SABOTAGE
Gbokoda OilHead
Ilaje, Ondo State.
11pm
The mangrove choked creek lay still under a moonless sky, the air thick with the sharp reek of crude, rotting vegetation, and diesel. Twisted red mangrove roots rose like skeletal fingers from the black water, forming a dense labyrinth. Rusty pipelines snaked through the swamp on low concrete supports, many patched and weeping thin streams of oil that painted the surface in shimmering slicks.
The small flow station perched on a raised metal platform, corroded steel tanks, valve manifolds, high pressure and low pressure separators, a humming generator shack, and metering skids. The wellhead itself jutted from the mud like a squat iron sentinel, topped with a Christmas tree of valves and gauges, all flanked by faded warning signs. Dim yellow security lights buzzed overhead, their glow barely pushing back the darkness.
Laide, the local vigilante, and the two mobile policemen on their routine shift at the oil head, sat nearby, weapons across their laps. Their attention diverted by the phones in their hands, they did not see the shadows lurking in the dense vegetation until it was too late.
“Drop your gun! Everybody lie down for ground!”
The men barely had time to react as shadows exploded from the mangrove. Four armed men surged forward, bodies slick with mud and oil, clad in black hoods and faded military fatigues. Hard eyes glinted through slits in the cloth.
One carried an AR-15 with a tactical light, the others wielded pump action shotguns, machetes, and heavy bolt cutters. Scars crisscrossed their arms, and spent bullet casings rattled on a necklace around the leader’s neck. They moved with the cold confidence of seasoned predators.
His brain scrambled by fear and cognitive haze, Laide feared for the brand new iPhone he had splurged nearly half of his salary on and began to slip it into his pocket. The eyes of the gang leader caught his movement and a rifle butt slammed into his stomach.
He snarled, his voice guttural and feral.
“You dey mad?! I say drop gun, you dey put hand for pocket!”
Laide crumpled, his phone tumbling from his hand to the soft earth beneath him. He wrapped one arm around his middle and raised a fearful tentative gaze to his attacker. A second blow to the head dropped him face first into the oily mud. He grunted pathetically, garbling words of plea through the saliva and blood frothing in his mouth. He was spared from further mauling when the leader searched him and found nothing in his pockets.
The policemen fared no better. They were pistol whipped, kicked down and stomped on until they were barely conscious. Within moments, all three were zip tied at wrists and ankles, faces ground into the filth.
The assailants wasted no time. While two stood guard over the bound men, the leader and another moved to the wellhead. They wrenched open the main production valves with a wrench and machete, releasing a sudden hiss of pressurized crude that sprayed across the platform in a black fountain. Oil gushed onto the ground, pooling and spreading through the mangroves.
The leader looked at his watch, timing the timing the release to ensure maximum damage before the emergency systems could respond. They turned to the flowlines. Bolt cutters sheared through a smaller export pipeline with metallic snaps.
“Wey dat banger?”
One of his men stepped forward with a bundle of dynamite and fuse. They all watched in silence as he planted it against a major manifold junction.
The blast, when it came, was sharp and thunderous, ripping apart valves and sending twisted steel flying into the water. A larger flow station separator tank took several machete blows and shotgun blasts to its base, causing more crude to pour out in a steady, wasteful flood.
Thick black smoke began to rise as spilled oil caught a spark from the damaged generator. Flames licked across the platform, illuminating the assailants’ hooded figures in an infernal glow. The generator sputtered and died after a final savage kick to its fuel line, plunging the site into flickering darkness broken only by the growing fire.
Laide lay trembling in the mud, tasting oil and terror, watching helplessly as critical infrastructure burned and bled. The armed men melted back toward their waiting boat, leaving a trail of broken men, a violently sabotaged wellhead and a puzzle that hinted at machinations far deeper than criminal opportunism.
*****************************
McLean, Fairfax County
Virginia, USA
3 pm EDT
The colonial style house stood quietly behind a line of mature oaks. Recently purchased by Sameer as Oleo Energy’s low profile operational base in the states, it was a stately blend of old-world elegance and modern functionality. Its white brick facade, black shutters, and slate roof blended seamlessly into the leafy McLean hillside.
Inside, the living room that smelled faintly of fresh paint and polished wood, Obinna sat on the wide leather sofa, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His left leg was slung casually over his right knee, foot bouncing with quiet tension.
A single lamp cast warm light across the open leather journal on the coffee table. Three names stared back at him in neat handwriting, each annotated with Ofer’s intel.
His phone vibrated. Sameer.
Obinna answered calmly.
“Sameer.”
“Obinna, the well was hit tonight,” Sameer said, voice tight. “Pumps taken offline, guards assaulted. The whole works.”
“I know,” Obinna replied, eyes never leaving the journal. “Ofer’s team is already on it.”
