I
CRUDE INSTINCT (6)
CROSSHAIRS
Oyemekun Road
Akure, Ondo State
6 pm
The old bungalow crouched low under the heavy night, its brown walls faded and flaking, zinc roof sagging like tired shoulders. It stood near the end of Oyemekun road where the tarred road gave way to laterite and bush.
Inside the living room, everything spoke of endurance, wear and tear. A worn three seater sofa with one armrest reinforced by nails visible in a patchwork pattern sat in the middle of the room. Two plastic chairs that no longer matched, a scarred centre table, and a dusty framed family portrait hanging crooked on the wall completed the picture of quiet resignation.
The only modern touch was a small Samsung television murmuring a Yoruba movie in the corner. The father of the home shared the three sitter with his old mother. His wife, round faced and tired from the day’s market, sat on the floor, legs spread out and an old plastic food warmer between her legs. She dished out hot white rice and thick native stew rich with iru into waiting plates and handed each one out with the resentful detachment of a prison caterer.
The fermented locust bean sent its deep, pungent, almost smoky aroma drifting through every room of the bungalow. Their two children, a boy of nine and a girl of eleven, grabbed their plates from their mother’s hand and soon began eating quickly, giggling between mouthfuls. The wife, sighing heavily as if considering the hand she’d been dealt, took a plate to his aged mother sitting on one of the plastic chairs. The old woman took the food, dug in with a slender tin spoon and chewed slowly, an old wrapper pulled tight across her chest.
“Jẹ díẹ̀díẹ̀ kí o má há lọ́rùn,” the man said to his mother, eyes full of concern. The previous week she had choked on a piece of roasted yam and had sent them scrambling for help until she coughed it out at the last second.
He ate steadily, powerful fingers gripping the spoon in his hand, but his eyes kept darting to the phone resting on the sofa armrest, screen dark yet magnetic. Every few moments his gaze flicked there, then returned to his plate. His wife noticed the restlessness but said nothing, only added more stew to his rice.
When the plates were finally empty, the children cleared them away, following behind their mother to the smoke stained kitchen at the rear of the house.
“Máa bọ̀,” he muttered to his mother who glanced at him with rheumy eyes and nodded slightly.
He grabbed the old torch from the shelf and slipped out through the back door into the warm darkness. Crickets filled the night. He walked quickly toward the outhouse, a simple zinc and wood structure behind the bungalow, then continued past it to the small family farm where okra, tomatoes, and ugu leaves grew in uneven rows. The torch beam danced ahead of him, weak and yellow. He kept pausing, sweeping the light left and right, shoulders tight, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong.
Satisfied, he moved to the far end of the farm near the banana trees, dropped to his knees, and began digging with the small trowel he had hidden under a broad leaf. Sweat beaded on his brow. The soil gave way easily. His hands closed around the heavy sack he had buried only two nights earlier.
He pulled it out, breathing fast, and opened the top. Bundles of naira notes, thick, crisp, rubber banded. More money than he had ever touched in his life.
For a long moment he stood there, chest heaving, savouring the feeling of finally experiencing wealth.
Then reality flickered back. He quickly shoved the bundles inside, reburied the sack with hurried movements, patted the soil flat, and scattered dry leaves over the spot. Still riding the high, he wiped his palms on his trousers, switched off the torch, and strode back toward the faint lights of the bungalow with a swagger in his step.
*************************
Utako
6:45 pm
Rachel killed the engine of her car and sat for a moment by the kerb of the two storey building where she lived. The evening air drifting through the half opened window carried the faint scent of rain on red earth and the soft chatter of pedestrians walking past in different shades bright lycra.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. The dark Toyota Prado with black tinted windows was parked across the street under the broken streetlight. Same position as yesterday. Same position as the evening before. It had been there every single time she returned home for the past week. No plates visible from this angle. No one ever got in or out.
Her stomach tightened. She forced herself attention back to the house and honked twice. She sped in when Timothy the gateman opened the gate. She was at her door, pushing the house key into the lock when Timothy rushed over, a white envelope in his outstretched hand.
“Ma, someone dropped a letter for you.”
She hesitated for a second and then collected it with a quiet thank you.
