At his office at the top of a three-storey building, Chief Amechi sat in a swivel armchair. For hours, he checked files, read financial reports and asked questions of various managers who came in and out. Then men who had violated rules of different kinds were brought to him. He heard their cases from the appropriate managers and fired them. Donaldo was baffled when Ogiji’s father came in to be dismissed from work. He was among the last three waiting to be sacked.
‘You are a co-ordinator?’ the Chief asked.
‘Yes, Chief. At the Distribution Department, Sir.’
‘And you are also in charge of sending rice husks to the ceiling sheets factory?’
‘Yes, Chief.’ His tone was subdued and he looked bedraggled.
‘The report here says you refused the orders of the general manager to send trailer loads of husks to the ceiling sheets factory on the 20th of October last year—’
‘No, Chief.’
‘Will you shut up! Who are you to talk while I do? Your action cost us money.’
‘Chief… Sir, two trucks were at the mechanics. The trailer wasn’t working. It’s not working now still. So I conveyed the husks with only one truck… Sir, I couldn’t finish the work that day with only one truck.’
‘When he was asked to send the husks, he delayed till later in the day, Sir,’ Mr Ogiji’s boss said.
‘Sir, I had to wait for the truck to return—’
‘Be quiet! I think if you knew what you were doing, you would have ensured that there was always an available truck. When you give an excuse, I lose time and money. So assuming we do not have a truck can’t you make arrangements to hire one?’
‘I am sorry, Sir.’ The defeated man cast a look at his son’s friend, and Donaldo felt helpless.
‘There is no repentance in hellfire, you know. Is that not what your Bible says? Mr Man, we cannot continue to work with you. There are so many people that need this job and can do it better. You are fired!’
‘Sir?’
‘Get out!’
Mr Ogiji’s mouth opened and closed in frustration, then he hurried away.
‘Chief,’ Donaldo whispered. His father bent over to hear him.
‘He is Ogiji’s father.’
‘Ogiji?’
‘My friend. The one who comes to the house sometimes. That is his father.’
Chief Amechi sighed. ‘Son, this is business… we will talk about it at home.’
All the sacked staff were asked to vacate the factory residence within two weeks. Donaldo grieved for his friend’s father, while his hatred for his own father grew in leaps and bounds.
TWENTY-TWO
Thursday, 11th March 2010
It was two weeks after the death of Alhaji Umar Hassan. Malik Hassan stood in front of his brother’s grave and recited Surah Yasin. He wore a sparkling white quftan and a red cap.
He closed the book in his hand and prayed. ‘Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’u. We come from Allah and to Him we shall return. May Allah grant you paradise, elder brother.’
When he was done, he walked to where his red Toyota 4Runner was parked and drove off. He was sure that his contact in Chad was finalizing arrangements for the arrival of his own mujahideen. As he drove out of the cemetery, he thought, they will pay one after another, just like my brother, with their blood.
The next day, Sheikh Mohammed Seko was visiting his father’s home. He was eating dinner when a red jeep drove into the compound and stopped. Three of his father’s wives came out of the zinc-roofed bungalow to watch the car that had just arrived. Their heads were covered with black nicob and there were some girls wearing hijab. Small children played in the dust, singing and clapping.
Before Malik could alight from the jeep, several young men surrounded him carrying AK-47s.
‘As-salamu ‘alaykum!’ he greeted, trying to hide his fear. ‘I am Malik Hassan, the brother of Alhaji Umar Hassan. I have come in peace.’
Sheikh Seko was listening through the open window. Why has Alhaji Hassan’s brother come here? Why did he not visit the Centre if he’s come for business? he wondered. He collected his pistol and tucked it into his trousers under his white long-sleeved gallabiya.
‘What do you want?’ one of the young men asked.
‘I’ve come to see the Sheikh. He was a friend of my brother.’
The Sheikh came out and beckoned to the guards to bring the stranger, who wore a quftan. His head was not covered and he was well shaven.
‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, Sheikh Mohammed.’
‘Brother of my friend. Masha’Allah! To what do I owe this visit?’
Neither man offered the other his hand. They stood inches apart.
‘I need to speak with you alone, Sheikh.’
‘Come.’
Malik Hassan followed him to the back of the house, where they sat down on a mat. The two men were silent for a moment. Malik could see the men hovering about in the compound.
‘Sheikh, my brother was murdered!’ he burst out.
‘I know. It was in the news. Accept my condolences. Allah gave him to us. He took His servant.’
‘Sheikh, my brother was killed by the infidels.’ Malik Hassan watched the Sheikh’s reactions closely.
Sheikh Seko fought to keep his demeanour calm while his thoughts were roving. What is he saying? Is he trying to weigh my reactions? ‘The infidels kill everyone now. All the assassinations and robberies in this country are the handiwork of the Igbos, and the thieves in the South-South part of our country. The Yorubas are ethnic bigots and criminals who steal with the pen more than with swords and rifles.’
Malik Hassan lowered his voice. ‘Sheikh, I have come to tell you that I know what is going on.’ He deliberately paused before continuing, hoping to unnerve the Sheikh. ‘I know the good job you are doing for our faith. The infidels who killed my brother are suffering for it. I am glad that you are paying them back this way.’
Sheikh Mohammed Seko had doubts that the man had merely come to congratulate him on his jihad.
‘What can we do for you?’ he responded.
‘I felt that I must come to see you. My brother talked of you. He held you in high regard.’
The Sheikh rose and this time they shook hands.
‘May Allah guide your path!’
As Hassan drove off, the stars followed him. And darkness came. That night, Sheikh Mohammed Seko was perturbed, for he had heard of the escapades of Malik Hassan when he had entered the University of Zaria. Malik Hassan had graduated four years before him, but his reputation was still strong during Mohammed Seko’s time there.
All Donaldo’s efforts to persuade his father to reinstate Mr Ogiji were in vain, until his father gave him a condition – if he signed the contract with the art firm, he would reinstate the man and promote him to manager. Donaldo refused. He gave his friend’s father some money, with which he rented a new apartment for his family and began a rice retail business.
On the day Malik Hassan paid a visit to Mohammed Seko, Donaldo sat on the edge of his bed. Madam Vero sat beside him, chatting with him, while rubbing a towel soaked in hot water on his chin. His father entered.
Chief Donald Amechi looked around the room admiring the many paintings. He lowered his eyes at Madam Vero, who placed the towel back in the bowl and carried it out. At the door, she turned back and glanced at Donaldo. He smiled at her.
‘How are you?’ Chief Amechi asked. Donaldo said nothing, but watched his father. It was there, that day, and at that very instant, that Donaldo began to nurture a sinister thought inside himself.
‘Well, I have arranged for the contract to be extended. I called Italy last night and told them you have a problem and that you cannot sign the contract right now. They consented.’
‘I sense there is more.’
‘You still have to travel to Italy. I don’t know what has entered your head, son.’ The Chief paused. ‘Let me tell you a story.’ He came and sat on a chair by the bed. ‘There was once a man who was a political
genius. He was wicked at heart. The worst was that he was a soldier. He led a country, a great nation, and maimed his countrymen. He killed his friends and dined with his foes. He hated intellectuals and sent many of them into exile…’ He looked at his son to check he was listening. ‘He had great powers, but he wanted to rule forever. He wanted to graduate from a military leader to a civilian president. And rule till his death. He was revered by many leaders, and abhorred by many too. Others envied him.
‘He achieved all his desires. Then he said to himself one night, “I have achieved all I ever wanted in my life, and now to become the civilian president of this great nation will give me much honour.” That night, he died. He died in the hands of a whore. An ordinary whore. A woman killed the man that not even world leaders could reach. You have heard of this General. This story of his death in the hands of a prostitute may be true or not, but it explains what women can do to a great man. You must be careful, Donaldo. So many have ended at the hands of women. So many.’