“What’s the next step? What do we do, man? This thing is causing me sleepless nights.”
Obinna heard the part Sameer didn’t say out loud. The loans from the Swiss banks, structured through Luxembourg shells and Geneva accounts that risked default now that the repayment clock had started ticking.
“Nothing.”
“Why nothing bro. We are going to be in deep shit if the current oil prices fall.”
Obinna sighed, ruminating on one of his guiding principles.
All action is information. All reaction is information. And information is power.
“We wait, Sameer. We already have three names. This attack tells us something and narrows everything down to one person. Why ruin such an advantage with a reaction?”
“I know man, but we have to do something. What’s the next move?”
“We wait for now.”
“What are you planning brother?”
There was a short pause before Obinna answered again.
“I will let you know soon.”
“Ya khara, Obinna you don’t let me know what is in your head. Wallah, it drives me crazy. Spill it, ya zebi.”
“Go to bed Sameer. Let me handle this.”
Sameer grumbled, added another jab and said his goodbye grudgingly, tucking easily in the soft silk covers of the king size bed in his four bedroom house in Zug.
Obinna picked up his fountain pen and slowly circled the second name on his list twice. He stared at it a moment longer, then rose to freshen up for the trip downtown with Ofer who was pulling into the driveway at that exact second.
They were meeting with Victor Lang, a muscular veteran, former congressman, thrill seeker, and a man with a deep, unbridled lust for money.
A frequent visitor to Nigeria, Victor did far more than bask in the sunshine. There were clandestine meetings, discreet envelopes slipped under tables, and soon afterward, glowing, sanitizing Washington Post profiles of previously reviled personalities.
“An unprincipled asshole,” Ofer said as the car pulled into the Virginia night, “but a highly effective lobbyist.”
Obinna nodded wordlessly, his eyes on the rain streaked world beyond the window as his mind calmly worked out his next move.
*****************************
Utako
1 am WAT
Rachel sat in the living room of her apartment, half watching Netflix without really paying attention. The screen’s shifting colors washed over the room in soft pulses while her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Outside her open windows, the city had gone quiet under a deep night sky. She idly traced the faint silvery outlines of distant rooftops and the occasional slow pulse of airplane lights drifting across the darkness.
Beside her, her glass of pineapple juice sat forgotten and sweating out the last of its coldness on a small round marble-topped stool with splayed wooden legs joined by a geometric Y-shaped base.
Her hands ached from gripping her phone too right. She looked down with a sigh at the open chat of the man she had grown accustomed to. The small green dot beside his name glowed steadily.
Online.
She typed a message.
I miss you.
She watched the cursor blink for several seconds and then with another sigh deleted it. Lowering the phone to her side, she pulled her knees up to her chin, closed her eyes and remembered…
She had arrived his house immediately after work, aroused from the countless steamy texts they exchanged during the course of the day. He opened the door and the sight of him hit her like a wave, tall, relaxed in simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, that familiar half smile playing on his lips. The week apart had felt endless. She stepped inside, dropped her bag, and threw herself into his arms without a word. He caught her easily, one strong hand sliding up her back as she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the clean, warm scent of him.
“It felt like you were gone for a year,” she whispered against his skin.
His answer was a low chuckle that vibrated through her chest.
“Yeah?”
His fingers were already working the buttons of her blouse, popping them open one by one with practiced ease. Cool air kissed her skin as he peeled the fabric down her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her bra followed a second later, his palms skimming over her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until they tightened. She shivered, arousal spiking sharp and hot between her thighs.
But he didn’t strip her completely there in the entryway. Instead he kissed her, deep, hungry, tongues sliding together in slow, sinuous strokes. He tasted like mint and heat. Their mouths moved lazily, wet and open, tongues curling and stroking in a rhythm that made her knees weak. She moaned softly into him, sucking on his tongue, then offering hers back for him to devour. His hands roamed her bare back, pulling her flush against his growing erection.
“Upstairs,” he murmured against her lips, nipping the bottom one before soothing it with another long, tongue heavy kiss. They barely made it three steps before he backed her against the wall, mouths still fused. Tongues tangled again, deeper this time, messier, while his thigh pressed between her legs, giving her something to grind against. Her skirt rode up as she rocked on him, already moist with desire.
They broke apart only long enough to climb the stairs, hands never leaving each other. Another stop on the landing. He pinned her there, kissing her so thoroughly her head spun, tongues stroking in lazy, erotic circles while his fingers slipped under her top to tease her breasts. By the time they reached his bedroom they were both breathing hard.
The rest of her clothes came off in a rush. Skirt, panties, heels, until she stood naked before him. He stripped too, revealing the lean muscle and the thick, hardness she had been aching for all week.
