By Oghenerukevwe Divine Ogede
Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! The call of the Muslim faithful reverberated through the belly of the metropolis, rising above the cacophony of traders, honking cars, and street beggars weaving through the traffic. When the evening prayer ended, Senator Hussein hurried out, phone pressed to his ear. Tall and slender, dark-skinned with a beard white as cotton, he cut a striking figure at sixty. Yet his face was a map of worry, his eyes flitting anxiously from one point to another before he ended the call.A bunch of keys jingled merrily in his hand as he quickened his steps toward his parked car. He hissed in irritation at the traffic’s growl on the busy road, then eased into the driver’s seat and joined the queue snaking through a stretch of pothole-riddled asphalt. He honked furiously at a bus that swerved too close. A reckless taxi driver had nearly clipped his bumper. Through the rear-view mirror, he watched the taxi veer sharply into an adjoining street, throwing up a cloud of dust on the untarred road. It was typical—the city’s cab drivers were known to abandon caution in their desperate search for passengers. A starving taxi man will throw caution to the wind and dine with the devil before he prays with an angel for manna to fall from heaven.
Senator Hussein’s face glistened with sweat, his features a tired lattice of wrinkles and pimples. His skin was dry and papery, his hair brittle and thinning. “Kpakam!” he muttered bitterly. “When the sky falls, will it fall only on the poor man’s roof, Oga?” “The dog wey dey roast for fire with teeth wey open, no be say he dey smile o, na de fire wey don burn am make you tink say he dey smile. This country na really smiling and suffering as Fela Anikulapo Kuti talk am. De man na Prophet. Make him soul rest in peace. Dey there dey look like mumu, you see now say khaki no be leather? The tin dey bite everybody now o. Potholes everywhere, una offence and loot don dey catch up with una. Na proper victims all of us be na, both the big oga and the bus drivers. Na Waa! Na so so risk we go dey take for dis country? Na wetin dey wrong with Africa sef? We no get sense? We just dey suffer ourself. All the money for the country don enter una pocket. Una don spoil dis country with una lootocracy. Big oga listen, money good o but money nor be everything. Abi money fit buy peace of mind or cure every disease? Una turn us to monkey dey work, baboon dey chop. Abeg una wey don belleful make una give those wey dey hungry for the country. Abi una never chop life belleful since independence? Na so life be? This pandemic never teach una lesson? Instead of una to fix dem bad road, provide good electricity, provide better job and provide good hospital for una people to develop dis our country… no be so our leaders suppose do? Na person brother na him fit tell am say him mouth dey smell. You see, you don dey drive alone now, where una personal drivers, no reporters, henchmen and security guard armed to the teeth with siren to scare citizens with cane and splash mud water on them? Tufiakwa! Shame on African leaders! Una be disgrace to this country. Na wetin una sow na him una go reap.” The taxi driver, visibly peeved, let out a loud, mocking guffaw before sinking back into his seat.
Senator Hussein stared at him—wordless, contrite. A thick cloak of dust and mud, spewed from the taxi’s exhaust and splattered by its tires, descended upon the cars trapped in the milling traffic. Irritated drivers wound up their windows with clenched jaws. Hussein’s creamy jeep was not spared; it too was swathed in filth. He muttered angrily to himself, punching the steering wheel with the flailing frustration of a child in a tantrum. Misty breath escaped his lips, and his eyes bulged wildly, like those of a man teetering on the edge of sanity—or an addict in need of a fix.As the traffic began to ease, a car ahead hooted, prompting him to brake. More horns blared behind him in quick succession. He honked back reflexively, but this time a smile slowly erased the scowl that had clung to his face. Ahead, a familiar figure emerged as both vehicles turned into a dusty earth road.“Good evening, Soul Brother! When did you return from the States?” boomed Senator Biodun, jabbing Hussein playfully in the ribs.Their faces lit up, grinning from ear to ear like children dancing in the first rain of the year. Senator Biodun, a large, fair-complexioned man in his late fifties, radiated cheer.“My brother,” Hussein began, lowering his voice, “we flew in a couple of weeks ago, right when the pandemic hit hard. I had to get my family out. God’s own country is no longer the safe haven it used to be. No more cocktails, birthday parties, or political gatherings. I had to escape the tide before it drowned us all.”He glanced around, as though wary of unseen ears.“Oh, I see,” Biodun said, nodding solemnly. “I returned with mine too. That storm shook the world and brought mighty nations to their knees. The death toll over there—colossal, overwhelming. One must be wise. You can’t leave your family behind to be devoured by that plague. After all, the baton must be passed on—for political continuity, for legacy. As the sage once said, ‘They are the leaders of tomorrow.’”He leaned closer. “So… how’s your family coping with the harsh realities here?”“They’re fine, my brother. They say they love it here and actually want to stay. The kids want to go to school here too. But I insist—they won’t understand the game being played in this country. This isn’t a place to raise children, Biodun.”He paused, his tone shifting. “I have to go now. My wife called about thirty minutes ago. My oldest son is seriously ill. If not for the traffic, you wouldn’t have found me here.”At those words, the bag of conversation seemed to empty. An eerie silence settled between them.Biodun’s heart skipped. He had wanted to bring up the last caucus meeting—the deliberations on resource control, the public opinion bill on hate speech that had just passed its first reading in the House.
