Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Almost Kiss ❯ Prologue ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: nicknwaogu 
Femi goes to the hospital to see Chioma for the first time, unaware of what the future holds for both of them.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Fanfiction Sequel | Uploaded On: 01.30.2017 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.8K | Visits: 105 | Status: Work In Progress
Femi goes to the hospital to see Chioma for the first time, unaware of what the future holds for both of them.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Fanfiction Sequel | Uploaded On: 01.30.2017 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.8K | Visits: 105 | Status: Work In Progress
1
———&nb sp;✿ ✿ âœ&i quest; ✿ ✿ â œ¿ ——â€& rdquo;
Prologue
& nbsp;
t was early in a chilly&n bsp;Monday morning with spotless white ominous&nbs p;clouds of fog wrapping every
inch of& nbsp;nature. Long trains of soothing dry H armattan wind receded hurriedly towards Femi&n bsp;as
I breaths of warm packs of air broke free from under his&n bsp;wide nostrils into oblivion.
The often vibrant tropical sun appeared to be lethargic as it slept comfortably in the blue sky.
Life in the populous and&n bsp;poorly sanitized city of Lagos seemed to& nbsp;be panning out faster than the day
before.
It was February &n bsp;15, 2016, a day after Saint Valentine’s Day&aci rc;€”Christmas for the hope less
romantics, but for folks like Femi, it was just a typical day of work.
Femi restlessly sat in&nbs p; a yellow ramshackle commercial&nbs p; bus prying along the un forgettable
Catholic Mission Street. With&n bsp;his fingers and chin numb with cold, ;his hands found refuge in his
trouser& nbsp;pockets. He peeped through the shattered ;window beside him at the busy and famil iar city
that stretched to infinity. He was neatly presented in an essentially decorated Nigeria Police uniform,
looking sm art as always. The three red â€&ti lde;V’s on his blue, short slee ves indicated that the dashingly-
handsome of ficer was a Sergeant. Waking up in the&n bsp;morning knowing fully well that it could& nbsp;be your
very last day, meeting and dealing with hardened and unrepentant criminals, chasing hoodlums down
the street a nd getting shot at—that was&n bsp;as close to prudence as it got when& nbsp;you're an itinerant 30-
something-year-old po lice officer in an environment where many&nbs p;craved for fast money and illegal
act ivities.
His bus rode pass the eve r-busy Lagos City Hall, the famous Kingâ ;€™s College with students in
spa rkling white uniform loitering along the corr idors before assembly was due to start, and the French
gothic style architecture&nbs p;of the Holy Cross Cathedral with a few worshippers praying before the grotto.
Though born in Lagos, this was the firs t time the young officer had been to&nbs p;this part of town.
Like every other&n bsp;day in a chaotic city, a tourist cou ld see and appreciate the daily and rout inely
hustle of hardworking and â&e uro;˜fast-walking’ locals reporting& nbsp;to their workplaces, even before the sun rose.
They could easily take pho tographs of derelict public buses prying spee dily and dangerously
along poorly &nbs p;maintained highways, leaving a &nbs p;trail of thick poisonous fume s in their tracks, thus awakening self-destruction.
One could even ; catch a sight of a stampede, as determined and &nb sp;desperate ‘Lagosiansâ€&trade ;
aggressively struggle to board already-moving buses that ;are jam-packed with noisy citi zens, and
fearless young men literally hanging on the edge of busâ€&trad e; entrances with their eyebrows kneaded in&n bsp;
slight worry.
Every living thing that dre w breath, even the roosters, were busy, crowing and roaming around
every edge o f emptiness, ducking to the filthy grounds&nb sp;beneath their feet, perpetually in search of
food.
The well-enjoyed and lon g-overstayed weekend break was over, and the& nbsp;daily monotonous
routine of the chief commercial city of its nation, unfolded all over again.
Femi finally arrived at Saint Nic holas House, a white fourteen-storey mixed-use&nbs p;building. ‘Saint
Nicholas dey?&ac irc;€™ the shabby bus conductor dressed in slippers and a smelly undershirt, barked in Pidgin
English. ‘Saint Nicholas dey,â €™ Femi hurled back.
