📍 Emir's Private Residence, Abuja — 3:42 A.M.
The call to prayer had not yet risen, but Abuja felt strangely awake—like a beast shifting in its sleep.
Inside the private compound of the Emir of Katsina, the night carried a tension the walls had not felt in decades. Moonlight washed over the polished marble of the inner courtyard, touching the fountains that had been turned off for the night. A bowl of perfumed incense burned before the Emir—oud and frankincense mixing into a slow ribbon of smoke that climbed into the humid air.
Only hours earlier, a child's voice had torn through the North.
A voice riding hacked frequencies.
A voice that reached farther than sermons, policies, or threats.
"They tried to sell air. But we remembered—air belongs to all. If you're hearing this, breathe. You are part of the network."
The words still echoed in the Emir's mind like hot metal.
A nine-year-old had pierced the northern silence.
He inhaled, letting the incense burn in his lungs. Breath was not merely air—it was order. It was hierarchy. In the North, breath belonged to structure, to tradition, to authority older than independence itself.
Tonight, a child had dared to redistribute it.
"Ya Allah," the Emir murmured. "What storm has the land birthed tonight?"
Footsteps approached—soft, respectful, measured. The Emir did not turn. He recognized the rhythm of each man.
Three figures knelt before him:
Sarkin Makarfi, custodian of ancestral law
Malam Jibril Isa, emissary of the northern governors
Colonel Zakari Barde, liaison to covert militias
These were not ceremonial advisers.
They were men summoned only when storms gathered.
The Emir raised one hand. "Speak."
Sarkin bowed low. "Your Highness… DSNS audio analysts have studied the broadcast. The voice belonged to a child—no older than nine. The breath patterns, tonal resonance, and cadence confirm it."
The Emir's gaze shifted.
"And who told them to look for a child?"
"Your Highness… the people heard innocence. Miners, herdsmen, traders—they all said so."
The Emir exhaled slowly.
"Belief," he said, "is a powerful enemy to truth. And when the North believes something, uprooting it is harder than tearing down a baobab."
Jibril leaned forward, tension in his shoulders. "Your Highness, the governors are unsettled. Their communiqué from Kaduna—mining suspension, regional security fund, state police—all of it has been overshadowed. This broadcast made them appear—"
"—hypocrites," the Emir finished softly. "And rightly so."
The incense smoke wavered.
Zakari cleared his throat. "There is more, Your Highness. DSNS intercepted fragments during the Lagos transfer disruption. Two names stood out: Ayo Adeniran."
The Emir's expression sharpened.
"Adeniran," he repeated. "Whose child?"
Zakari hesitated. "Possibly linked to Bayo Adeniran."
The Emir turned fully now, his robe whispering against the marble.
"The engineer who defied Lagos? The one carrying files exposing oxygen allocations tied to northern contractors?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
A slow breath left the Emir's chest.
"A man burdened with guilt," he said, "is a man ready to ignite. And fire travels faster than breath."
Zakari continued, "A convoy believed to be carrying Bayo, a woman named Tope, and an operative called Eagle-One was spotted near Ilorin. Their destination appears to be Abuja."
Moonlight caught in the Emir's eyes.
"A woman," he murmured. "The mother?"
"Not by blood," Zakari said. "But the boy clings to her."
"Attachment," the Emir replied, "is the strongest leash of all."
He stood, and the courtyard seemed to shrink around him.
"Colonel," he said, "give me the truth of the rural North—not the lies governors recite for television. The truth whispered among the people."
Zakari inhaled.
"Your Highness… the broadcast reached everywhere. Herdsmen in Jibia heard it while watering cattle. Women in Jebba markets froze mid-sale. Traders in Kontagora looked around like they had heard a warning. Miners underground stopped hammering. Even boys tending firewood in Sokoto heard it."
He hesitated.
"They said… the North breathed."
A heavy silence settled.
"They breathed without permission," the Emir murmured.
Sarkin bowed. "It is dangerous when the poor breathe on their own."
"Very dangerous," the Emir agreed. "Because breath, once freed, does not return."
Jibril bowed low, forehead nearly touching marble. "Give the command, Your Highness. We will silence the boy."
The Emir turned, eyes calm and ancient.
"Silence?" he repeated. "Silence is for men."
He stepped closer, the incense smoke curling around him.
"This child is something else."
Zakari swallowed. "What is he, Your Highness?"
The Emir's voice dropped to a whisper.
"A contradiction. Innocence with knowledge. That is an abomination to order."
None dared speak.
"A child who disrupts structure," the Emir continued, "must be gathered like an ember—before he becomes flame. Before he becomes myth."
Sarkin nodded. "Your wisdom lights our path."
"Bring me the woman," the Emir said.
"Tope?" Zakari asked.
"Yes. The one he clings to. His voice carried grief. Such weight belongs to a mother—whether by blood or by devotion."
Zakari nodded slowly. "She will be found."
"And Bayo Adeniran?" Jibril asked.
The Emir's voice tightened—soft velvet drawn over steel.
"He must be brought alive. A man with evidence is dangerous. A man with conviction is fatal."
He walked toward the reflecting pool. The moon rippled on its surface, fractured by a slight breeze.
Zakari asked quietly, "And the child? What do you intend?"
A long silence stretched.
Finally, the Emir spoke.
"A child with knowledge must not be killed," he said. "He must be shaped. Molded. Returned to the order he threatens."
"And if he refuses?" Zakari pressed.
The Emir smiled—slow, mournful.
"Then we remind him that breath can be taken. Even the breath he gives others."
A cold wind swept across the courtyard.
Jibril bowed again. "The governors will obey."
The Emir nodded. "They must. Compliance belongs to the law. Obedience belongs to survival."
The three men rose to leave.
"Colonel," the Emir added. "Send discreet word to the DSNS. Tell them the boy's voice carries something rare."
Zakari paused. "What, Your Highness?"
The Emir's gaze hardened into prophecy.
"Influence. And influence in a child's hands becomes faith. And faith… becomes revolution."
Zakari bowed deeply. "It will be done."
Their footsteps faded into the residence.
The Emir remained alone.
He listened to Abuja's distant sounds—the hum of a government generator, a military drone circling the city, faint sirens drifting from Airport Road. The capital felt restless, holding its breath.
He closed his eyes and whispered:
"Ya Allah… do not let this storm write its own scripture."
The incense dimmed.
The courtyard darkened.
And far beyond the compound walls, the first call to prayer rose—thin, trembling, and full of warning—over a nation that had taken a forbidden breath.