📍 Kaduna—Morning, 9:14 A.M.
The air in the Kaduna Government House conference hall was too cold, too perfumed, and too clean—an artificial atmosphere built to disguise the decay inside. The room glittered with chandeliers and polished floors, but beneath the shine was a heavy, palpable fear.
Nineteen governors sat behind a crescent table carved from expensive wood. Behind them stood aides, security officers, and press handlers—each one trying to appear calm. Flanking the hall were members of the Northern Traditional Rulers' Council: emirs, kings, district heads, and men draped in centuries of inherited authority.
The emergency meeting had been announced at dawn.
But the emergency itself?
It had been years in the making.
On the table in front of them lay a communique draft with bold resolutions:
Six-month suspension of all mining activities
₦1 billion monthly security allocation
Support for state police
But not one of them had touched the document.
Not after what happened last night.
Not after the message.
Not after the boy's signal reached the North.
A faint static rose from a corner speaker.
Crackling.
Breaking.
Repeating.
The Emir of Zazzau frowned. "What is that noise?"
Governor Yusuf of Kano forced a smile. "Probably storm interference. We should proceed."
But the noise persisted.
Three short pulses.
A pause.
Too long.
A rhythm not of machines.
Out of breath.
Several aides froze. One dropped a pen. A phone vibrated with an alert that wasn't from any known app.
The Emir of Gombe shifted uneasily. "This room is supposed to be secure."
Governor Musa of Zamfara leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Nothing in the North is secure this morning."
A hush rippled through the hall.
"What do you mean?" the Emir of Katsina asked.
Governor Musa's fingers drummed nervously on the table.
"Radios. Speakers. Old devices. They woke up before dawn. All of them. Across Zamfara, Sokoto, Kebbi… even Borno."
"And?" the Emir pressed.
Governor Musa swallowed.
"They were breathing."
Gasps spread around the room.
"You're not making sense," the Governor of Plateau snapped.
The Kaduna governor's aide stepped forward, whispering into his ear. The man stiffened, his face draining of color.
"What is it?" the Emir demanded.
The Kaduna governor cleared his throat.
"I have just been informed that someone accessed our emergency broadcast frequency."
Murmurs erupted.
"Who?"
"How?"
"When?"
He hesitated—hating the words even as he prepared to say them.
"A child."
Silence collapsed over the hall like a dropped curtain.
"What child?" the Emir of Argungu asked sharply.
The governor looked down.
"He is nine years old."
Shock was instant and violent.
"A lie! "
"Impossible!"
"A child cannot break the grid! "
The Emir of Zazzau, older and calmer, asked quietly:
"What is the child's name? "
The governor clenched his jaw.
"Ayo."
The name hung in the air.
Soft, ordinary—yet it vibrated with something greater.
A storm clothed in innocence.
—-
📍 Outside the Hall—9:17 A.M.
Crowds were gathering.
They did not come with placards.
They did not chant.
They did not riot.
They simply arrived.
Market women with babies strapped to their backs.
Okada riders with radios tied to their handlebars.
Young boys in torn slippers.
Students in faded uniforms.
Old men leaning on walking sticks.
None of them had been summoned.
They had just heard… something.
Old transistor radios buzzed in their hands, emitting the same rhythm:
Three short.
Pause.
Too long.
"The air is speaking," someone whispered.
"It's warning us."
"No," an elderly woman murmured, "it's waking us."
A journalist held his phone high, recording the moment.
"This is unprecedented," he whispered into the mic. "Kaduna has not seen a gathering like this—silent, organic, and… expectant."
—-
📍 Inside the Hall—9:21 A.M.
The communique still lay untouched.
Governor Sule of Niger slapped the table.
"We must act fast. Mining suspension, regional funds, state police—that is our stance."
One of the emirs scoffed.
"You cannot announce solutions without confessing how you caused the problems."
A chilling stillness spread.
The Emir of Bade leaned forward, his eyes sharp as glass.
"Who created bandits?" he asked softly.
"Who shielded them?
Who paid them?
