I still don't understand why Etua chose me. I have tried, but I still can't comprehend. With her, I have achieved my goal, a famous blog, but lost everything in the process: My wife, children, home, and life.
As this story progresses, I will try to describe Etua, (in the best possible way I picture her) to my readers. As an amateur writer, it would even prove more difficult. Because how do I describe someone I haven't met before?
It all started this sunny afternoon. Although sitting in my study, in the damp temperate, I could only imagine the scorching sun bounce on my zinc, on hawkers with big trays over their head walking the aisle of a traffic, laborers mixing cement, and of course, my children swimming at the community pool. I feared that it was infected, but my children kept running around me, pulling my trouser, begging.
"Have you not been begging for alone time?" My wife asked. She was clad in my oversized black polo, and probably had shorts under, but it was totally obscured, leaving her smooth thighs bare.
"Yes," I moved passed the threshold, into my children's room. "But can't you take them elsewhere? You know the nasty things people do in that pool."
She shrugged. She sat at the edge of Chiziterem's bed. Michael's was right beside it. "They insist it must be there. You know that's where all their classmates would be."
Another reminder that I couldn't afford private school.
"Please daddy?" Chiziterem, the little one tugged at my trousers. I motioned and lifted her. She was five and weighed a ton. Wonder where she got her weight from. "As long as you obey your mother." I poked her little nose.
"Yaayy!" she pecked me, wriggling, eager to leave my grip.
"And that goes for you too." I was talking to Michael. He sat beside his mother, faced down.
"Okay." He answered coldly. Most times I think he hates me.
They got ready, and before she drove off in her little Audi, I bent into view through the passenger's side, where Micheal was strapped to his chair. "Please, honey don't let them stay in the water too long."
"You worry too much." She said fixing her seatbelt.
"And don't let them..." the car drove off... "Out of your sight." I muttered, gazing at the car as it drove off. The farther it went, the more convinced I was that it was a bad idea. I whirled around and scaled the stairs. Our apartment was on the fourth floor, the fourth door on the hallway. It was a three-bedroom apartment. One for the children, the other for Ngozi and I, and the other I used as my study.
Sitting before my desk in my study, I broke my laptop open, pressed the power button but the screen didn't come alive. Cursing inwardly, I reached for the charger and plugged it. The charging light appeared, but then I saw the power light too. It was already on. I pressed the power button again, nothing, still didn't come alive. My heart sank. The first thing that strolled my mind was finance. I couldn't risk tampering with our savings, talk more of fixing, or replacing my laptop. I wasn't working per se. I was a blogger, with a not-so-special site. Yet I worked effortlessly to update when I can. I worked a side job at night as the manager of a club, and my wife was a nurse. So money was a big issue for us. But never the less, we managed.
"Common!" I randomly pressed the keypads. Suddenly it came on. A blank white screen, with a countdown on the screen, 77% complete.
I look at the numbers as it counted, 80% complete. I flipped the laptop and removed the battery, but the screen didn't go off. 88% complete. What the hell? Only to find out that power was still transmitted through the charger. I unplugged it and the screen went blank.
My heart was pulsing rapidly, and my breathing extended. I didn't know what it was, but I couldn't get my files wiped, or let that countdown complete. More signs that my laptop was outdated. I shut my eyes and massaged my temple mildly. Waited a while before coupling the Battery. I pressed the power button and the laptop came alive. The screen was black with, please wait... (the three dots counting and iterating) Then it turned white. 100% complete.
It disappeared, then an icon that looked like it boxed a skirt, appeared. Above the icon was, please click here, with a blinking arrow pointing down to the icon. I removed the Battery again and fixed it back, only to return to that same page. My files, I thought. With my mouse, I slowly directed the cursor above the icon, inhaling deeply, I clicked, ready to brace my heart if my files wiped.
On-screen it read, VPN successfully installed. Then my home screen materialized, with all the icons in place as they were. I didn't, neither have I ever thought of installing a VPN. Without giving me time to comprehend what was happening, a message tab appeared.
Hello Mr. Richard.
I looked at the screen in shock, wondering which of my friends could be messing with me.
You might be wondering who I am, or what this is all about.