Donaldo was silent. He feared the look in his father’s eyes. He looked away and said, his voice quivering, ‘I have no woman.’
‘Aagh! You think I do not know, come on. Spare me. Have you forgotten who I am? If I can fool Americans and Europeans with all their intelligence, if I can have a say in who becomes the President of this country, why do you think I do not know the affairs of my own son? You must be damned to think so!’ He laughed fiendishly. Donaldo stared, but the worst was yet to come.
‘I know who she is. You have made the wrong choice, my son.’ The words came as a surprise.
‘You know?’
‘Of course! Hahaha!’ Donaldo had never seen him laugh. Once when Donaldo laughed at a joke Madam Vero had made, his father had shut him up and said, ‘A man only laughs on two occasions, on his birthday and when his wife is delivered of a baby.’
His father continued, ‘Do you think there is anything in this world that I cannot find out if I wanted to?’ The atmosphere in the room became even more tense, and Donaldo suddenly felt suffocatingly hot. ‘Even things in the spiritual realm, my son. There is so much you cannot understand, unless of course you are told. You have made the wrong choice. Do not allow yourself to be the one that will lead to her fall.’
Malik Hassan’s men arrived from Chad three days after he visited the Sheikh. They camped in the house of his late brother’s friend in Maiduguri. The host, a Nigerian Senator, was providing the resources that would be used to avenge his political godfather.
Abouzeid received highly classified information from Chad the same day the men arrived in Nigeria. He hurried to Katsina from Kano where he had gone to visit Sheikh Kabiru Ibrahim.
TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday, 17th March 2010
Abouzeid sat with Sheikh Mohammed Seko in his room; he had just finished briefing him about the men who had arrived in Nigeria on the orders of Malik Hassan. He then said, with hatred in his heart, ‘I do not trust the other fellow with us… Shedrack. I do not trust him.’
‘Why not, brother?’ the Sheikh asked.
‘I still wonder why a Muslim bears this Christian name.’
The Sheikh smiled. ‘Brother, there is a lot you do not know.’
‘My Sheikh, the job we do is a very difficult one. If I am not trusted enough to know all the details of this job, then I might not discharge my duties well.’
‘You are trusted, Abouzeid.’
‘I lead the soldiers to war. I strategize and fight in battles. I need to know the plans. I need to be able to protect my Sheikh.’
‘You know the plans, but Abouzeid, sometimes all we need is to follow orders. I follow orders too, and mostly I do not ask questions.’
Abouzeid was silent. Sheikh Seko didn’t want him to start having doubts, so he said, ‘What is the meaning of Islam?’
‘Submission.’
‘Good. Not just submission, Abouzeid. It is total submission.’
Abouzeid did not respond. Who was he to question his Sheikh’s wisdom? He stood and said, ‘I am sorry, Sheikh Mohammed. I trust in you.’
When Abouzeid turned to step out into the blazing afternoon sun, Sheikh Seko said, ‘Shedrack is a Christian turned Muslim. His Islamic name is Adam.’
‘Why doesn’t he use it?’
‘We need to keep him from the ever suspicious eyes of the Americans.’
‘Why?’
The Sheikh smiled. ‘Remember the phrase Al-harb khida’a?’
‘War is deception.’
‘Precisely.’
Two days later, Sheikh Seko and Shedrack walked down the empty street leading from the village market to the Centre, talking in hushed tones.
‘The things you asked for from Sheikh Kabiru Ibrahim arrived today in a truck. The brothers in the South made arrangements for plenty,’ the Sheikh told Shedrack.
‘Alhamdulillah! And you are sure they have everything? The ammonium nitrate fertilizer, the black powder, the sodium chlorate… everything I need to make a C-4 bomb.’
‘The delivery is there, they said they have it all.’
‘Then, with your permission, I would like to go immediately to look at the supplies.’