They tumbled onto the bed together, mouths crashing again in another kiss. She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly from base to tip. He groaned into her mouth, tongue still dancing with hers. Their eyes locked, dark, hungry, intimate. A small, shared smile passed between them, equal parts affection and raw lust.
She guided him into her, rubbing the swollen head through her slick folds, then notched him inside. He drove forward, burying himself inside her. She gasped at the sensation. He stayed there for a heartbeat, holding gazes, letting her feel every inch, before he started moving, deep, steady strokes that had her moaning and clutching his shoulders.
Missionary felt intimate, intense. He braced on his forearms, watching her face as he fucked her, their tongues still meeting in messy, breathless kisses between thrusts. Then he rolled them smoothly, pulling her on top so she straddled him. She sank down again, taking him even deeper in this new angle. His hands gripped her hips as she rode him, grinding and bouncing, their bodies slick with sweat.
He sat up to meet her, one arm banding around her back, the other tangling in her hair so he could pull her mouth back to his.
The kissing never stopped, steamy, open mouthed, tongues stroking and sucking in time with the rhythm of their hips. She clenched around him, chasing the building heat, and he thrust up harder, hitting that perfect spot inside her with every roll of his body. His free hand slid between them, thumb circling her clit until she was trembling, whimpering into his mouth.
“Obinna…I….”
“Come for me,” he growled against her lips, tongue flicking hers. “I need to feel you.”
The orgasm crashed over her in a white hot wave, her walls pulsing tight around him. He followed right after, groaning deep as he did, body moving through the aftershocks while their tongues kept sliding together in lazy, sated strokes.
They stayed like that for a long moment, her on top, him still buried deep, foreheads pressed together, exchanging soft, lingering kisses. Tongues brushing gently now, more tender than urgent. His hands stroked soothing patterns up and down her back.
“It’s so good to have you back,” she whispered, smiling against his mouth.
He chuckled, nipping her bottom lip.
“Is it?”
Something wet brushed her cheek, Rachel jerked in surprise at the unexpected tear. She wiped it, lowered her legs and sank backwards in the sofa.
“I will get over him. I must.”
Her words rang hollow even as she said them. Between her legs a warm reminder had formed, mocking her resolve and stirring with every breath she took. Still, she knew she had to try.
*********************************
McLean, Fairfax County
Virginia, USA
8 pm EDT
Shirtless and wearing only a pair of light blue gym pants that clung low on his hips, Obinna stood surrounded by sleek, high end workout equipment in the spacious home gym. The room was a modern sanctuary of dark wood flooring, mirrored walls, and floor to ceiling glass that formed an entire western wall, opening onto a sweeping view of the rolling Virginia hills now bathed in deep evening twilight.
Soft amber and violet light poured through the glass, catching on the sweat slicked ridges of his ripped physique.
Battle ropes lay coiled at his feet like thick serpents. He gripped one heavy rope in his right hand, the other end still anchored to the floor, while his left held his phone. The muscles in his forearm flexed involuntarily as he stared at the screen, the play of fading sunlight tracing every vein and striation across his chest and torso.
Pushed by nostalgia, he had found their first chat and the poem she had written him. Just as he read it, she had come online. He watched her type and delete her messages, doing nothing but stare at his phone. Finally, she stopped. With a sharp exhale, set the phone on the small shelf holding his water bottle and towel, annoyed at his own curiosity.
Theirs was a closed chapter he had no plans of reopening.
He returned the battle ropes to one of the hooks mounted on the wall and picked the jump rope beside it for his next set. He began his exercise, jumping the rope with brutal, machine gun speed. His powerful legs barely left the floor, calves and quads firing like pistons in rapid, precise hops while the thin black cord whipped around his towering frame in a relentless blur.
His shoulders and forearms powered the rope with raw force, every rotation cracking through the air like gunfire. The warm amber and violet evening light streaming through the glass wall danced across his sweat slicked, rippling muscles as he pushed harder, breath controlled but ragged, jaw clenched, eyes distant.
His mind was not in the room. It drifted to the destroyed oil head, the tense meeting with Victor. The encounter had been classic back and forth with the typically self serving lobbyist. It had been slippery, expensive, and ultimately useful. Though the former congressman insisted he was not Sino Energy or Apex Consortium’s primary lobbyist, he had still dropped a valuable breadcrumb. Crestwood Strategies, a shadowy firm run by a former Deputy National Security Advisor with fresh interests in African energy deals.
A single encrypted thumb drive now sat in Ofer’s pocket, containing partial donor lists and dark money trails that confirmed the deeper Washington connections Ofer had already suspected. It wasn’t the full map they needed, but it was a clear next thread to pull, one that might finally expose the full extent of Apex Consortium’s reach before they could tighten the noose or plan the next attack.
He forced his mind back to his set. His trip back to Nigeria was in a few days. There was work to do.
© Umari Ayim.
2026​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​