He &nb sp;disembarked as soon as the&n bsp; dilapidated vehicle came to ; a halt. The moment his&n bsp; well-
polished black Valentino leather shoes hit the tarred road, the bus ;sped off, recklessly hugging the road
again.
Femi stood tall before the high-rise building.
Slowly, he raised his head, training his sight at the skyscra per rooted before him, while private
ve hicles and commercial tricycles pried along t he expensive Campbell road behind him. Beside him
was an empty white ambulance, ;completely buried in the faint shadow of&nbs p;the tall building. After a
momentary admiration of the elite l andscape, he inched behind two& nbsp; female nurses in clean &nb sp;white
uniform, headed for the entrance&nb sp;of the building, chitchatting to one anoth er in high-pitched voices
and laughing . There was a large blue signboard just above the&n bsp; entrance, which read â& euro;˜St. Nicholas
Hospital†™. Femi was welcomed to a neat,&nbs p;orderly and somewhat quiet king-size room. His orbs bright
with anticipation, flicked&n bsp;across every square foot of the reception hall diffused with inaudible sounds.
T here was an old lady, finely wrinkled, c ompletely grey-haired, wearing an old-fashion read ing glasses,
probably in her &nb sp;mid-70s, been pushed on a&nb sp; wheel chair by a young female nurse dressed in & nbsp;neat
uniform.
The room was m ainly crammed with five rows of posh iro n benches where families of patients
im patiently waited. Some were in grief, others& nbsp;were in tears, but many were overwhelmed with anxiety
without any verbal intera ction with anyone. Seated on one of the benches was a young gentleman on
blue&n bsp;shirt and a plain grey trouser, swiping the screen of a sleek tablet, with his eyes glued on it. Next
to him was an exhausted lady dressed in a native purple attire, dozing off without a snore. Behind
them was a robust woman dressed in an uncommon ankara fabric, discreetly talking&nbs p; to herself in
despair. There was a vending machine at one corne r of the room filled with attractively w rapped foods
and bottled drinks. Next t o the machine was the bronze sculpture o f the Late Nigerian gynecologist
and ob stetrician, Moses Majekodunmi who founded t he hospital. In front of everyone was a& nbsp;beautifully-
lit mini-grocery store with an&n bsp;equally beautiful female store-attendant wearing an enchanting smile as
she read Nicholas&n bsp;Sparks’ The Notebook. Femi&nbs p;swaggered further into the hall-like room, towards the
stunning receptionist who comfor tably sat behind a busy desk, chewing gu m, and routinely stroking
the keys of&n bsp;a keyboard, while perpetually staring at a bright computer monitor mounted in front&nb sp;of
her.
‘Hello,â€&tra de; Femi politely drew her attention.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘ I am here to see one of your patients.’
Her fingers and ;jaw froze as she looked away from the&n bsp;blinding monitor and took a sharp glance& nbsp;at
Femi who stood straight across the desk. ‘What’s the& nbsp;patient’s name, sir?’& nbsp;She radiated a welcoming
smile. â €˜I don’t know but she&nb sp;was brought here early this morning after& nbsp;a motor accident last night.’&n bsp;
Femi said thoughtfully. She swiftly typed through a long database of patients.
‘Okay, Chioma Okaf or,’ she read out.
‘You may need to come back later, sir.’
‘Why ?’
‘The patient is stable and responding to treatment, but she isn’t awake yet.’
&aci rc;€˜Don’t worry I will wait.’
‘It may take several hours.’
‘ It’s alright, I’ve got all day. Just don’t forget to let me know when she’s awake.’&nbs p;
‘Okay, sir. Please have a seat.’ She pointed.
Femi turned around and boorishly paced away towards the identical benches. He sank at&nbs p;the edge of
an empty bench&nbs p; just behind the woman i n ankara. Instantly, he inhaled the sweet fragrance that
romanced the African wax swathing around her curves.
