CHAPTER —DirectorateHE CHILD THEY CANNOT FIND
📍 Abuja — —2:50 P.M.of Signals & National Security (DSNS) — 2:50 P.M.
The DSNS operations floor buzzed like a disturbed hive.
Lights dimmed under the glow of dozens of screens pulsing in red and amber alerts. Analysts shouted changing coordinates. Engineers sprinted between terminals. Military intelligence officers hovered near the glass walls like restless shadows.
And beneath all the chaos, one sound persisted—a sToo electronic pulse.
Three short beats.
Pause.
Two long.
Over and over again.
A digital heart that refused to die.
Major Jude Okonkwo slammed a folder onto a steel table.
"This is smoke," he snapped. "Nothing but smoke."
Across from him, Dr. Mariam Lado, Director of Data Security, didn't look up from her console.
"It's not smoke," she said. "It's a child's biosignal. Organic, consistent, evolving."
Jude scoffed.
"You keep saying 'child' like we're chasing a toddler with a toy phone. How are we being outmaneuvered by someone who can't legally open a bank account?"
Mariam finally lifted her eyes.
"The system clock doesn't lie. The pulse intervals belong to someone with an undeveloped cardiovascular rhythm. Eight to ten years old, if the Ilorin hospital metadata was correct."
Jude snatched the printout.
"Estimated," he growled. "Not confir"Except for"Nothing here is confirmed," she replied. "Except the fact that the boy—whoever he is—is still alive."
An analyst rushed toward them.
"Major—Doctor—new burst incoming!"
The room fell quiet.
The central display flickered. A ripple moved across a map of Nigeria—bouncing from Kwara to Ogun, splitting into faint signatures before vanishinToo
Then the pulse changed.
Three short.
Pause.
Two long.
A soft harmonic ripple.
Mariam leaned forward.
"He's altering the pattern," she whispered. "He's learning from us."
Jude clenched his jaw.
"Where is he trThemitting from?"
The analyst swallowed.
"Sir… the trail ends in Kwara, jumps to Ogun, then disappears into a ghost relay. Several of them."
"Meaning?"
"We still don't know where the child is."
The room tensed.
Jude turned slowly.
"So we have a juvenile signal, no location, and a broadcast destabilizing four states."
Mariam nodded.
"And a boy adapting faster than any adult I've profiled."
Jude exhaled through his teeth.
"Fantastic. Not only are we lo—Yemetue losing to a mystery."
---
📍 Ibadan — Yemetu Axis — 3:18 P.M.
The cybercafé's burned-out walls hummed with the uneven cough of the generator outside. The air smelled of hot metal and faint smoke.
Ayo sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wires, cracked laptops, and repurposed radios.
Ojo crouched beside him, soldering a link between a scavenged router and a custom signal booster.
Kemi scribbled lines of code into a notebook like someone writing poetry.
Aunty Ireti watched from the window, arms folded tight across her chest.
"They're adapting," Ayo murmured. "Slower than I expected, but adapting."
Ojo looked up. "How do you know?"
"They changed their probe angle. They're no longer searching location."
He tapped a key.
"They're trying to confirm age."
Kemi snorted.
"That's a creepy government hobby."
Ayo smiled faintly.
"They can estimate age from biosignature stress patterns. And I'm under stress."
Aunty Ireti turned sharply.
"Your heart is too fast for this kind of pressure."
"Aunty," he said softly, "the country's heart is faster than mine."
She exhaled shakily.
"You shouldn't have inherited this kind of burden."
"I didn't inherit destiny," he whispered. "I inherited silence. And I'm done with it."
Kemi leaned over.
"They'll come to Ibadan soon, right?"
Ayo nodded.
"When they realize the Kwara signature was a decoy. We need to move before dusk."
"Move where?" Ojo asked.
Ayo pointed to the map.
"A forgotten place. Somewhere truth can breathe."
Aunty Ireti knelt before him and touched his cheek.
"My boy… are you afraid?"
Ayo thought.
"Yes. But fear is the breath before courage."
He pressed SEND.