There was also the lingering crisis between herdsmen and farmers ravaging the state. But he knew better. He swallowed his words.In these times, illness stirred immediate dread. Everyone suspected the virus. The Holy Book had foretold it: evil would roam the earth. Indeed, the signs were here—the plague, the unrest. The apocalypse seemed no longer a myth. But not our home, Lord, Biodun prayed silently. Let evil roam in vain. Let it knock and find no one in. While Hussein was still speaking, Biodun almost muttered the prayer aloud. Then he said, with a calm urgency, “We need to be on our way. The coast isn’t clear for any deep talk. We’ll celebrate when this storm passes. I’ll go to church for thanksgiving. ”The pandemic won’t sink our administration in this perilous time,” he added, glancing around as if scanning for eavesdroppers. “Our party will steer the nation to the promised land. But for now, the walls have ears. This is the age of social distancing, and we must join Mr. President in raising awareness.
He leaned closer, voice firmer. “We have to move now. Mischief-makers and digital fugitives are everywhere on this gaga social media. They’re bent on sabotaging the nation’s leadership. I stand by what you said earlier—this country is no place to raise children. Social media’s gone rogue. That’s why I backed the hate speech bill in the House. Yes, public opinion stalled it, but if this sabotage continues, the bill will find light one day. ”Amen o, my brother!” Hussein exclaimed, leading him to where his car was parked. He slipped quickly into the driver’s seat, even as Hussein reached out, hand outstretched for a final parting. “Alhaji, no shaking for now, join the campaign for social distancing,” Senator Biodun said, laughing as his friend’s hand fell limply. “Come on! To hell with all that jargon, Comrade. Those who will survive, will survive. And those fated to die from the virus? Let them meet their fate,” Hussein fired back, striding toward his car with exaggerated flair, flinging his agbada like a bird flapping its wings in flight.“Play safe, brother,” Senator Biodun cautioned, his voice taut with concern. “You shouldn’t joke about it. The virus is real, Honourable!”Hussein revved the engine, poised to grovel down the untarred road.“Spare me the sermons and their campaign slogans,” he scoffed. “Hasn’t it been proven that the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control is simply raking in wealth from the pandemic?”With that, he sped onto the bustling Lagos road, his voice still lingering in the air. Inside the car, a stunned silence followed. Biodun’s frozen heart began to thud once more. He leaned out the window like a caged bird, watching trees and hawkers blur into the rearview mirror as they faded behind.Alhaji Hussein and Senator Biodun were legendary in the Senate—inseparable, like Siamese twins. Their minds moved in tandem, tuned to the same political frequency. The two moguls had initiated several key bills that had progressed through multiple readings and ultimately become law. During plenary, their voices boomed across the chamber, weaving arguments with force and flair, swaying colleagues and capturing the Senate President’s approval. Applause would erupt, shattering the solemn silence of the red chamber.So eloquent were they that observers dubbed them literary titans: Hussein, “Milton,” and Biodun, “Dryden.” They spoke English with the flourish of British aristocrats reciting lines from the masters.Back at home, Alhaji Hussein pulled into the driveway of his ultra-modern bungalow, adorned with ornamental palms and rare flowers imported from China. The gateman, recognizing the car, swung the gate open with a salute and a frozen smile.Hussein drove slowly into the parking lot. As he cut the engine and stepped out, he saw his family doctor, Taiwo, emerging from the house. Aisha, his wife, stood stiffly nearby, arms folded across her chest. Gambo, the housemaid, stood beside her—cold, pale, and chewing her fingernails like a goat gnawing its cud.Dread gripped him like an electric current.