Meanwhile,&n bsp;at the notorious Ikoyi police station&n bsp;along Awolowo Road, a one-storey building ;with
blue, yellow and green stripes, v aliant police officers in uniform were litter ed all over the premises,
geared with&n bsp;bulletproofs, dressed in camouflages, and arme d with semi-automatic rifles in one arm. ;
They walked gallantly in groups, chatting&n bsp;to one another, or stood put nonchalantly , dialoguing with
civilians.
A blue&nbs p;metro patrol van was parked in front o f the station and along the neatly tarre d road,
with its engine still running. Two fearsome officers were seated in the van.
One was seated on the driver’s seat, while the other rested on one of the two long benches in
the back of ;the van, dressed in black ; shirt and green khaki tr ouser, with an AK-47 rifle ; in his
possession. They seemed to be maliciously waiting for someone to ;arrive or for something to happen.
Jus t behind the police van was a private&nb sp;truck with impounded motorcycles jam-packed in& nbsp;its carriage.
There was a signboard that strictly prohibited loitering, hawking and parking.
In the incident room, mini-sized,&nb sp;with a small desk at one corner, two& nbsp;junior officers neatly
dressed in complete black uniform stood behind a counter.
The chair ;behind the desk was vacant,&nb sp; with rough dusty piles ;of brown paperback files
defac ing the top of the desk. One of the officers was a Corporal with two red&nb sp;‘V’s attached to hi s
sleeves, while the other was a Sergeant.
A white plastic&n bsp;name-tag pinned to the uniform of the&nbs p;Corporal, just above his left breast
pocket, read ‘Kunle Adeyemoâ&eur o;™, while that of the Sergeant rea d ‘Tega Ogbegbo’.&nb sp;Tega, in his mid-30s, was
physically ;unimpressive, rugged, not handsome, not ugly&acir c;€”just plain. He was rebellious, rude , and out-
spoken. Kunle was gentle-faced,&nb sp;and in his late-20s.
Far behind the o fficers was a ratty detention cell with half-naked men standing barefooted,
oozing f oul odour, and futilely squeezing their faces through the narrow spaces between the v ertical
rusty bars that jailed them. &a circ;€˜How long will I be here for ?’ A prisoner bleated. †˜Until someone bails you
out,â€& trade; Tega barked without turn ing to the prisoner. â&eu ro;˜Meanwhile I don’t & nbsp;want to hear any further&n bsp;
complains from you. Criminal!’& nbsp;Tega channeled his attention to Kunle wh o scribbled on an A4 paper,
lifting&nbs p;words from another document. Kunle was left-handed.
‘Wh ere’s Femi?’ Tega inqu ired. ‘I don’t know,&a circ;€™ Kunle babbled coldly without li fting his pen.
‘Chief assigned good partners to everyone except me,â& euro;™ Tega murmured as Kunle continued ;to scribble.
‘Do you have&nbs p;call unit on your phone?’ Teg a began. ‘I want to call F emi and I’m low on airtime,&aci rc;€™ he
continued. ‘I&n bsp;don’t,’ Kunle res ponded abruptly. ‘You’ll&nb sp;never have,’ Tega cursed under&nb sp;his breath.
Kunle paused, slowly&n bsp; abandoned the paper before his eyes, and burned Tega with a squint of
di sapproval. ‘You asked m e a question and I a nswered. Why are you cursing&nb sp; me?’ he protested defiantly.
‘I will smack yo u if you talk again,’ Tega ;barked icily, sending shockwaves of fright t hrough
Kunle’s spine. Kunle qu ickly reverted to his routine without any&nbs p;further utterance, while Tega dipped
his&n bsp;hand into his trouser pocket and pulled&n bsp;out an old-fashion phone. He fiddled with the stiff keypads
for a bit before raising the phone to his ear.
Femi’s phone& nbsp;was indistinctly ringing. The name-tag on&nbs p;his uniform read ‘Femi Kolawole ’. He
seemed distracted, l ooking ahead at the straight face of the receptionist, with his face wrinkled by ;a
frown. He was mutely&nb sp; praying for Chioma’s ; awakening. Time passed slowly like grains of sand
mosey ing through the funnel of an hourglass.
