his doorstep was a bulky, brown, office-sized envelope. He stared at it as one would a rattlesnake. He fearfully stepped onto the porch and peered into the darkness of the still night looking for signs of trespassers; but nothing could be seen or heard other than the incessant chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the swishing sounds of the wind. Everything else was dead-still. He picked up the envelope, returned to the room, and bolted the door in a hurry.

He broke the seal with bated breath and began sifting through a pile of papers and documents. Each paper had CONFIDENTIAL etched boldly across the top. The documents include: written memos, personal correspondences and phone records, wire transfer records to and from many countries, military classified papers, personal and official emails, and a horde of other 'explosive' documents.

He could not believe what he was seeing. His legs were shaking badly from the sudden fright that gripped him. He tried to steady them but failed so he went and sat on the sofa and began reading through the first document. After the first five papers, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was like holding onto a ticking-timed-bomb. He sat back on the sofa to steady his nerves and watched his trembling hands. After a while he willed himself to continue reading. He sighed deeply and picked the next document ‒ an official email this time.

As he plunged deeper and deeper into the maze of secret documents that revealed egregious schemes of the most daring and heinous kind, through the mist and confusion that continued to thicken and threatened to suffocate him, he was certain of one thing and one thing only: that things were not going to be the same!

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CHAPTER ONE

The house was located in a quiet suburban part of Abuja, the Federal Capital Territory of Nigeria. It was situated on a hill with no other visible residences within several kilometers of it. It was a modern duplex whose builders apparently cared little for beauty. No part of the house could be seen as one drove up the only narrow but motorable road leading to it because it was covered by a dense forest of trees.

If one got close enough – which seldom happened – the dark-brown painting could barely be made out from the greyish coloured bark of trees around it. The roof had the same colour and tint as the building, only lighter.

Beyond the trees, about fifteen meters from the building, one finds a barb wired fence, electrified of course; and not surprisingly painted brown. The fence spanned the entire length and breadth of the house with only a narrow, brown-painted gate disturbing its continuity.

The house itself was an odd make: plain, and relentlessly square. Its makers apparently had no use for style or beauty. However, what the house lacked in beauty it made up for in size. The entire building took up at least 15000square feet of land space.

The windows, which were few, were covered with black, tinted glasses. The house had an eerie ambience to it and no one need tell you to move along – a keep-off sign was not required. Obviously, the inhabitants of this god-awful mass of blocks (which seemed to be no one at that moment) do not want to be disturbed.

Two Dobermans could be seen patrolling the grounds at a leisurely pace, snarling at anything that moved.

Deep among the trees, and hidden from sight were three armed guards also patrolling the grounds, and much like the Dobermans, scowling contemptuously at the rest of the world, eyes darting to and fro searching for wanderers as if anyone was foolish enough to attempt an approach.

The security precautions seemed like overkill to this monumental mass of ugliness, but not for long. Presently, a black, shiny Mercedes – Government Issue ‒ pulled up to the gate and was buzzed in. It was parked haphazardly in the middle of the compound and someone who appeared to be the chauffeur emerged and opened the back door; a heavily built man emerged and walked briskly to the only visible entrance to the house. He punched in some codes and was let in.

Soon the compound was littered with large, luxury cars. Well-dressed men with flowing robes and creaseless suits were emptying out of them, and without so much as a hello, head for the door.

The house's interior differed markedly from its dull exterior: the ridiculous plainness of the exterior gave way to a quaint, luxurious interior; the cooling system worked overtime; there were a lot of flowers and greenery by the walkways. The house was replete with series of interconnected, labyrinthine pathways which could be disorienting to the new-comer.

If one could successfully navigate the endless maze, there was a large room located at the rear of the building, it was furnished with comfort settees, sofas, and a few reclining chairs. The walls on all four sides were adorned with tasteless but expensive artworks and a few horrible looking works of sculpture which gave the room an eerie look associated with shrines ‒ it might as well be.

Portraits of long gone leaders of the land littered the wall (remembrance wall as they called it). Some had in their lifetime graced such meetings. The portraits included those of former Heads of State and country heroes; some smiling dryly, some scowling indignantly, some looking down with something akin to pity at the current inhabitants of the room.

A few years ago in one of such meetings, a motion was raised by a flamboyant and colourful senator with abysmal fashion sense. He was from the middle belt. His full name is Caleb James Andrew Udoh ‒ quite a mouthful. At what point his given name stopped and his surname commenced no one knew. However, he was, for convenience simply referred to as Senator Udoh.

