📍 Abuja — 12:05 P.M.
The Council Room in the Office of National Intelligence was known across Aso Drive by one name only:
The Quiet Room.
A place where decisions were made without minutes, without witnesses, without the burden of official memory. Its walls were layered with silencers, its lights dim, its air heavy with the scent of paper and old power.
Today, eleven men sat around the walnut table, each representing one of the country's hidden arteries—security, economy, politics, clergy, energy, and shadow finance.
Only one chair remained empty.
The Director of National Intelligence, Alhaji Ibrahim Gidado, tapped his fingers on the polished wood.
"He should have arrived by now."
A thick man in a starched navy-blue kaftan leaned back. "Perhaps Kaduna detained him. The governors are… unsettled."
"That is putting it mildly," someone replied dryly.
Another man—older, thin like a reed—adjusted his glasses.
"The Northern Traditional Council has split. The emirs are questioning the governors openly. This child's broadcast exposed deeper fractures than we expected."
A snort came from the far end.
"A nine-year-old boy cannot fracture a region."
The room tilted toward silence.
The man beside the Director responded calmly, "He didn't fracture it. He illuminated it."
Before anyone could argue, the door hissed open.
A tall man entered, turban slightly damp from the Abuja humidity.
The Emir of Kano.
He moved with the steady calm of a man who had long mastered the art of balancing dignity with danger.
He took the empty seat.
"Let us begin," the Director said.
---
📍 Ilorin Express Road — Same Time
The convoy moved in silence.
Bayo drove, jaw tight, eyes focused.
Tope sat beside him, tablet balanced on her knees, her thoughts heavier than her device.
Eagle-One was in the back, monitoring drone patterns and traffic chatter through a modified headset.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Only the hum of the engine filled the van.
Bayo finally broke the silence.
"They're closing roads to Abuja."
"To trap us or to trap him?" Tope asked.
"Both," Eagle-One answered. "When a system can't find the truth, it cages everything around it."
Tope exhaled sharply.
"Every time he breathes, they panic."
"That's why he must keep breathing," Eagle-One said.
Her voice trembled.
"He's nine. He should be learning multiplication, not outwitting governors."
Bayo didn't take his eyes off the road.
"He's rewriting equations the country pretended didn't exist."
He paused.
"And he's winning."
Tope blinked back tears.
"I don't want him to win. I just want him to be safe."
"You can't separate the two anymore," Eagle-One replied gently.
---
📍 Abuja — The Quiet Room — 12:17 P.M.
The Emir of Kano placed both hands on the table.
"The North is awake," he said simply.
The Director sighed. "Awake? Or agitated?"
"Awake," the Emir repeated. "For the first time in decades, the people feel seen—not by you, not by the governors—but by a child."
Someone scoffed.
"This adoration is temporary. We will arrest him quietly."
"Arrest?" The Emir's brows lifted. "What crime has he committed?"
The man in the navy kaftan leaned forward.
"He interfered with national security frequencies."
"No," the Emir corrected calmly. "He bypassed your silence."
Murmurs of discontent rose.
The Director intervened.
"We are not here to debate morality. We are here to determine how to contain the fallout."
Contain.
Silence.
Neutralize.
Those were the verbs this room spoke fluently.
The Emir of Kano tapped the table lightly.
"The governors created monsters for years. Now the people are finally seeing the architects. If you move against the boy, you will turn him into myth."
"That cannot be allowed," a voice muttered.
The Emir met their eyes one by one.
"You mistake myth for danger. The child is not the danger."
He paused.
"The people's awakening is."
---
📍 Ilorin Express Road — 12:45 P.M.
Rain began to fall again, thin but persistent.
Tope glanced at Bayo.
"Do you think we should reach Ibadan first? Bring Ayo out quietly?"
Eagle-One shook her head.
"We don't know if they're already watching Ibadan. Abuja first."
"To what end?" Tope whispered.
"To expose their internal fractures," Bayo said. "Ayo is in less danger when they're divided."
Tope closed her eyes.
"Division doesn't protect children."
Bayo softened.
"I know. But unity under the wrong men is worse."
Suddenly, Tope's tablet vibrated violently.