The receptionist failed to make any visual contact with him. â€&t ilde;Who gave this sort of woman a
job at a hospital? How can someone chew gum during working hours? I’m certain she didn’t attend a
good university,’&nbs p; Femi whined feebly, â€& tilde;Nepotism prevails in this ;country.’ He shook his head
disapprovingly.
Tega was ac hingly listening to Femi’s caller-tu ne, vexingly waiting for him to answer t he call.
‘Pick up!’&n bsp;His patience ran out.
Femi was busy working his way through a crossword puz zle in a Vanguard newspaper he found&n bsp;
lying on the empty bench he sat&nbs p;on. Finally, his attention was brought to&n bsp;his ringing phone as he felt
mild&n bsp;vibrations within his right trouser pocket.&nb sp;‘Who shares my phone with me ? Why will someone
continue to reduce the volume of my ringtone?’ Femi nagged within himself.
He shoved his right hand into his pocket and& nbsp; revealed a Samsung smart phone. ‘This
troublemaker aga in,’ he sighed wearily as soon& nbsp;as his eyes hit the screen. â&euro ;˜Why won’t you leave me
alone?’
It was Tega calling.
Femi pushed down the g reen answer button with his thumb and st eadily raised the phone to
his ear.&nbs p;‘Bawo ni,’ he greete d in Yoruba. His attention was utterly drawn away from the receptionist
who&n bsp;glanced at him briskly.
‘A couple &n bsp;came to the station today&n bsp; looking for you. Something about their landlord
threatening&nbs p;to evict them,’ streamed Tega’s voic e from Femi’s phone. ‘Don&aci rc;€™t mind them. They never
speak the truth. Their landlo rd gave them six good months to pay ;their rent or vacant the property.
The y are simply looking for free accommodation&n bsp;in Lagos,’ Femi aggressively ven ted into his phone,
thoroughly
soaked&n bsp;
in
the
conversation.
â&e uro;˜If that’s the case, we should go and force them out.’
‘No&n bsp;problem. When I get to the station, you and Kunle will accompany me there. W e will throw their
things out the window. They should relocate to their village.’
Femi was prepared to bring war upon their walls.
Tega lifted his left hand to hi s eyes, and gazed sharply at the face of the & nbsp;brown leather
wristwatch tightly fastened around his wrist.
It was 12:03pm.
‘Where are you right now? It’s past twelve already.&acir c;€™
‘I am at the hospital.’
‘Yes , yes, yes! I remember now. Have you seen the accident victim yet?’
Femiâ ;€™s attention was reversed to the ;receptionist seated before him. His eyes wer e locked on
her every move. ‘They said she is fine but she isn’t awake yet,’ Femi hissed. ‘I am here waiting ;for her
to wake, and hopefully she ;will tell me everything she remembers from&n bsp;last night.’ He hushed for a
while, listening to Tega. ‘L ater,’ he bided farewell.
Tega was now buried in t he shadow of someone standing before him,&nbs p;across the counter.
‘Later,â ;€™ he sunk his phone into his&nbs p;pocket before looking on to Kunle. â& euro;˜God pass you,’ he declar ed,
rolling his eyes at him with a loud sigh. ‘I have used m y bonus airtime to call.’ He&nb sp;bragged. Kunle was
still scribbling. He didn’t make any visual contact with Tega.
Femi sighed heavily as he dropped& nbsp;his head down in exhaustion. He stared&n bsp;without blinking,
at the nicely-finished floor of the hall, with his phone still in the firm grip of his right hand.
Tega looked ahead &nb sp;at the person who stood before him. & nbsp;‘What can I do for y ou, sir?’ He
grinned cheerfully at a huge, good-looking man dressed in a lavish Yoruba attire.