---
📍 Ilorin–Abuja Road — 3:32 P.M.
The van jolted violently as it hit a deep pothole. Tope grabbed the dashboard.
"Bayo—slow down!"
"I can't," Bayo said. "Not today."
Eagle-One leaned between the seats, scanning the sky.
"Drone sweep closing from the north. If Abuja triangulates the leak, they'll widen the blockade."
Tope's pulse quickened.
"They think Ayo has an adult helping him. That protects him… for now."
Bayo nodded.
"They assume the architect is older. Someone in the shadows."
He paused.
"They don't realize he's the architect."
Tope's voice trembled.
"He's nine. He should be learning multiplication tables."
Eagle-One said gently,
"He's learning to rewrite a country."
Suddenly, Tope's tablet buzzed—hard.
Ayo's signal.
But altered.
"He wants us to see something," she whispered.
A video loaded.
Pixelated at first.
Then clear.
Men in kaftans.
Emirs.
Security chiefs.
The Kaduna meeting.
Voices filled the van:
"…silence the boy before he becomes folklore."
"…a child destabilizing the North…"
"…eliminate the threat…"
Tope covered her mouth.
Eagle-One growled,
"The kid is outmaneuvering the North's entire leadership."
Bayo didn't blink.
"He's forcing them into daylight."
Tope hugged the tablet to her chest.
"They'll kill him if they can."
Bayo's voice hardened.
"They won't get the chance."
A broken billboard flickered as they sped past.
Ayo's words glowed across its cracked screen:
"THEY CAN'T FIND THE CHILD."
"BECAUSE THEY NEVER LOOKED FOR THE TRUTH."
Bayo pressed harder on the accelerator.
"Abuja is next."
---
📍 Abuja — The Quiet Room — 4:00 P.M.
The Director of National Intelligence paced like a man chasing his own shadow.
"This leak is destabilizing the North. We need silence immediately."
The Emir of Kano sat calmly, fingers interlaced.
"You cannot silence breath."
"Save your metaphors," the Director snapped. "The boy's transmission is spreading across twelve states."
A security chief barked:
"Shut down the internet!"
Mariam shot him a look.
"This is not 2001."
Another official shouted:
"Arrest the governors who were exposed!"
"And after that?" the Emir asked. "Arrest yourselves?"
The room froze.
"All of you fed the fire," the Emir continued. "Now you fear the child who exposes the smoke."
Major Jude slammed a fist on the table.
"We need to find him!"
"And do what?" the Emir asked softly. "Make him disappear?"
No one responded.
The Director's voice cracked.
"We cannot lose to a boy!"
The Emir stood slowly.
"Then stop calling him a boy. He has done what none of us have done."
The room leaned toward him.
"He has forced the North to look inward."
Someone whispered:
"What do we do?"
The Emir looked at the pulse repeating on the central screen.
"You pray you never find him."
---
📍 Ibadan — Secret Junction — 4:22 P.M.
Ayo packed the bag of wires and slung it over his shoulder.
Kemi grabbed her notebooks.
Ojo pocketed the mini-server.
Aunty Ireti locked the cybercafé door one last time.
"Where are we going?" she asked softly.
Ayo pointed toward the old bridge.
"To a forgotten place. Somewhere they don't watch."
"And when they find that place?" Ojo asked.
Ayo shrugged gently.
"Then we move again."
Aunty Ireti gripped his hand.
"Are you scared?"
Ayo hesitated.
"Yes. But fear means I'm alive."
She pulled him close for a brief, fierce hug.
"Then stay alive."
---
📍 Road to Abuja — 4:40 P.M.
Storm clouds gathered like bruises over the horizon.
"We're in the first federal surveillance ring," Eagle-One said.
"Let them watch," Tope murmured.
"I'm done running."
Bayo nodded, eyes fixed ahead.
"They weren't ready for Ayo."
His voice deepened.
"And they're not ready for us."
Eagle-One smirked.
"Let's give Abuja chest pain."
The van surged forward.
The storm waited.
And truth followed, pulsing like breath.