The apartment was quiet except for the low drone of the air conditioner. She had barely kicked off her heels when her phone rang, unknown number flashing on the screen. The fourth call today. She had ignored the first three. This time she answered.
“Hello?”
There was silence, then breathing, and finally, nothing.
“Who is this? Hello?”
More silence. She checked the screen to make sure the call was still connected. It was.
“Look, if you don’t say anything I’m hanging up.”
A soft female voice finally came through, almost hesitant. “Is this… Rachel?”
Rachel opened her mouth to confirm, the word already forming, but something stopped her. The same instinct that had made her notice the Prado every night.
“Who is this?” she asked instead, voice sharper than she intended. “You have called me several times today. Tell me who you are or I am blocking this number.”
The line went dead immediately.
Rachel stared at the phone, heart hammering. She walked back to the window and parted the curtain a finger’s width. The Prado was still there, dark, patient and ominous like something out of a nightmare.
Her mind raced through the past two weeks. The awkward confrontation at work when her boss Pierre had called the emergency meeting after the internal audit flagged serious fund misappropriation. The project manager, Stephen, had been demoted on the spot, stripped of his site oversight role and moved to junior procurement. His face twisted with humiliation, he had looked straight at Rachel when he was leaving, eyes narrow and venomous. They had once been friends until he had made romantic advances to her which she rebuffed. His look told her everything. He suspected her of being behind his predicament. He blamed her.
The anonymous calls had started three days later. Then the Prado. Rachel let the curtain fall and sank onto her sofa.
Was this connected? The strange calls, the car that followed her home like a shadow, the demotion that had left Stephen seething? Or was she being paranoid, letting one ugly misunderstanding bleed into everything else?
Rachel sighed, closed her eyes and wished for times when things were simpler.
**************************
Jahi, Abuja
9:30 pm
Obinna’s study glowed with the cool light of multiple monitors. One tracked MT Crystal’s steady progress across the Atlantic toward Dakar. Another fed live updates from BCI Advanced Security.
His phone vibrated. Ofer. The message was brief and precise:
Edafe. Bugged. Now a pressure point. Drugging suspected.
Method: Escort. Name is Zara.
Action window: Tonight.
Ofer added: Called him. Switched off. Find ASAP.
Obinna rose without hesitation. He took his keys and walked out of the house. Outside the police escorts snapped to attention and readied themselves to follow him but he waved them away.
The last thing he wanted was for the Inspector General to be aware of everything he did. The escorts were his eyes and it was his job to keep them blind.
******************************
Minister’s Hill
Maitama
10:15
The GLE surged forward the moment the gates opened. The four-bedroom duplex sat behind a low wall in the upscale neighbourhood, its windows glowing with soft interior light. Several expensive cars lined the driveway. Obinna pulled in, killed the engine, and stepped out. Sunday, Edafe’s trusted housekeeper of ten years answered the door, a sheepish grin on his face when Obinna asked about Edafe.
“Good evening sir. Erm…oga is having a party upstairs.”
Obinna read the slight embarrassment on the young man’s face and knew immediately the kind of party Edafe was having. He nodded once and moved past him toward the staircase.
The house was quiet on the ground floor, but as he climbed, the sounds began to reach him. Staccato echoes of lust and nihilism. A faint groan. Low laughter. The occasional soft moan. With each step the noises grew clearer.
Obinna took the stairs two at a time, his movements swift but controlled. The sounds from above painted a picture he already knew too well.
At the top landing he paused for half a second, listening. The door to the master suite stood slightly ajar. Light and heat spilled out. The air had grown warmer, heavier with the scent of perfume, sweat, and pleasure. He pushed the door open.
Twenty people filled the large bedroom. Twelve women and eight men, most of them naked or half-dressed, bodies moving together on the wide beds, the plush sofas, and the thick carpet.
Some were paired off in twosomes: a woman on top riding a man slowly, her hips grinding in steady circles while he gripped her thighs. Another couple stood against the wall, the man thrusting into her from behind as she braced her hands on the surface,
moaning with each push. A few were in threesomes, one woman on all fours taking one man deep while she sucked another, her body rocking between them. Elsewhere, two women knelt in front of a man, taking turns with their mouths while he leaned back with closed eyes.