‘I was just robbed and the robbers carted away with my car and my money. One of them had
dreadlocks.’ Tega’ s smile was instantaneously washed-out. â&eu ro;˜How much are you talking about, and
what model is your car, sir?’ Tega queried in a serious tone. ‘Two point five million naira and a
twenty fifteen Range Rover…’ His& nbsp;voice trailed away. ‘Oghene!â€&trad e; Tega exclaimed in Urhobo.
———&nb sp;✿ ✿ âœ&i quest; ✿ ✿ â œ¿ ——â€& rdquo;
Prologue
& nbsp;
t was early in a chilly&n bsp;Monday morning with spotless white ominous&nbs p;clouds of fog wrapping every
inch of& nbsp;nature. Long trains of soothing dry H armattan wind receded hurriedly towards Femi&n bsp;as
I breaths of warm packs of air broke free from under his&n bsp;wide nostrils into oblivion.
The often vibrant tropical sun appeared to be lethargic as it slept comfortably in the blue sky.
Life in the populous and&n bsp;poorly sanitized city of Lagos seemed to& nbsp;be panning out faster than the day
before.
It was February &n bsp;15, 2016, a day after Saint Valentine’s Day&aci rc;€”Christmas for the hope less
romantics, but for folks like Femi, it was just a typical day of work.
Femi restlessly sat in&nbs p; a yellow ramshackle commercial&nbs p; bus prying along the un forgettable
Catholic Mission Street. With&n bsp;his fingers and chin numb with cold, ;his hands found refuge in his
trouser& nbsp;pockets. He peeped through the shattered ;window beside him at the busy and famil iar city
that stretched to infinity. He was neatly presented in an essentially decorated Nigeria Police uniform,
looking sm art as always. The three red â€&ti lde;V’s on his blue, short slee ves indicated that the dashingly-
handsome of ficer was a Sergeant. Waking up in the&n bsp;morning knowing fully well that it could& nbsp;be your
very last day, meeting and dealing with hardened and unrepentant criminals, chasing hoodlums down
the street a nd getting shot at—that was&n bsp;as close to prudence as it got when& nbsp;you're an itinerant 30-
something-year-old po lice officer in an environment where many&nbs p;craved for fast money and illegal
act ivities.
His bus rode pass the eve r-busy Lagos City Hall, the famous Kingâ ;€™s College with students in
spa rkling white uniform loitering along the corr idors before assembly was due to start, and the French
gothic style architecture&nbs p;of the Holy Cross Cathedral with a few worshippers praying before the grotto.
Though born in Lagos, this was the firs t time the young officer had been to&nbs p;this part of town.
Like every other&n bsp;day in a chaotic city, a tourist cou ld see and appreciate the daily and rout inely
hustle of hardworking and â&e uro;˜fast-walking’ locals reporting& nbsp;to their workplaces, even before the sun rose.
They could easily take pho tographs of derelict public buses prying spee dily and dangerously
along poorly &nbs p;maintained highways, leaving a &nbs p;trail of thick poisonous fume s in their tracks, thus awakening self-destruction.
One could even ; catch a sight of a stampede, as determined and &nb sp;desperate ‘Lagosiansâ€&trade ;
aggressively struggle to board already-moving buses that ;are jam-packed with noisy citi zens, and
fearless young men literally hanging on the edge of busâ€&trad e; entrances with their eyebrows kneaded in&n bsp;
slight worry.
Every living thing that dre w breath, even the roosters, were busy, crowing and roaming around
every edge o f emptiness, ducking to the filthy grounds&nb sp;beneath their feet, perpetually in search of
food.
The well-enjoyed and lon g-overstayed weekend break was over, and the& nbsp;daily monotonous
routine of the chief commercial city of its nation, unfolded all over again.
Femi finally arrived at Saint Nic holas House, a white fourteen-storey mixed-use&nbs p;building. ‘Saint
Nicholas dey?&ac irc;€™ the shabby bus conductor dressed in slippers and a smelly undershirt, barked in Pidgin
English. ‘Saint Nicholas dey,â €™ Femi hurled back.
He &nb sp;disembarked as soon as the&n bsp; dilapidated vehicle came to ; a halt. The moment his&n bsp; well-
polished black Valentino leather shoes hit the tarred road, the bus ;sped off, recklessly hugging the road
again.