Who called them 'misguided youths' for ten years?"
No governor answered.
"Who refused to educate our children?"
He continued.
"Who turned poverty into a tool?
Who allowed illegal mining to grow into a monster?"
The hall fell silent.
The Emir of Gusau added, "Now the child's message has exposed us."
The governor of Katsina slammed his fist down.
"We must shut it down!"
"You cannot shut down air," the Emir of Zazzau said calmly.
The line was not yelled.
It did not need to be.
It cut deeper in its softness.
—-
📍 Ilorin Ridge—Same Time, 9:30 A.M.
Bayo's walkie-talkie crackled.
He lifted it.
A frail voice—thin but determined—came through.
"…they… they are meeting… in Kaduna…"
"To discuss Ayo?" Tope asked.
"To discuss survival," the voice whispered. "Yours. Theirs. The North's."
"Who are you?" Bayo asked.
A pause.
"Someone who defended the wrong men for too long."
Bayo stiffened. "Why call us?"
"Because guilt is heavy," the voice said. "And fear is heavier. You must reach Abuja before they bury the truth. The governors are pretending to seek solutions, but they are only buying time."
"Time for what?" "Tope?" she asked quietly.
"For the real war," the voice said. "The one your child began by breathing."
Static swallowed the line.
Tope's heart lurched.
Her son.
Her nine-year-old son.
A boy she carried when she was barely a girl herself.
A child she had hidden from the world because the world was too sharp, too cruel.
Now he was the voice shaking northern power.
She wiped her eyes quickly, ashamed of the moisture.
Bayo saw but said nothing.
—-
📍 Kaduna — 9:34 A.M.
The hall was unraveling.
The Governor of Plateau stood.
"We must shut down the frequency before it destabilizes the North."
"You cannot shut down what does not belong to you," the Emir of Kano replied.
"We are the leaders of the North!" Governor Yusuf snapped.
The emir stared at him steadily.
"You are the ones who ignored hunger.
Ignored schools.
Ignored illegal mining.
Ignored thousands of kidnapped children.
Ignored warnings from your own communities."
He paused.
"And now a nine-year-old boy has done what nineteen governors could not."
A sharp gasp cut through the hall.
"You insult us—" Governor Musa began.
"I describe you," the Emir replied.
—-
📍 Abuja — 10:12 A.M.
A heavy door slammed.
Inside a high-level security office, two men faced each other.
One wore a crisp kaftan, his anger polished and cold.
"The boy is destabilizing the North."
The older man behind the desk adjusted his glasses.
"It was inevitable."
"If the North turns—"
"They won't," the older man interrupted. "They are confused, not rebellious. Fear is familiar. Truth is not."
"And the child?"
The older man closed the file on the table.
"He must be brought to me."
"And if he refuses?"
The older man sighed.
"Then neutralize him before he becomes a prophecy."
—-
📍 Ilorin Ridge—Moments Later
Tope clutched her tablet tightly.
"He's nine, Bayo. A child. They're talking about him like he's a threat."
"He is a threat," Bayo said.
She stared at him, hurt flashing across her eyes.
"To the system," Bayo clarified gently. "Not to us. He's the first honest breath this country has taken in years."
Tope breathed shakily.
"When they said he died, I stopped breathing. I didn't… I didn't know how to be alive without him."
Eagle -One looked up from securing the gear.
"Then breathe now. He's fighting. So must we."
Bayo nodded. "Abuja won't wait. We move."
Tope steadied herself.
She was no longer the frightened sixteen-year-old girl who found herself pregnant and alone.
She was a mother whose child had become the voice of a nation.
And mothers do not run from storms.
They walk straight into them if it means protecting their children.
Bayo tightened the straps of his bag.
"Let's give Abuja a reason to panic."
The three of them headed toward the vehicle.
Behind them, the ridge pulsed one more time with Ayo's rhythm:
Three short breaths.
A pause.
Too long.
A heartbeat.
A warning.
A promise.
Nigeria inhaled.
The North trembled.
Abuja stiffened.
And the storm sharpened its teeth.