For the second time that week, General Aina Adekunle walked down the opulent hallways of the Aso Villa, the seat of Nigeria's presidency. The halls gleamed under the warm glow of ornate chandeliers, their marble floors polished to perfection. His polished wingtips echoed with each step, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
He relished the summons—it was a reminder of the power he wielded, even over the highest office in the land. His mind was already crafting the perfect response to whatever storm awaited him.
Ahead, he approached the entrance to the Apex Room, a fortified nerve center for the nation's top security deliberations, akin to the Situation Room in the White House. The entrance was a testament to cutting-edge security: a steel-reinforced door guarded by two imposing agents from the Presidential Guard Unit (PGU). Their tactical suits bristled with advanced weaponry, and each held an EagleSentinel PDW, a compact yet devastating personal defense weapon.
One of the guards placed his palm on a biometric scanner embedded in the wall. The scanner emitted a soft glow, verifying the guard's identity before the door slid open silently. The air inside was cooler, the faint hum of encrypted communication systems filling the room.
Adekunle stepped into a space dominated by a sprawling circular table. Around it sat the most powerful men in the nation:
President Jaiye Martins, a man of stoic features and a sharp intellect, though his current expression was a ghastly mask of rage.
Chief of Staff Akeem Hamzat, a seasoned strategist with a reputation for ruthless efficiency. He was known to broker deals behind closed doors that reshaped the nation's political landscape.
Rear Admiral Dotun Olaoye, a towering figure in the navy, with a service record that spanned three decades and several successful anti-piracy operations in the Gulf of Guinea.
Commander-in-Chief Robert Ikechukwu, a decorated war hero turned politician, whose presence alone was enough to silence a room.
The tension was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.
President Martins glared at Adekunle as he approached, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Hey, Adekunle… you this little boy. It amazes me sometimes that we made a 32-year-old the Director of the NIA."
The insult hung in the air, but Adekunle's face remained impassive.
"Could you please explain," the President continued, his voice rising, "why you dragged me into this conspiracy? As far as I know, no attempt has been made on my life. From my sources, the couple you alleged as terrorists are clean! No criminal records. Nothing! Why the lies? Why the cover-ups? Why drag me into something I know nothing about on national TV?"
The President's voice cracked. "And now I think there really is an alien spacecraft in that forest, contrary to your claims. You're hiding something, Adekunle. You're plotting something devious. YOU BASTARD!"
The room fell silent, the President's outburst echoing off the walls.
"Calm down, Jaiye," Chief of Staff Hamzat interjected, his voice measured.
"Don't you dare!" the President snapped, glaring at Hamzat. "Did I call your name?"
Adekunle stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. "Dear Mr. President," he began, his voice calm but dripping with mockery. "The first lesson you have to learn..."
He reached out suddenly, grabbing the President's coat collar and pulling him forward.
"...is to never call me a bastard," Adekunle said, raising his hand and delivering a thunderous slap across the President's face.
The slap echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. The President staggered, clutching his cheek, his eyes wide with shock. He looked around the room, expecting someone to rise in his defense, but to his dismay, the others remained seated. Smirks and suppressed laughter danced across their faces as they watched the scene unfold.
"Seize him!" the President barked at the PGU agents stationed by the door. "Idiots! Can't you see he's assaulting your President?"
The agents stood motionless, their faces impassive.
Adekunle leaned in closer, his tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Reality check, old boy—I own everyone in and beyond this room. You've been my puppet all along, and I your crafty puppeteer."
The room's atmosphere shifted as Adekunle reached into his pocket, drawing a compact firearm. The BlackWasp-9, a deadly, undetectable weapon made from ceramic and carbon composites, glinted in the dim light.
The President recoiled, his voice trembling. "W-What is that?"
Adekunle pressed the barrel to Martins' temple, his expression chillingly calm. "Now, we talk business. And if you like, make you do Strong head ," he added in pidgin, drawing chuckles from the other men in the room.
"Here's the deal. All your loved ones—your wife, your daughter, and your extravagant son—are being held at gunpoint as we speak. Combined, their lifestyle costs more than the NIA's annual budget."
The President's face went pale.
Adekunle continued, his voice cold and deliberate. "Tomorrow, you will announce your resignation to the nation in a public address. No excuses. No delays. This is non-negotiable. Do you understand me?"
Martins stared at him, his lips trembling.
"Shon gbo mi?" Adekunle demanded, switching to Yoruba for emphasis. "Tomorrow, you resign."
The room remained silent as Martins processed the ultimatum. His gaze darted to the other men, searching for a lifeline, but none came. Chief of Staff Hamzat looked away, feigning interest in the holographic display on the table. Rear Admiral Olaoye drummed his fingers idly, his face a mask of indifference. Commander-in-Chief Ikechukwu stared at Martins with a faint smirk, his silence louder than words.
For the first time in his political career, Jaiye Martins felt utterly powerless.
Adekunle stepped back, holstering the BlackWasp-9. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. Gentlemen," he said, turning to the others, "I'll leave you to prepare for tomorrow's announcement."
Without another word, he strode toward the door. As it slid shut behind him, Martins collapsed into his chair, his body trembling.
The Apex Room had witnessed many critical decisions, but none as damning as this.