Femi stood tall before the high-rise building.
Slowly, he raised his head, training his sight at the skyscra per rooted before him, while private
ve hicles and commercial tricycles pried along t he expensive Campbell road behind him. Beside him
was an empty white ambulance, ;completely buried in the faint shadow of&nbs p;the tall building. After a
momentary admiration of the elite l andscape, he inched behind two& nbsp; female nurses in clean &nb sp;white
uniform, headed for the entrance&nb sp;of the building, chitchatting to one anoth er in high-pitched voices
and laughing . There was a large blue signboard just above the&n bsp; entrance, which read â& euro;˜St. Nicholas
Hospital†™. Femi was welcomed to a neat,&nbs p;orderly and somewhat quiet king-size room. His orbs bright
with anticipation, flicked&n bsp;across every square foot of the reception hall diffused with inaudible sounds.
T here was an old lady, finely wrinkled, c ompletely grey-haired, wearing an old-fashion read ing glasses,
probably in her &nb sp;mid-70s, been pushed on a&nb sp; wheel chair by a young female nurse dressed in & nbsp;neat
uniform.
The room was m ainly crammed with five rows of posh iro n benches where families of patients
im patiently waited. Some were in grief, others& nbsp;were in tears, but many were overwhelmed with anxiety
without any verbal intera ction with anyone. Seated on one of the benches was a young gentleman on
blue&n bsp;shirt and a plain grey trouser, swiping the screen of a sleek tablet, with his eyes glued on it. Next
to him was an exhausted lady dressed in a native purple attire, dozing off without a snore. Behind
them was a robust woman dressed in an uncommon ankara fabric, discreetly talking&nbs p; to herself in
despair. There was a vending machine at one corne r of the room filled with attractively w rapped foods
and bottled drinks. Next t o the machine was the bronze sculpture o f the Late Nigerian gynecologist
and ob stetrician, Moses Majekodunmi who founded t he hospital. In front of everyone was a& nbsp;beautifully-
lit mini-grocery store with an&n bsp;equally beautiful female store-attendant wearing an enchanting smile as
she read Nicholas&n bsp;Sparks’ The Notebook. Femi&nbs p;swaggered further into the hall-like room, towards the
stunning receptionist who comfor tably sat behind a busy desk, chewing gu m, and routinely stroking
the keys of&n bsp;a keyboard, while perpetually staring at a bright computer monitor mounted in front&nb sp;of
her.
‘Hello,â€&tra de; Femi politely drew her attention.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘ I am here to see one of your patients.’
Her fingers and ;jaw froze as she looked away from the&n bsp;blinding monitor and took a sharp glance& nbsp;at
Femi who stood straight across the desk. ‘What’s the& nbsp;patient’s name, sir?’& nbsp;She radiated a welcoming
smile. â €˜I don’t know but she&nb sp;was brought here early this morning after& nbsp;a motor accident last night.’&n bsp;
Femi said thoughtfully. She swiftly typed through a long database of patients.
‘Okay, Chioma Okaf or,’ she read out.
‘You may need to come back later, sir.’
‘Why ?’
‘The patient is stable and responding to treatment, but she isn’t awake yet.’
&aci rc;€˜Don’t worry I will wait.’
‘It may take several hours.’
‘ It’s alright, I’ve got all day. Just don’t forget to let me know when she’s awake.’&nbs p;
‘Okay, sir. Please have a seat.’ She pointed.
Femi turned around and boorishly paced away towards the identical benches. He sank at&nbs p;the edge of
an empty bench&nbs p; just behind the woman i n ankara. Instantly, he inhaled the sweet fragrance that
romanced the African wax swathing around her curves.
Meanwhile,&n bsp;at the notorious Ikoyi police station&n bsp;along Awolowo Road, a one-storey building ;with
blue, yellow and green stripes, v aliant police officers in uniform were litter ed all over the premises,
geared with&n bsp;bulletproofs, dressed in camouflages, and arme d with semi-automatic rifles in one arm. ;
They walked gallantly in groups, chatting&n bsp;to one another, or stood put nonchalantly , dialoguing with
civilians.