Well, senator Udoh was concerned that The Chamber – a name they fondly called their meeting place – was a place to be revered, and as such not everyone and certainly not every one of the past leaders deserved a place on the remembrance wall, as some of them did ignoble deeds in their lifetime. He, senator Udoh, believed strongly that in order to preserve the sanctity of their rather hallowed chamber, the portraits of some not-so-worthy leaders should be demoted to the archive room. A heated and loud debate ensued, with the line drawn between those who agreed completely with the honorable senator and those who vehemently opposed the motion. Those who opposed held the opinion that as long as an individual could manage to distinguish himself as these ones did deserved to be on the wall regardless of their shortcomings; they were livid that such a suggestion could even be voiced in the first place. A few choice words were exchanged, a few insults traded; there was even a mention of treason or something of that sort but it came from an old, bibulous, and cantankerous former military governor of the Second Republic called Idris Chindo, who was inebriated at that moment, so they paid him no mind.

After much effort the gathering was brought to order by the chairperson of the occasion ‒ a former minister ‒ who ill-advisedly made the mistake of asking the worked-up senator Udoh to name those whom he felt do not deserve a place on the wall. Udoh who had been breathlessly waiting for such opportunity seized the floor; but he only succeeded in naming two former military heads of State from the seventies and nineties before he was shouted down. To avoid an all-out war, the chairperson wisely ended the meeting.

Senator Udoh went on a quick sabbatical.

There was a bar at one corner of the room with a large closet-sized refrigerator, and a snack table stood beside it. Today the mood was festive. The self-important, well-dressed men trickle in a few at a time and soon an atmosphere of merriment took over; wild laughter resonated through the room. Drinks were brought in by attendants, served and emptied quickly to be replaced by the next round. Governor Chindo was already drunk and was cracking tasteless jokes to a group by the corner who hear nothing but laughed out loud all the same.

Small groups were forming. Each new arrival first paused at the door, scanned the room, recognized one or two people with whom he thought he might endure a conversation and head for that group. Obviously, it was not always happy hour with this bunch.

Heavy metal rock music was playing in the background, mixing with the rumble of voices in the room to give the sensation of an inordinate blend of discordant tunes, punctuated only by more laughter and more lyrically crass music.

But who cares!

Today's meeting leader was Chief Gregory B. Ayana, a fierce looking, heavily built man, who in his fifty-eight years of life has held several top level government positions; the most notable of them being the Secretary to the Federal Government of the Federation. Now he fancied himself as an elder statesman and a father of the land. He is currently the National Chairman of the National Progressive Party, the ruling party in the country at that moment. Chief Ayana was definitely an important man and he made sure no one forgot that.

He finally called the meeting to order and promptly informed them that the day's agendas were quite numerous, so could they please cooperate so as to cover much ground. He said this with a warning glance in the direction of Chindo who was obviously the bad boy of the group. Ayana loved the sound of his voice so he went on rambling in this vein for about a quarter of an hour. Finally, when he felt his colleagues had been duly instructed, he tabled the first issue.

***********

General elections were due in seventeen months and the polity was agog with activities. Politicians were working frantically trying to secure their tickets. Some who couldn't were trying to lobby their way into getting 'juicy' appointments and selling their souls for anything that pays and brings prestige. The race was on!

The incumbent president, Donald Ogi, was approaching the end of his first tenure and already there was panic in his camp. A lot of crisis ranging from corruption to gross human rights violations had marred his current tenure. It was once reported (by a reputable Journal) that the amount looted from the nation's coffers during president Ogi’s brief tenure surpassed what was looted by four previous administrations combined; which is saying something, because, there had been some spectacular loots in the past. The amount of loot was simply mindboggling and unprecedented.

President Ogi had been the official flag bearer for the National Progressive Party, running uncontested, so there was no need for primaries – at least not until yesterday. Yesterday a hard charging, charismatic and loud (to say the least) former senator took the political arena by storm and declared himself ready to rumble. His name was Ibe Ifejuna from Imo state in the Eastern part of the country.

A few years back, Senator Ibe was engulfed in a crisis that almost ended his political career. He was appointed to head a committee to oversee negotiations between the government and a small rural community in the Niger delta called Umudia. It so happened that this small town had oil in abundance; the folks were enraged that the mining activities had depleted their farmlands, contaminated their waters, ultimately making the people living there sickly. They protested and wrote a bunch of letters of appeal to the government but no one took them seriously until they took up arms, beat up oil contractors, barricaded roads and blew up pipelines, then the government began to listen.

Negotiations went on for months always ending in deadlock; no one was willing to compromise. The people of the