A pulse.
A single steady rhythm.
Ayo's code.
But… slower, heavier.
"What is that?" Bayo asked.
Tope's breath caught.
"Not a warning," she whispered. "A signal. He wants us to see something."
The tablet flickered.
A map appeared—Northern Nigeria glowing in faint blue webs.
Then a video file loaded.
"He's sending us footage," Eagle-One said.
Tope pressed play.
---
📍 Ibadan — 38 Minutes Earlier
The burned-out cybercafé flickered under the low buzz of a newly patched generator.
Ayo sat cross-legged with Kemi and Ojo, eyes locked on the miniature camera embedded in a discarded radio casing.
"Are you sure?" Kemi asked.
"Yes," Ayo said softly. "They need to see it before Abuja does."
Ojo swallowed.
"You're making them your enemies."
Ayo shook his head.
"The truth is the enemy. Not me."
Aunt Ireton hovered behind them, worry etched in her features.
"Ayo," she said, voice trembling. "Once you send this, there is no turning back."
He looked up at her.
"Aunty, they are already hunting me. Turning back is for people they don't fear."
She knelt, touching his cheek gently.
"My boy… you shouldn't know this kind of courage."
He smiled sadly.
"I didn't learn it. I inherited it."
He pressed SEND.
---
📍 Ilorin Express Road — Now
The video opened.
It showed a dim room.
A round table.
Men in kaftans.
Security chiefs.
A governor.
An emir.
The Kaduna meeting.
Captured through a compromised comms channel—one Ayo had quietly embedded himself into.
Their voices played clearly:
"We must silence him."
"He is destabilizing the North."
"A child cannot be allowed to undermine us."
"If the people follow him, we lose everything."
"Eliminate him before he becomes folklore."
Tope's face drained of blood.
Bayo gripped the wheel tighter.
Eagle-One's jaw tightened.
"He's feeding us ammunition."
"And putting himself in grave danger," Tope whispered.
The video continued.
They heard the Emir of Zazzau say:
"You cannot kill breath. You can only fear it."
Then the file cut.
Tope clutched the tablet against her chest, as if shielding her son through the device.
Bayo sped up.
"Abuja will panic when they realize the leak isn't local."
"They'll come after him first," Tope said.
Eagle-One nodded grimly.
"And after us second."
---
📍 Abuja — The Quiet Room — 1:10 P.M.
An alarm beeped.
The Director looked up sharply.
"What was that?"
A young analyst burst into the room.
"Sir, we have a breach."
"A breach?" the man in the kaftan barked. "From who?"
The analyst hesitated.
The Emir of Kano closed his eyes.
"We have been compromised," he said quietly.
"How?" someone shouted.
The analyst swallowed hard.
"It came from a dead radio frequency in Ibadan…
a ghost channel…
and it broadcast your entire conversation."
Chaos erupted.
"What?!"
"Impossible!"
"Who accessed this room?!"
The Director stood, furious.
"Shut it down! Track it! Capture the sender now!"
The analyst stammered, "Sir, we can't trace the source. The signals bounce through at least seventeen relays across four states. It's—"
"Ayo," the Emir whispered.
The room froze.
"He's not destabilizing you," the Emir said. "He's revealing you."
The Director slammed his fist onto the table.
"Find the boy. Before this becomes a revolution."
The Emir rose calmly.
"It already has."
---
📍 Ilorin Express Road — 1:28 P.M.
Tope leaned out the window, letting the cold rain hit her cheeks.
"I can't lose him," she whispered.
"You won't," Bayo said.
"No," she said, turning to him. "Not this time."
She faced forward.
Her voice was no longer trembling.
It was steel.
"They want to silence a child," she said. "Let them try. They'll learn what a mother can become."
Eagle-One smiled—a rare thing.
Bayo nodded.
"Abuja won't see us coming."
Lightning cracked across the sky.
The road to Abuja stretched ahead—long, wet, dangerous.
And the pulse of a nine-year-old boy guided them forward:
Three short.
Pause.
Two long.
A heartbeat.
A rebellion.
A new beginning.
The storm gathered behind them.
And the future waited.