A blue&nbs p;metro patrol van was parked in front o f the station and along the neatly tarre d road,
with its engine still running. Two fearsome officers were seated in the van.
One was seated on the driver’s seat, while the other rested on one of the two long benches in
the back of ;the van, dressed in black ; shirt and green khaki tr ouser, with an AK-47 rifle ; in his
possession. They seemed to be maliciously waiting for someone to ;arrive or for something to happen.
Jus t behind the police van was a private&nb sp;truck with impounded motorcycles jam-packed in& nbsp;its carriage.
There was a signboard that strictly prohibited loitering, hawking and parking.
In the incident room, mini-sized,&nb sp;with a small desk at one corner, two& nbsp;junior officers neatly
dressed in complete black uniform stood behind a counter.
The chair ;behind the desk was vacant,&nb sp; with rough dusty piles ;of brown paperback files
defac ing the top of the desk. One of the officers was a Corporal with two red&nb sp;‘V’s attached to hi s
sleeves, while the other was a Sergeant.
A white plastic&n bsp;name-tag pinned to the uniform of the&nbs p;Corporal, just above his left breast
pocket, read ‘Kunle Adeyemoâ&eur o;™, while that of the Sergeant rea d ‘Tega Ogbegbo’.&nb sp;Tega, in his mid-30s, was
physically ;unimpressive, rugged, not handsome, not ugly&acir c;€”just plain. He was rebellious, rude , and out-
spoken. Kunle was gentle-faced,&nb sp;and in his late-20s.
Far behind the o fficers was a ratty detention cell with half-naked men standing barefooted,
oozing f oul odour, and futilely squeezing their faces through the narrow spaces between the v ertical
rusty bars that jailed them. &a circ;€˜How long will I be here for ?’ A prisoner bleated. †˜Until someone bails you
out,â€& trade; Tega barked without turn ing to the prisoner. â&eu ro;˜Meanwhile I don’t & nbsp;want to hear any further&n bsp;
complains from you. Criminal!’& nbsp;Tega channeled his attention to Kunle wh o scribbled on an A4 paper,
lifting&nbs p;words from another document. Kunle was left-handed.
‘Wh ere’s Femi?’ Tega inqu ired. ‘I don’t know,&a circ;€™ Kunle babbled coldly without li fting his pen.
‘Chief assigned good partners to everyone except me,â& euro;™ Tega murmured as Kunle continued ;to scribble.
‘Do you have&nbs p;call unit on your phone?’ Teg a began. ‘I want to call F emi and I’m low on airtime,&aci rc;€™ he
continued. ‘I&n bsp;don’t,’ Kunle res ponded abruptly. ‘You’ll&nb sp;never have,’ Tega cursed under&nb sp;his breath.
Kunle paused, slowly&n bsp; abandoned the paper before his eyes, and burned Tega with a squint of
di sapproval. ‘You asked m e a question and I a nswered. Why are you cursing&nb sp; me?’ he protested defiantly.
‘I will smack yo u if you talk again,’ Tega ;barked icily, sending shockwaves of fright t hrough
Kunle’s spine. Kunle qu ickly reverted to his routine without any&nbs p;further utterance, while Tega dipped
his&n bsp;hand into his trouser pocket and pulled&n bsp;out an old-fashion phone. He fiddled with the stiff keypads
for a bit before raising the phone to his ear.
Femi’s phone& nbsp;was indistinctly ringing. The name-tag on&nbs p;his uniform read ‘Femi Kolawole ’. He
seemed distracted, l ooking ahead at the straight face of the receptionist, with his face wrinkled by ;a
frown. He was mutely&nb sp; praying for Chioma’s ; awakening. Time passed slowly like grains of sand
mosey ing through the funnel of an hourglass.