Singles watched or touched themselves, waiting. Skin glistened with sweat. Breasts moved with every thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of sex, heavy breathing, and passionate gibberish. It was raw, unfiltered, and unmistakably an orgy.
Obinna’s expression stayed hard. He disliked scenes like this. He thought them too reckless for his taste. The lack of inhibition that exposed not just naked bodies but flaws that could be exploited, the unfiltered access of strangers to areas of a home that could prove fatal and the risk of spilling trade secrets in a sex fueled haze, kept him away from Edafe’s orgies, and caused a few arguments between them.
His eyes found Edafe immediately.
Reclined on a wide central sofa, his trousers down around his ankles, his head was thrown back as the woman that straddled him, rode him with steady, rolling movements.
Obinna crossed the room in a few quick strides.
“Get up,” he said coldly.
The woman glanced at him while still riding. Her lips parted and she gave him a sultry look.
Obinna grabbed her upper arm and yanked her off in one firm motion. Edafe’s eyes flew open.
The woman stumbled, her large augmented breasts swaying.
“Hey!”
Obinna’s dark stare cleared the look of indignation on her face and shut her up instantly.
Edafe looked from him to the woman with dazed eyes.
“Obinna….”
“Get up. Now.”
Edafe blinked, still hard, but the tone cut through. He stood and pulled up his trousers. The other participants noticing the commotion had begun to slow down, Obinna steered him outside the room and closed the door.
“Get dressed properly,” Obinna said and then waited for him to adjust his pants and grab a tshirt from the next room. They returned to the hallway again.
“What is the name of the chick with you?”
Still addled from hours of intoxication and unbridled pleasure, Edafe struggled with his balance, trying to hold himself up against the disapproval in Obinna’s eyes.
“Which one?”
“The chick…the one you were fucking.”
“Zara.”
“She is not who you think she is. Ofer sent a message. He has been trying to reach you.”
Obinna showed him Ofer’s message and Edafe rubbed his face, sobering fast.
“Ah! As how?”
“You are coming back to Jahi with me.”
They returned to the main room. The others, sensing that the interruption was permanent, had started grabbing clothes. Edafe looked for Zara, but the glamorous Kenyan he had flown in from Lagos the previous evening was nowhere in sight.
********************************
Jahi
Abuja, Nigeria
Midnight
The study glowed with the overhead recessed lighting and the light from the large monitor that still tracked MT Crystal’s final approach to Dakar. Edafe sat opposite Obinna in a fresh shirt, tiny beads of water from his shower visible on his full beard. The last of the earlier haze now gone from his eyes, he stared transfixed at the monitor.
Obinna was busy on the keyboard. Edafe turned his attention to him as he initiated the encrypted conference scheduled by Ofer.
Sameer’s face appeared first, framed by the dark wood panelling and heavy bookshelves of his study in Zug. Behind him, floor to ceiling windows showed the quiet lights of the Swiss hillside. A second window opened a moment later showing Fabio their Swiss bank representative, seated at a polished desk in Bern, the city’s night skyline visible through the glass behind him.
“Vessel is berthed,” Sameer said without preamble. His voice was calm, almost bored. “Trading company in Senegal has taken delivery. Documents clean. My share cleared an hour ago.”
Obinna gave a short nod.
“Good.”
Edafe leaned forward, phone already in hand.
“One moment.”
He stepped slightly aside and dialled. The call was brief.
“Toriola, expect a wire for Mr Obinna in the next few hours. Ten million dollars. Flag it priority and clear it the moment it lands. Yes. Thank you.”
He ended the call and returned to the screen where the Swiss representative had just begun speaking.
“We will process the corresponding transfers to the remaining companies on our end as agreed. Everything is in order.” He inclined his head once. “Unless there is anything further, I will leave you to the rest of the discussion.”
“None. Thank you Fabio,” Obinna said, sending a quick text on his phone to the other traders involved in the deal.
Fabio smiled and gave a short wave. A third window opened just as Fabios’ was closing. Ofer’s face filled the frame, background dark, only the edge of a desk lamp visible. He acknowledged the men with a quick greeting and centered the call on Edafe.