My fingers hovered over my keyboard, not sure what I should type. I slowly typed what one would if they were in my shoes.
Who are yuu?
I was too engrossed to notice my typo.
Open your website.
I immediately opened Chrome and clicked on my website's bookmark. I had so many notifications. A bunch of people had signed up for my newsletter, and many reposted my last story, and some story called Color Blue.
The message tab appeared over my website's page.
I will be using your website to expose some really deep secrets of the country.
Why would you do that?? My heart was beating thuderously. Who are you?
Oh you can call me Etua.
Why don't you call me so we can book a meeting and do this the right way?
The right way? You are not a big fan of doing things the right way.
What? you just hacked my laptop.
It showed that Etua was typing. My palms were clammy now, and the raging sun outside seemed to have penetrated into my study. I was perspirating. Etua must be typing a note because it had been over seven minutes she started typing. Suddenly my phone rings, jolting me out of my skin. My knees hit below the desk, making my phone tip over the desk and scattered on the floor. When I picked it, I saw that lines ran through the screen. I huffed defeatedly. I just fixed it last week. I reached for the battery and coupled the phone. Praying as I pressed on the power button, that it didn't affect the screen. Unfortunately, the lower half of the screen had poured ink. I glanced at the laptop, and Etua was still typing.
My phone vibrated in my hand, and from the visible part, it showed, My Love.
I slid my finger on the inked screen below, but seeing that my wife's name kept bouncing on the screen, I knew it wasn't functional. Remembering a little hack to answer a call, I pushed my chair back and sprang up. I scurried out of my study into the seemingly short hallway. All the doors were close-by. Turning to the next door on my right, I entered my room; which was also my wife's room.
When we were still in the University, pumped with hope and dreams, we said our home was going to be uphill, with a well-trimmed lawn, consisting of different rooms where we can both have separate rooms, and still have extra rooms for our relatives when they come visiting.
Ngozi never looked at me with eyes that reminded me of my failure to give her this dream life. If one thing, she enjoyed-or pretended to enjoy- our life. How she cleaned and mopped everywhere, making sure my clothes or the children's weren't littered about, and properly laundered. How she wiped the dust off shelves and made sure everything was in place. She made sure she changed the air freshener every month. The whole house currently smelt like orange. I moved to the vanity where her cosmetics were neatly arranged. Pulling out the last drawer, I retrieved, where I had last seen it, the casing of her present phone. Inside, I retrieved the white earpiece and scurried back to my study. Mentally checking if I pushed back the drawer. I probably didn't.
Once I sat down, my phone began to ring again. Even though I expected it, my pulse still raced as it vibrated on the desk. Taking a quick glance at the laptop. it was blank now. I tapped a key and the screen came alive; haven being driven to sleep by idleness. Etua was still typing. I plugged the earpiece into my phone, inserting only one pod in my ear. Saying a quick prayer before pressing the little button on the mouthpiece. It connected.
"Richard!" Ngozi didn't call me baby. "Where did you get that information from?" I had to remove the pod from my ear because she was shouting.
"What are you talking about?" my eyes were focused on the screen and I was getting nervous about what this person was typing.
"What I am talking about? Your blog Richard! Your blog!"
"What's on my..." I was about to say something but faded out, remembering I was been hacked.
I placed the phone down, beside the laptop.
As I minimized the message tab, clicking to refresh my website, Ngozi's voice continued, "Since last night, Richard! you couldn't even tell me about it! Richard, we have kids now! You can't just post such vital information about..." I removed the pod from my ear, unconsciously saying, "I will call you back love..." My eyes were fixed on the headline on my screen. The Color Blue I noticed people were sharing.
Color Blue
It gave information-with pictures captured from above- about a white duplex; barricaded by a blue painted fence that soared higher than the duplex, completely obscuring it. This duplex was situated in the slums of Nmpehi, Emii, Imo state; the eastern region of Nigeria.