The receptionist failed to make any visual contact with him. â€&t ilde;Who gave this sort of woman a
job at a hospital? How can someone chew gum during working hours? I’m certain she didn’t attend a
good university,’&nbs p; Femi whined feebly, â€& tilde;Nepotism prevails in this ;country.’ He shook his head
disapprovingly.
Tega was ac hingly listening to Femi’s caller-tu ne, vexingly waiting for him to answer t he call.
‘Pick up!’&n bsp;His patience ran out.
Femi was busy working his way through a crossword puz zle in a Vanguard newspaper he found&n bsp;
lying on the empty bench he sat&nbs p;on. Finally, his attention was brought to&n bsp;his ringing phone as he felt
mild&n bsp;vibrations within his right trouser pocket.&nb sp;‘Who shares my phone with me ? Why will someone
continue to reduce the volume of my ringtone?’ Femi nagged within himself.
He shoved his right hand into his pocket and& nbsp; revealed a Samsung smart phone. ‘This
troublemaker aga in,’ he sighed wearily as soon& nbsp;as his eyes hit the screen. â&euro ;˜Why won’t you leave me
alone?’
It was Tega calling.
Femi pushed down the g reen answer button with his thumb and st eadily raised the phone to
his ear.&nbs p;‘Bawo ni,’ he greete d in Yoruba. His attention was utterly drawn away from the receptionist
who&n bsp;glanced at him briskly.
‘A couple &n bsp;came to the station today&n bsp; looking for you. Something about their landlord
threatening&nbs p;to evict them,’ streamed Tega’s voic e from Femi’s phone. ‘Don&aci rc;€™t mind them. They never
speak the truth. Their landlo rd gave them six good months to pay ;their rent or vacant the property.
The y are simply looking for free accommodation&n bsp;in Lagos,’ Femi aggressively ven ted into his phone,
thoroughly
soaked&n bsp;
in
the
conversation.
â&e uro;˜If that’s the case, we should go and force them out.’
‘No&n bsp;problem. When I get to the station, you and Kunle will accompany me there. W e will throw their
things out the window. They should relocate to their village.’
Femi was prepared to bring war upon their walls.
Tega lifted his left hand to hi s eyes, and gazed sharply at the face of the & nbsp;brown leather
wristwatch tightly fastened around his wrist.
It was 12:03pm.
‘Where are you right now? It’s past twelve already.&acir c;€™
‘I am at the hospital.’
‘Yes , yes, yes! I remember now. Have you seen the accident victim yet?’
Femiâ ;€™s attention was reversed to the ;receptionist seated before him. His eyes wer e locked on
her every move. ‘They said she is fine but she isn’t awake yet,’ Femi hissed. ‘I am here waiting ;for her
to wake, and hopefully she ;will tell me everything she remembers from&n bsp;last night.’ He hushed for a
while, listening to Tega. ‘L ater,’ he bided farewell.
Tega was now buried in t he shadow of someone standing before him,&nbs p;across the counter.
‘Later,â ;€™ he sunk his phone into his&nbs p;pocket before looking on to Kunle. â& euro;˜God pass you,’ he declar ed,
rolling his eyes at him with a loud sigh. ‘I have used m y bonus airtime to call.’ He&nb sp;bragged. Kunle was
still scribbling. He didn’t make any visual contact with Tega.
Femi sighed heavily as he dropped& nbsp;his head down in exhaustion. He stared&n bsp;without blinking,
at the nicely-finished floor of the hall, with his phone still in the firm grip of his right hand.
Tega looked ahead &nb sp;at the person who stood before him. & nbsp;‘What can I do for y ou, sir?’ He
grinned cheerfully at a huge, good-looking man dressed in a lavish Yoruba attire.
‘I was just robbed and the robbers carted away with my car and my money. One of them had
dreadlocks.’ Tega’ s smile was instantaneously washed-out. â&eu ro;˜How much are you talking about, and
what model is your car, sir?’ Tega queried in a serious tone. ‘Two point five million naira and a
twenty fifteen Range Rover…’ His& nbsp;voice trailed away. ‘Oghene!â€&trad e; Tega exclaimed in Urhobo.