Salisu

The air was too still for midnight.

No breeze. No rustle of leaves. Even the crickets had gone silent, as if they knew what I was about to do.

I moved like a shadow, hugging the walls, every footstep measured, every breath controlled. I'd memorised the guard rotations, the sounds of their boots, the cadence of their laughter when they thought no one was listening. I had counted the seconds it took for the corridor outside the General’s office to empty out.

But no matter how much I planned, there were no guarantees. Only risks. Only fear that gripped tighter the closer I got.

My hand trembled as I slid the stolen key into the drawer’s lock. For one awful moment, it didn’t turn. Then—click. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Inside were stacks of paper—yellowed, creased, some stamped in red ink, others scrawled by hand. Dispatches. Inventory lists. Codes and call signs. The smell of ink and dust wafted up, dry and old and damning.

This was it. I stuffed them into my jacket, careful not to crumple anything.

Then something caught my eye—tucked between two field reports.

A smaller paper. Folded.

I pulled it out, confused—until I saw my name written across the front in soft, looping handwriting I would’ve recognized anywhere.

My stomach dropped.

Obianuju.

I didn’t have time to process it. I opened it on instinct, eyes scanning—

If you’re reading this, then I’m very grateful…

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The voice sliced through the silence like a knife.

I froze.

A soldier stood at the doorway, rifle slung low, his face half-shadowed by the flickering lantern outside. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew the look in his eyes. It wasn’t suspicion. It was loyalty—the dangerous kind. The blind kind.

He stepped forward. “What are you doing?”

I straightened, forcing calm into my voice. “Collecting death notices,” I said smoothly, lifting the stack of documents. “They want a list of the fallen to forward to Lagos. You can ask the Sergeant.”

He narrowed his eyes, still unsure. “Why so late?”

“Because they want them by morning.” I met his gaze coldly. “You want to be the one to explain to the General why I’m late?”

A tense silence stretched between us. I didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Then—he shifted back. Just an inch. But it was enough.

I walked past him, slow, steady, refusing to let him see the panic hammering through my chest.

Back in my tent, I didn’t waste time. I sealed the document with shaking fingers, slipped it into an envelope, and handed it to Muda like it was a piece of my soul.

He looked at it, then at me. “What’s this?”

“Take it to Lagos. Straight to the office near Tafawa Balewa Square. Ask for Corporal Adebayo. He’s clean. He’ll know what to do.”

Muda’s brow furrowed. “You trust him?”

“No.” I met his eyes. “But I don’t have anyone else.”

He turned the envelope over in his hands, like it weighed more than it should. “You’ll be in trouble.”

“I already am.”

He tucked it under his shirt, close to his heart. “If they catch me—”

“They won’t,” I said, gripping his arm. “Don’t look back. Don’t wait. I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting.”

His eyes said what his mouth didn’t: What if you’re not?

And then he was gone—vanishing into the night like a ghost.

I stood there in the silence that followed, my breath catching. My hands were still trembling. Not from fear.

From fury.

I pulled out Obianuju’s letter again and read it under the weak lantern light.

If you’re reading this, then I’m very grateful. I didn’t keep my promise because I’m at my father’s house. I’m also getting married soon. To my sister’s ex-fiancé. That’s not the point right now though.

My father—Chief Ifeanyi Nwoko—has been secretly buying military weapons during the war. I’ve seen documents. Receipts. Shipments routed through unofficial channels. His seal is on every one of them. He’s working with the General. I don’t know the man’s full name, but I’ve seen the seal enough times to recognize it. I always knew he was dangerous. I just never knew how far it went.

The papers I found include:

Receipts for arms and ammunition

Lists of supply routes

Letters between my father and military leaders (including the Sergeant)

I don’t know the full legal weight of what this means. But I know it’s treason. It’s murder with an official stamp.

If you don’t act, they’ll bury this like they’ve buried everything else. Please. Don’t let them.

I hope you’re doing well, by the way.

Greetings,
Nafisa

I read it twice. Then three more times.

She was scared. I could see it in the way she wove pleasantries into confession. But she was brave enough to write it. Brave enough to risk everything.

Now it was my turn.

I folded the letter gently and slipped it inside my shirt, pressing it against my chest.

Outside, dawn had begun to stretch its fingers across the horizon. Another morning coming to swallow all sins in gold.

But I knew better.

They’d come for me soon. Ask questions. Accuse. Threaten.

Maybe they’d hang me. Maybe I’d vanish like others before me.

But not before I gave them a reason to fear me.

Not before I gave them the truth.

If I was going down…

…I was taking every last one of them with me.