When they reached the Centre, they hurried to the back of the building where the truck was parked. Shedrack hauled the crates down with the help of two other men, while Sheikh Seko watched. He took an inventory.
‘Right, we need to move all these to the lab, and I will need the assistance of a few skilled men. We are going to make various explosives, so I need to trust the good sense of the men I work with, and I will need a place where we can also test what I make.’
‘There is a place in the forest, not far from here. It is an unfinished building, abandoned years ago.’
‘Great. I need to prepare. But let me sort out these things first.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 23rd March 2010
Sheikh Seko, Abouzeid and Shedrack, with four other trusted men, gathered in the makeshift lab that had been set up in the abandoned building. Inside they had installed five long tables where most of the IED components were stacked. There were crates on the floor. Shedrack’s upper body was bare. A nervous sweat appeared on his brow and his back glistened.
Sheikh Seko was curious. He had asked Abouzeid to be present so that he could learn what the physicist was doing.
‘This seems easy.’
‘Yes, IEDs are easy to make, once you know how,’ Shedrack said, ‘and the most important thing about this is that the materials for making them can be found everywhere. They can be purchased without raising any suspicion.’
Sheikh Seko smiled, his prayer beads dangling from his hand. ‘Good!’ He patted Shedrack on the back. ‘Well done, brother. You make me so proud.’
The men watched Shedrack as he explained how the explosives worked. ‘They have provided car batteries. We will use these to produce the ones we will plant and activate with a remote but for the ones we will plant in vehicles the vehicle batteries will supply power. Power is vital to get an IED working. The power supply will provide electricity to the trigger switch. This.’ He pressed the switch. ‘So the mujahideen will press the switch down like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘Then the electrical detonator will explode to set off the main charge… its work is mainly to provide enough energy to the main charge. When this happens our main charge will explode with a blast powerful enough to kill anyone within the immediate vicinity, and the shrapnel will add to the number of casualties through injury. It will send a very loud and very clear message, I guarantee.’
The men clapped their hands and slapped each other’s backs.
‘So what are we using to transport them and to avoid detection?’ the Sheikh asked.
‘Several options, Sheikh. We will use vehicle borne IEDs, we will pack IEDs in plastic containers and drop them in target areas and our mujahideen will set them off. If we want, our mujahideen can use these detonators anywhere within a one and a half kilometre radius of the target.’
&nb
sp; They stared at him in admiration.
But then Abouzeid frowned and said, ‘Sheikh, since we have the option of dropping the bombs in target locations and activating remotely, do we need soldiers to strap these to their bodies?’
Before the Sheikh could reply, one of the four soldiers present said, ‘Kai! No. I am going to be one of the first volunteers.’ He looked the Sheikh in the eye. ‘I will be the first person to await the others in paradise.’
The Sheikh turned to the young man who spoke. ‘Musa?’
The young man looked imploringly at Sheikh Seko. ‘Please, Sir. What I have seen here today makes my heart bold and ready for the fight to liberate our people.’
‘Musa, this is not a decision one must take in haste. You have to sleep on it—’
‘Sheikh, I am ready to do this.’
Sheikh Seko was satisfied that his grooming was proving successful. ‘Listen, Musa, go home and sleep on this. Remember you must not say anything about this to anyone. This goes for all of us. No one should mention this to anyone. Not even the location of this place.’
The following night, Simon Chuba made his way to the back fence of the Minister of Justice’s apartment. The fence had a live wire running along the top. But he was prepared for that – the documents had outlined every security feature in detail.
The Minister was a grey haired man in his late seventies. He had served as Minister during President Obasanjo’s administration. The Minister was known by everyone as a no nonsense man and had been retained by the current President. He was a man of integrity, so the men of the Sacred Order of the Universal Forces knew that to succeed in their plans they would have to eliminate him. Besides, he had begun to institute investigations through the Department of State Security into the activities of Chief Donald Amechi, especially the recent alleged illegal importation of arms into the country.
Satans and Shaitans Page 12
