Hard Man

43

"You're doing well with your son, Jamal. He's very good."
    — General Babalola.

Minutes after they crossed the "Welcome to the Ore Dynasty sign, it started to feel like they had driven past the real world and into a simulation of Utopia. Unlike the city they were coming from that was marked by specks of wealth in a land of poverty, he could smell the wealth as soon as they crossed into the Ore Dynasty.

It was in everything.

Even the roads changed. They were now driving on smooth terrain, on a road that was so unbelievably flawless, it seemed like the jeep was gliding through air. There were no single bumps or potholes in sight.

The dynasty itself was a sight to behold. Over the years, Mohammed had heard the General speak about the Dynasty a few times, he could not believe that he was finally here. It felt like a vivid dream. There were no shabby houses in sight, like they were in Abuja. Every house they drove past was well-built, clean and properly polished. It was obvious that the people lived well.

Even the air was fresh and crisp. There wasn't the stifling, smelly, loud air of the city where they were coming from. Here, it seemed like the Dynasty had its natural air purifier, making every breath refreshing and calm. There was no noise pollution, and he could even hear himself breathing.

Mohammed was half asleep before, but now he was wide awake. The partition between the driver's side and the backseats were down, so he could see all these wonders from the wide windscreen.

In the seat behind him, the General and Des sat. They had not spoken to each other throughout the journey —and it's been many hours because it's now noon of the following day. Five vehicles had returned a while back, and now their vehicle led the way, with the other vehicle —which the MG was in— followed closely.

As they rounded a bend in the road, five horse riders suddenly appeared in front of them. The General sat up and rapped on the roof of the car.

"Slow down."

Their vehicle slowed.

Mohammed didn't see horses all the time in the city, so he sat even straighter, his mouth falling open at the scene in front of him. What drew his attention the most was the lead rider, whose horse is standing a few feet ahead of the other four.

The lead horse itself was a sight to behold —tall and majestic, the horse screamed wealth, with a thick black coat that gleaned under the hot afternoon sun. The rider on top looked equally impressive, sitting tall in the saddle, commanding respect with just his presence. He has a small cloth covering his nose and half his face, probably because of the dust.

Suddenly, the lead rider raised one hand, signaling them to stop. Shola twisted his neck to glance at the backseat, torn between obeying the menacing horse rider and his General.

"Stop," the General said, and Shola ground the jeep to a halt only a few feet away from the lead horse. The rider stared at their vehicles for a moment, as if wondering what to do with them. After a few seconds of tense stillness, the rider swung down from his magnificent horse with ease and moved towards their car. He's even taller than Mohammed imagined

He tapped on the bonnet of their car and walked to the driver's window. Shola's eyes widened and he looked back at the General again.

"Roll down your window," the General said and Shola obeyed.

The rider poked his head through the window, his brown eyes taking in everybody all at once. Mohammed blinked when the sharp gaze rested on him for a second before trailing to the backseat. The rider's eyes widened and he took off the cloth around his nose, revealing an extremely handsome —and surprisingly young— face.