ON THE RUN (EPISODE 4)

The phone fell off Ireti’s ear as she stood to react. It hit the ground and the call disconnected. Hurriedly, she got the phone back into shape and pulled a call through, back to Salewa.

“How come? How did you know? Who told you?” Ireti stunned.

Going before the mirror to do her makeup, Salewa replied, “I have the whole evidence here with me. I still can’t believe my eyes. October five, exactly two weeks before our wedding o. And he couldn't say a word to me, just imagine that.”

“Wait a minute, what evidence is that?”

“The result of a lab test he did. It’s right here with me, even holding it now.”

“Please babes, get me out of this darkness.” Ireti said, reaching for her car key. “How did you get the report? The hospital sent it? Or who on earth gave it to you? Sure it must be that pimp of a houseboy of yours.”

“Pimp?” Salewa asked, suspicious.

“Never mind. So tell me, how did you get the report?”

Salewa wasn't satisfied with the shade Ireti threw over the ‘pimp’ subject, but ignored it for a later day. “I found it in one of his pockets in the laundry. Funny enough, I almost wouldn't know all this if the paper hadn't dropped from the pocket.”

“This is serious. So now, you can’t have a baby of your own, even till Jesus comes.” Ireti sighed, then jingled her key, signaling she’s running out of time.

“God forbid. This my stomach would contain my baby soon.” Salewa rubbing her palm, smoothly, around her belly. “The way I manner, it’s entirely my own business.”

“We really have to talk this over.” Ireti walked to the exit. “When will you be free?”

“I should be, tomorrow.”

“Okay babes. I will catch you tomorrow.”

“Okay. So tell me what’s up with my houseboy being a...”

Ireti interrupted. “Gotta go now dear. I’ll call you later.”

Ireti hung up and walked out of her house.

*****************************

The parade was formed, and the camp commander was yet to arrive. The whole legs that stood on the parade ground begged for mercy, as the parade had stood for two hours, perhaps three, and the General was still not in view. The officers chatted within the ranks. Fresh air hitting their skulls, as some of them removed their berets. Some jested, laughing and behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons. While on the other end, the soldiers dared not attempt any. They remained on attention, with beads of sweat sprinkled around their faces. The soldiers stood, with throats swollen and dry and with moisty feet within their stuffy boots. Little wonder the mortality rate was high amongst the soldeirs.

Few minutes later, a signal came into the walkie-talkie of one of the platoons. The Lieutenant, who was in-charge of the platoon, dashed to the battalion commander to discharge the signals he just received.

He saluted, “Sir! We got a radio signal from zero alpha but the transmission was loud but not clear.”

“It’s loud and not clear?” The battalion commander, who stood at a corner of the parade ground, scratched his mustache, confused. “How come it’s not clear? What’s the content?”

“The transmission wasn't in English or in any of our dialects.” The Lieutenant said.

“Look at you, how sure are you that none of these soldiers will not understand this?” The battalion commander, pointing at the soldiers, angry at the Lieutenant’s radical conclusion. “Or do you know all the dialects in Nigeria?”

“No Sir!”

“Go now, I’m giving you fifteen minutes to decode the signal and return.”

“Ok Sir!” He saluted. “Permission to carry on, Sir?”

“On your own.” The battalion commander brought out a stick of cigarette, then slot it between his lips. “Your fifteen minutes, blowing away.”

The Lieutenant walked away, wiping out the sweat that immediately formed on his forehead while talking to the Colonel, the battalion commander.

Didinga, the very language the  signal was transmitted in. A soldier, who hails from Sokoto in Nigeria, helped interpret the signal. The content of the signal read thus:

Bloody intruders seeking peace in a country that will not know any until the leaders pays their dues. Your country, Nigeria, lay over there lame and needing help, but you’re too deaf to her cry. You cannot mind your business and solve your problems before helping to fix another. You are sure in for this one because we will not let our guards down nor surrender until we kill the whole of our corrupt leaders and their supporters or better still, the whole of you Nigerian troops. You shed our blood yesterday night, and you laughed about it. Good, very good. It’s time for you to dance to the tune of the music you played yesterday. We won’t let them go until you all leave this country or give to us five million Sudanese pounds. You have three days to fulfill any of these, else your commander and his entourage are dead. Kafar Abbah.

The battalion commander released from his lips, the dwarfed cigarette he’d smoked for thirteen minutes. He stepped on it as it kissed the ground.

Now, he appeared sore, with his eyes red and bulging. “Who was the officer on duty yesterday?”

“Captain Sanmi, Sir!”