The doctor was murmuring quietly to Aisha, clearly explaining medical details about their son, Naziru, who lay inside the house groaning, sobbing, and writhing in pain.Without waiting, Hussein dashed into the room like an arrow, his eyes widened in alarm—like a toad leaping from boiling water.“Call the gateman. Now!” he barked at Gambo. “Taiwo, don’t wait for me. His condition is getting worse. The gateman will help you take him to your clinic.”Naziru, in his late twenties, tall and fair-skinned, leaned on his father like a sick child nestling against a mother’s breast. He was plump, but now weak—wilted like overripe fruit.“I’m sorry, Alhaji,” Dr. Taiwo began. “I would have taken him immediately, but Madam Aisha insisted we wait for your instruction. We really should take him to the General Hospital first—for tests. One cannot be sure what illness he’s suffering from until he’s diagnosed properly. ”“Phew… Come on, Doc,” Hussein waved dismissively. “Public hospital? No. One doesn’t test the depth of a river with both feet. Just take him to your clinic. I don’t trust public hospitals. They’re crawling with rivals and enemies, and this is a dangerous time. A single mistake—intentional or not—could end him. We politicians are always targets. A friend today could be an enemy tomorrow. Someone might plot evil against me just to clear the way for their own ambition. ”His voice darkened as he frowned deeply. “I don’t trust the doctors there.” “You think all of them are like that? There are still God-fearing professionals in our public hospitals—men and women who won’t compromise their ethics for money. They are content with their wages and hold their integrity dear. Many of them walk with clean hands, believing, as the old saying goes, that a good name is better than riches. But let’s be honest—aren’t you the very ones corrupting the system with Ghana-Must-Go bags of cash? You oligarchic politicians, always scheming to bend rules to your favour. In fact, it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a politician to enter heaven. When the leaders of a nation are pathologically corrupt, what hope is left for the common man?” “Doc, you may dress up a lie in white robes, but you can’t bury the truth. This get-rich-quick disease is eating deep into our nation’s soul. Don’t try to be holier than the Pope. Corruption has seeped into every corner of this country—every institution, every office, every home. That’s why many of us flee abroad in search of peace and dignity.
The cruelty here is bone-deep—it’s in our blood. And politicians? We’re the scapegoats for everything. But believe me, if not for this pandemic, I doubt my son would have lived to see the next cockcrow in this country. I for don leave patapata, wetin man dey do for this country with sick pikin? There na safe haven. Doc, it’s nearly impossible to keep a clean slate in this country. The system is rotting, and corruption runs deep in our veins. The judiciary is irredeemably compromised, and many of our doctors are more obsessed with wealth than with upholding the sanctity of their profession. Where there is no illness, they manufacture one just to instill fear in their patients—and to profit from it.“Look at how they mock our traditional healers, dismissing herbal medicine as dangerous, as though it were poison. But wasn’t it those same herbs our forefathers used to heal their wounds and live long, fruitful lives? So why are we deceiving ourselves? We run to the white man for every solution, yet our problems only grow deeper.“I remember one of my trips to the UK—mid-flight—I met a white man who said, ‘What baffles me about Africans is that they don’t believe in themselves. They lean entirely on the West, as though nothing good can come from their own hands.’ I wept for my country that day. We have remedies. We have resources. But our problem, Doc, is not just the sickness—it’s the doctors who refuse to believe in what we already have.” “Hmm! You have a point there, Alhaji. But let’s not leave it at that. You need to present it before the House for proper scrutiny. It takes just one good leader—only one—to heal a sick society.”“You’re right,” Hussein replied with a sigh, “but how many times have I brought this before the Senate? They just shove it aside. ”Okay, it will see the light of day one of these days. You know, it’s possible to have a clean slate in life. Aristotle said that a man’s desires are shaped by his morality. He who desires good is good; he who desires evil is evil. So it follows that he who desires the trivial is trivial; she who desires peace is peaceful. We all need to keep greed, deception, the get-rich-quick syndrome, and narcissism at bay. Above all, we must shun all manner of evil,” Doctor Taiwo said thoughtfully. Let’s see how the black man changes the black layers of his heart,” Hussein muttered, sighing like a tense drum.
Meanwhile, Aisha, who had been silently fuming, cast fiery glances at both men throughout the conversation. If eyes could kill, Taiwo and her husband would have fallen dead. Here was her son, teetering on the edge of death, and there they were, debating a country that had long failed its citizens. What had the people gained since independence? Nothing but pothole-ridden roads, relentless unemployment, and epileptic power supply. Why lose one’s mind over a broken system? “hew! Haba!” she thought bitterly. Dressed in fresh clothes and doused in perfume, Aisha was about to leave the house. She glanced toward her children’s room, where Naziru lay motionless on the bed, breathing heavily like an asthmatic patient.