The Color Blue post gave a full description of the house. Starting with the red interlocks spread around the compound, to the white steel door that led into a large sitting room- that was, in fact, a waiting room. The walls were adorned with black and white spotted wallpaper. A spiral stairs with gold painted banister that led to a long hallway accommodating four doors. Two on each side. There was an oculus on the wall head-on where sun or moonlight filtered through, illuminating the hallway. The doors were greatly spaced; meaning the rooms were spacious. Blue, as people who shared the story on their social media called it, went ahead to say that the rooms were empty.
The last door on the left was locked with a big gold padlock. It went ahead to say that even that room was empty; walls adorned with the same black and white spotted wallpaper. However, if one should walk to the edge of the room and stump hard on the floor, you would notice that the floors would creak. with a pocket knife, one can tear the carpet which gave the impression that the room was tiled. The carpet was as thick as rug, so one needed to use strength. When one must have cut a square on the carpet and tore it out, a manhole covered with planks would become visible. Once the planks are removed, a stairway that ran into the darkness below would materialize. Looking at it, one might think it's an endless stairs that ran into the earth, leading to buried wisdom. But it actually just led into a basement. The lights are motion sensor, so if alone, once one overcomes the fear of going down the stairs-which wouldn't even be a problem if one had a touch-the light begin to flicker. Once this light comes on, your jaw would drop at the sight before you. The money stacked more than six feet high would do the trick, but the fact that it is in dollars-hundred dollar bills-might leave your eyes widened, and mouth ajar for a long time.
The government has no other choice but to swing...
Etua's message tab overshadowed the text I was reading.
You look quite surprised.
I Look surprised. I pondered it a while. With my heart pounding violently, my fingers punched the keyboard, asking how she knew I was surprised, but then, it clicked to me that she might have hacked my Webcam and was observing me. Most letters on my keyboard had faded. The hack I used was writing the letter on paper tape and placing it over the faded key. I removed the tape on the "B" key just to place it over the Webcam.
Please delete that post, you are putting my family in danger.
The moment I tapped the send button, my phone began to ring. Its seemingly loud vibration jolting me again, but my knees didn't hit beneath the desk. On the half screen, it showed that it was Ngozi calling.
The moment I picked, pressing the button on the mouthpiece, her voice billowed but I didn't remove the pod from my ear.
"Ngozi..." I didn't call her my love and I realized late. "Come back home with the kids now!"
"Why did you hang up on me!" She yelled again.
"Just bring the kids home. Now!"
That was probably the highest our voice had ever been to each other. I hung up. That same moment Etua's message arrived.
I4I147 write that code down and keep it close it you.
I obeyed her like a kid taking instructions in class.
What is the code for?
The EFCC might be at your door Any moment from now, you have to leave your house now!
Leave my house? I can't just leave my house!
That post was updated yesterday night. Your location has been tracked down, and a dispatch team is already on their way. Call that code on your phone the moment you leave your home and in a safe place.
**Chat Disconnected**
The cursor blinking in my type box disappeared. The message tab could no longer receive actions from the keyboard. Now sweat was rolling down my face, and my collar was drenched. I couldn't make calls due to my cracked screen. I stood up, not knowing what to do or think first. I had to wait for my family. I went to the front door. Looking around before pushing some chairs to wage the door.
I went back to my study and read the post again. And again, until I heard a knock at the door. It was calm, and only hit again when I didn't answer. I was standing before the door, contemplating if to say anything or not.
If it was someone familiar, the person didn't speak until the knock stopped. It became so quiet that I could hear the soft hum of the fridge. It crept me out so much that my hairs stood on ends. I stood there, unable to move. I stood there until my legs began to shake, weakened by time. I glanced at my wristwatch, it was over thirty minutes I spoke to my wife. The pool was a ten minutes drive.
From the TV stand, I grabbed my car key, pushed out the chairs, and scaled the stairs to the lobby. Protruding my head first to glance the street. Only a blue cab drove by. It seemed quiet as usual. Once I stepped out, and the sun bounced on my skin, paranoia crept into me. It felt like I was being watched from the neighboring apartments. Every open window felt like someone was hiding behind the shadows, maybe even taking pictures.
