The Colour Of Second Chances ✅

06| A Share in The Cacophony.

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In the Brotherhood, we aren't allowed to vote for a reason and now, I'm left to wonder what that could be after seeing Jese's PVC yesterday. He swore that it was before he joined the brotherhood but I saw the year on it, it couldn't be true and that's a crime I'm not willing to report especially after what I'm about to do.

Could it be that the brotherhood wants neutrality from us, their idea of neutrality an idle notion that requires us to train on its beliefs alone which excludes every other body? I find that hard to believe because if it was so, I wouldn't have been allowed to the internet while working for them. Again, if it wasn't so, the omo ale that had been tagged with David Hundeyin on twitter would have just been a tribal sentiment, and the accusation that the presidential candidate of the APC is a retired drug lord and his Vice-president a Boko-haram sympathizer would have just been another wind blown cover.

Although the latter two has now been finessed-- the people have shelved INEC's silent persistence on not wanting to disqualify this candidate and are now mostly focused on voting him out, because they consider the current presidential administration, which is the product of APC, a failure -- I can proudly boast of being alert in national news because of the few things I learn from twitter.

In a mesh of green, brown, black and grey, I see their camouflage littering everywhere. The Nigerian Army and a new force that was found on november last year. The new force has their uniform as a deep gray index, and wear boots and call themselves The Salakey.

The Government made sure they mar the southern and easthern streets because they believe these two regions to be the founder of Maazi Nnamdi Kanu's endsars protest which led in them violating multiple human rights of the Nigerian Citizens.

On seeing the campaign billboards and ongoing rallies, I couldn't be more proud of the indigenous people of Port-harcourt. It seems like they inherited madness and eight years bad government only made the syndrome worse. To demonstrate this, an early morning female hawker shouts the famous words of persuasion, 'Obediently buy your orange her. Good fruits to change Nigeria for the better.'

I shut the window and make to go sit on the already made bed. Its duvet is white along with the mattress and a warm food is already up on the table waiting for me to delve in.

Its another day and a beautiful morning in this oil tank of a land.

I'm in a white robe from shower and I make no move to change since I'd sent my clothes to the dry cleaner last night.

A knock sounds on the door just as I start eating and I grumpily stand to go answer the door. The same help from yesterday hands me a polythene bag which scrunched in my hold and I peep in before asking, "Did you add it?"

"Yeah," she answers.

"Wait for me." I say and walk into the room. There is a pile of cash in addition to the arms in the duffel. Confirming the presence of the PVC in the package she handed me, I take a wad and hand it to her. "Thanks for your help," I say.

"It was nice being at your service." She smiles and leaves.

The food was surprisingly sweeter as I feel my plans fall into action. Beside the food is the piece if editorial and my phone which I'd earlier been browsing on. On its screen are the clear words, 'What is Dr. Gidaffi's present address?' And in smaller characters are the various response to the question. One particular answer stood out because I liked it. It stated an address that seemed dumb because of how native the name of the location sounded. The response states that my now favorite doctor lives in Port-Harcourt.

This year's February 25 is the D day. Papa gave me a month to sort out this mess and return with evidence. I have 26 more days to go, trust me, I'm counting.

Before dressing up, I ring up Jese and Tomiwa and tell them we'll meet at the canteen.

The canteen itself is an eight cornered boxy space with an hallway I'm fortunate to explore because I needed to scan the environment. After scanning it, I realize that it's a company of two rooms conjoined by a narrow hallway. The other room is a bar, a very simple bar.

There are about twelve boots of dark green chairs. The tables are made of fine-chiselled plywood and each has a can of toothpick on it.

I order food and wait for my colleagues. In the middle of operating my phone, a waitress approaches me and drops a tray of food before me.

I delve in, savoring the native meal of semo and soup. Halfway into the food, I see them, trailing behind each other as they appear.

We say 'Good morning' and skip other pleasantries. Then we go straight to business.

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Finally, we manage to arrive at the address. Its actually a story building that could pass as an hotel. Here, I feel the January spell. It makes everywhere look dry and lifeless. It's even more of a surprise that the building has no single poster on it, just its plain uncoloured fence and everlasting height.

At the gate stood a man in a uniform of two shades of blue. He's in a black boot and wears a sailor cap. When Jese hoots the car horn, he opens the gate and waves us in. The car pulls up in the nearly full lot, which comprises of cars of all calibers.

We leave our belongings in the car and move into the building with arms on us. The receptionist behind the counter appears to be a man in his late twenties. He is dressed in a button up long sleeve and blue trousers.

"What can I do for you?" He asks. His teeth are straight and reflects rays from the sun. I should envy them if mine aren't as sparkly.

"I'm looking for Maazi Ozoba from Imo."

"Your name?"

"Nobi."

He starts hitting at a computer keyboard and faces the screen as he asks, "Are you his relative?"

Knowing this technique ahead, I say what I've been advised to recite.

"We are members of the same movement and share the same goals."

He looks up at me, extends his hand forward and says, "Welcome fellow obedient." We shake hands. "Do you need a room?"

"No. I'm actually here for Maazi Ozoba."

He goes back to typing. "That's sad, we've got a lot of spare rooms for the movement. But anyway, uuh, Maazi Ozoba is always out during the weekdays and is mostly around at night. If you want to see him urgently, you can ring his line... I'll give you."

I doubt he'll give me answers through the phone. "No, that's unnecessary," I tell the receptionist. "I'll just return at night."

"Okay, good day. Don't forget to spread the good news."

I assume he's talking about the obedient movement. "And you too," I say before walking out.