“They went after you because you are Obinna’s banker. I tried to warn you. Luckily they don’t know about you and BCI. About us.”
Edafe’s jaw tightened and he nodded.
“Because of encryption.”
“Our guy in there tipped us that the plan was to use the escort to get inside your parties, get close, extract whatever she could. Information, routines, leverage.“
Edafe cleared his throat and looked at Obinna’s heavily encrypted phone purchased from a specialist firm in Switzerland.
“I am getting one of those.”
Ofer gave a single nod. “Do it.”
Silence held for a beat.
Ofer’s gaze shifted. “Obinna. Check the people closest to you. Friends. Family. Anyone who has been getting strange calls or quiet pressure. They are probing for soft edges.”
“Understood.”
“That is all for now.”
The call ended. The screens returned to the slow crawl of shipping data and security feeds.
Edafe stood, rolling his shoulders.
“I’m done for the night. Tomorrow we clean up whatever is left.” He headed for the door, then paused to add in pidgin. “Guy, this thing don turn serious. I hope say that asset worth am.”
Obinna’s face remained unchanged, but his eyes hardened with conviction.
“Yes it is.”
When the door closed, the study felt larger. Obinna remained in his chair, eyes on the dark phone resting beside the keyboard. Ofer’s words circled once, then settled.
Check the people closest to you.
Rachel.
They had not spoken in a long while. Still, the thought of her name sat heavier than the others.
He told himself it was unnecessary. He told himself a message after so much silence would only complicate things. He told himself she was fine. Then convinced himself she was not. The arguments lasted less than a minute.
He unlocked the phone, opened a new message, and typed with the same economy he used for everything else.
Need to speak.
He hit send before he could delete it, then set the phone face-down. He hoped she would not read too much into the four words.
*************************
Utako
3:15am
It was the hour when the city itself seemed to hold its breath, when nothing seemed to move, except the distant shrill of night birds and restless rustle of branches moving in the wind.
Rachel stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom’s residual chill, the cool air brushing against her legs. She padded back to the bed and slipped between sheets that had already grown cold without her. She pulled them up to her chin, closed her eyes, and waited for the mercy of sleep.
It refused her with quiet, icy efficiency.
She turned onto one side, then the other. The pillow warmed too quickly beneath her cheek, trapping the heat of her restless thoughts. Somewhere beyond the walls, a distant siren from a police car making its rounds threaded the night and faded. Still her mind refused the dark.
Finally, with the weariness of someone who knows better, she reached for the phone that had slipped under her pillows. The screen bloomed too bright in the darkness. Squinting against the visual onslaught, she lowered the brightness and swiped to WhatsApp.
The chatter on Sisters and Secrets was domestic. Someone was hunting for Bluey costumes for a child’s party next weekend. Another wanted the name of a butcher who still sold fresh lamb chops. She scrolled for a few more minutes, then started to put the phone aside.
She was sliding it across the bed, thumb drifting toward the lock button, when it brushed the notifications bar. She saw a name that made her freeze.
Obinna.
She brought the phone back up to her face. A message sent after midnight.
Need to speak.
The two words landed with the impact of a stone dropped into deep water. The ripples came at once, hard and overlapping. The black Prado that had sat across the street for two consecutive nights, its windows tinted to opacity, the plain white envelope that Timothy had given her with only three words typed in a bold, clean, anonymous font on a plain white paper, watch your back, and beneath all of it, the older bruise of the fling that had ended not with drama but with a single, polite sentence from him.
The memory of his cold demeanour that fateful day in his office came back and she found herself pausing for several minutes. Eventually, her thumbs moved.
She typed a cool, clipped reply. Something about work, about being very busy, about the fact that she would let him know what day worked best for a meeting. She deleted it before the cursor could even blink.
She tried something softer, a careful opening that left room for explanation without surrender and deleted that too, the words evaporating into the blue light.
A third attempt, measured, almost clinical, sat unfinished on the screen for a long minute, the cursor pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Rachel shook her head. She would wait until dawn. Until the light made everything less spectral and the ghost of the past few weeks felt less threatening.
© Umari Ayim.
2026