She hurried to his side, then called her husband. Tears had washed away her makeup, and her hair fell limply over her forehead. In her late forties, she seldom left home without her veil. Aisha was beautiful and knew it.Moments later, the gateman arrived, and Naziru was taken to Doctor Taiwo’s clinic.After a series of tests, the diagnosis came: Naziru had contracted COVID-19. Like a suspenseful film’s opening scene, Alhaji Hussein sat frozen, staring at the doctor as the test results unfolded. He immediately called his wife, but Aisha’s phone was busy. Frustrated, he stormed out of the clinic, instructing the doctor to transfer his son to the General Hospital for treatment. From that day forward, fear of the unknown haunted them. Doctor Taiwo did not return home, fearing he might spread the virus to his wife and children—he had also tested positive. The following morning, newspapers blared the shocking news: Alhaji Senator Hussein’s wife, son, and family doctor had all tested positive for the dreaded virus, while Hussein himself was negative. Upon hearing the news on his transistor radio, the gateman fled his post, informing Gambo—who had shown him kindness—before boarding the earliest bus to her village. The sun had long set, and night was spreading its dark cloak over the compound. Darkness fell, enveloping everything, and no light flickered as he drove inside. All he found was silence. In that heavy silence, he sank into a chair on the balcony, his thoughts drifting. Where had the house girl and gateman gone? Apprehension gnawed at him. He pulled out his phone and dialed Gambo’s number. The phone rang and rang, but she did not answer. He wanted to call the gateman, but remembered with a sigh that the man did not own a phone. Frustrated, he hissed softly and slipped the device into his breast pocket before slouching over the table on the lawn. His mind replayed Biodun’s advice, steady and clear: Always play safe, Honourable. Biodun had distanced himself ever since the news broke. There was no one to call, no one to share his heavy thoughts. The last time they spoke, the Senator had sympathized with him and congratulated him for testing negative—escaping death by the skin of his teeth. He urged Hussein again to stay cautious. Puffing out his cheeks, Hussein promised to heed the wisdom.As he rubbed his hands together—almost as if washing away the weight of his worries—his phone rang. He answered to hear one of Doctor Taiwo’s nurses, her voice trembling with tears. The doctor had died minutes before.The line went dead, and Hussein sat stunned, the news too brutal to believe. By eight o’clock that same night, Naziru’s voice came through, choked with tears. His mother was dead.Hussein nearly fainted.Naziru’s anguished cries filled the line. He spoke bitterly of the hospital’s dire state and the epileptic power supply that had contributed to her death. He lamented the corruption rampant in the country, despite the huge sums reportedly budgeted for health care while he was abroad. “I’m never going back to that country of disease again, Dad. This place is a glittering devil. If I had stayed with our people, I wouldn’t have caught the virus. Dad, why do we seek solace in the white man’s land? Madagascar has launched the pride of African herbs to the world as a cure for this virus. Why not bring us there? Our discrimination killed my mother. I’ll never forgive you for that.”His voice cracked with pain. “The African forest holds the cure for every ailment, but we defame our herbal practitioners, those who see life in every leaf of the bush, to chase after Western solutions instead. Why are we now behind the rest of the world? Africa is the cradle of civilization. We’ve thrown away the bathwater and the baby crying in it. The ancestors weep at our ignorance. Civilization has encroached on our natural remedies, and greed has diminished the value of all our lives. We must wake up from this folly and embrace the healing herbs in our forests—like the baby in the weeping bowl that’s been discarded. Take this message to parliament. Tell them our hospitals are dilapidated and need urgent attention. The pandemic has exposed the failure of our leaders.”Hussein sat silent, staring into the murky night like a seer peering into a dark mirror. As his son’s voice faded, tears streamed down his face. He swallowed hard, forcing a faint, ghostly smile before staggering inside, heavy as a lame camel.He slammed the master bedroom door behind him, walking like a hunter stalking his prey as he searched for the light switch. Collapsing backwards onto the sofa, eyes wide open, he stared at the ceiling, seeking some inner peace as the bulbs flooded the room with light.“Life is sheer irony; every step a strange bell tolling,” he whispered, as if speaking to someone unseen.His thoughts drifted to his beloved wife, writhing in death’s grasp; his family doctor; the house girl; and the gateman—any of whom might have contracted the virus and were unknowingly spreading it. The bitter taste of that possibility clung to his mouth.Alhaji Senator Hussein wept again, closing his weary eyes and clutching his heart as he prayed for sleep to come.
Background of the author
The author Oghenerukevwe Divine Ogede, lectures in Western Delta University, Oghara Delta State. He is a member of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) Delta State Chapter. Many of his works have been published works. Among them – a short story: “A Drop of Mercy“, Nesting On The Rocks: An Anthology Volume 1, New Series published in 2023 by the Association of Nigerian Authors(ANA) Plateau State chapter, Rough Hands of Fate by Boox and Bransador,2025. His novels are : Unwanted Shadow by Boox and Bransador Limited (2021); Festering Wounds by Kraft (2022); Orgy In The Garden by Boox and Bransador (2024). His poems are: “Too Many Radios Are On” (2024) and “Deltans Cried For Joy” (2011).
Phone number: 08062551183, Whats app number: 09153565375 Email address: ogededivine88@yahoo.com,Gmail :divineruky53@gmail.com