Inside my car felt partially safe. Then the thought of someone covering my face from behind with a stupe soaked with ethanol made me glance back at once. Satisfied that nobody was there, I took deep breaths before inserting the key. The engine roared to life then went off. I tried again, the same thing. I punched the steering and inadvertently honked the horn. I stepped down, back into the sun. Most times it sucked to live in a quiet environment. How was I going to get a cab? Then like the universe was on my side, the same blue cab drove by again. I flagged it down.
"Where dey go?" his brown teeth visible as he spoke in vernacular.
"Community pool." I entered without further discussion.
"The one wey dey Rumuola?"
"Oga I said community pool!"
"Ah why you dey shout? Na my motor be this Ohh! You go go down. You no be anybody to me!" He was gazing at me through the rearview mirror. Eyes as red as blood. Probably the effect of marijuana. His full dreadlocks said so much about him already.
"Oga sorry. Make we dey go."
"One thousand naira."
"One thousand?!" It was outrageous. I switched to vernacular. Maybe he was getting the wrong impression since I used proper English. "Una always wan cheat person. Oga na just the pool for front."
"Five hundred. If you no like you comort my motor."
"Oga dey go." Oga in vernacular meant boss, but I was using the term mostly because he was an elderly man.
As the motor turn onto the main road, I looked out for her Audi. Any creamed coloured car I saw from the distance, shot my hopes up. The car swerved right, probably trying to avoid a pothole, but wasn't fast enough because we entered It. The back shocks being the part of the car that suffered most, made me bounce on my sit. The rasta driver huffed angrily.
"You see this our government! Stupid people! All of them! That pothole don reach two years now!" The rasta driver billowed. "Them go wan work road, them go give am people wey no Sabi because them wan embezzle the money, come pay tiny money for nonsense!"
I didn't pay attention to him, my eyes were busy rambling left to right. But the man didn't seem to notice the little or no attention I paid to him, because he kept talking and I couldn't shut my ears.
"Weytin them sabi na to dey save our money they use am for election," The rasta continued, "Them go go village wey dem suppose empower, dey give them guns and money to scatter the same election. Me I no blame the boys, I no blame them at all." he stretched the last word. Then swerved right before continuing, "Poverty fit make man do anything. Look at me, a whole First Class student of the University of Nsuka! Nobody wants to employ me." He ended on a low note.
My ears twitched at his last sentence. I didn't believe him. "Oga you know say them dey rush First Class student for Nigeria." I was at best a second class lower graduate. It was just the news, or rather rumour that companies rushed First Class students. For a moment, I switched my gaze to him before averting it back to the road. We were approaching the recreational centre and my heart was now beating faster.
He spoke after some seconds, "I was working with Chell."
"Chell?" Everybody knew the respected oil company. Noticing he had switched to proper English, I did too. "So what happened?"
"I just asked questions that were probably not supposed to be asked."
"Like?"
"Why this was like that, and that like this...Like what you are doing on your blog...not even close...where do you get that information from?" he momentarily gazed at me from the rearview mirror, and back to the road.
"My blog?" For the first time, my attention turned fully to him. We reached the entrance of the recreational centre. The rasta spoke after the gateman must have passed a tiny card through a small window. As the boom barrier gradually raised, he said, "You are famous. Why do you think I wanted a thousand from you? you must be getting real cash from someone to post such on your blog." He paused and I watched his eyes momentarily glance at me through the rearview. "When you flagged down my car, I instantly recognized you from the picture I saw this morning on the internet."
"Picture?" I muttered, fazed as if now grasping the true issue at hand.
My phone rang. But I didn't jolt from the vibration. I felt numb. I craned to it on my hand to view Ngozi's name bouncing on the screen. I answered immediately.
"Baby where are you?" she asked, voice as calm as flowing stream.
"Where are you? I am on my way to the community pool."
"Why? I thought you asked us to come back 'now'." She emphasized the last word. "Besides your car is here."
"The car..." I was about to explain but held my tongue, lest I begin to panic, bringing up conversation of leaving the house and all that. "I am coming now." I said. The line went dead.
The asphalt the blue cab currently rode ran between a wide spacious fields where horses grazed.
"Please turn the car around."
The driver's phone beeped. He didn't pick it up until he U-turned. One glance at it and he smiled. "Oga you don post again." he shook his dreadhead dramatically. "You even have a team working for you."
"Post?" I didn't want to sound too surprised. "Can I see it, wanna see if my editors did a good job."
As he stretched his phone back he said, "Make sure you are safe oh, because our government is dangerous. Black men, always chasing shadows. Get security if you don't want gunmen to come to your house and waste you at night."
My palm was sweaty as I refreshed the page.
Color Pink
The Color Pink post spoke about a camp in the middle of the forest in Kwame, Benue state; the northern part of Nigeria. (With pictures and coordinates) with its length extending a hundred metre, and width wider than fifty metres; it was as wide as a soccer pitch. The camp had various training devices, types that were used to train soldiers. By one side of this field, was a two-story building, yet to be plastered or painted, In and out. The first floor was a big hall, so was the second and the ground floor. These halls accommodated hundred bunk beds each. Meaning there were two hundred virile men breeding on each floor.
In 2024, after the presidential elections, there would be a coup with a plan to purge Nigeria of its present recycled post-independence government.
The government has no choice but to swing into action.
Next post in 1:47 minutes.
A countdown? Now my heart was beating thunderously. Before I could look up, I jerked forward and hit my head behind the driver's seat. "What's the..." looking up to see why he suddenly held break but froze mid-sentence.
"There are police cars all over your place..." The rasta informed
I wasn't blind. I saw it too. Lord my family! "Revise now!"
"You haven't paid me yet."
I dug into my pocket and retrieved a couple of five hundred naira note and gave it to him. As he shifted his gear to revise, I asked, "Can I make a call with your phone?"
"That would be extra money."
I ignored him and dialed my wife's number. It rang till a computerized voice directed me to voicemail. My heart ached, and my hands began to tremble. I called again and it still diverted to voice mail. I shut my eyes, silently pondering what was happening. One minute, I was thinking of how to provide money for my family, the other, I am worrying about their safety. I hated this Etua person so much and wanted to rip the person's head off. Then I remembered the code I was directed to call.
From my breast pocket, I retrieved the piece I wrote down the code. I4I147. There was no way I could type in letters to call. There is a saying that when the mind is tensed, it was faster and more efficient. Intuitively, I found a solution. If I sent the code a message, I could call the number from the message box. Low and behold, it worked and was ringing. I pressed the phone to my ear, waiting. It connected. I kept quiet for a while waiting to hear something before I spoke.
"Hello, Mr. Richard." It was a tiny female voice. Surprisingly familiar. "I told you to call me when you are in a safe place."
"Please who are you?" I was calm for an unexplainable reason. That voice...
The voice laughed. "Mr. Richard you are smarter than that."
"Where is my family?"
"How am I supposed to know that?"
"Don't play with me!"
The voice laughed. That low, calm laughter that said, you can do nothing. "Another post has just been released." I removed the phone from my ear to see the notification. The called ended.
Color Red
In 2020 the president traveled to Japan on 'vacation' where he stayed approximately four months and six days. During his stay, his vice assumed the sit temporary. From time to time, the president would release a statement, congratulating people on their achievement. But nobody ever saw a video or picture of him. That was because the president died on his 'vacation', which was actually not a vacation. He was sick-terribly sick- and was in Japan for nothing else than treatment. The westerners, the Yoruba's, who couldn't risk handing over the presidency to the vice, who was an Igbo man, flew in a doppelganger from Mali, adjusted his features through surgery, and brought him back after four months. Of course, his vice was accused of corruption and was impeached four weeks after the imposter's return. And was replaced with Seyi Akerele, a member of the cabal.
Tunde Gbenga is not your president, but an imposter.
The government has no option than to swing into action.
Next post in 4:48 minuets.
That was when I decided to type an official statement. I guess that's where you met this story. I don't know why she chose me. I have nothing to do with the post been released on my blog. Thank you very much for your understanding.
Richard Omawale.
Although deep down, I guess I knew who she was, and why she tormented me. I could still remember the colors on the skirt she wore the day I made that terrible mistake.
How comfortable she felt in my house, her tiny voice saying, "I feel like Joseph in my skirt of many colors."
The drugs were yet to hit her.
**End**
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