The journey to the militant hideout was fraught with subtle tension. The businessman's sleek black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class cruised through muddy, uneven terrain, its polished surface an ironic contrast to the squalor of the region. Flanked by two escort SUVs, the convoy wound its way deeper into the dense, unforgiving mangroves of the Niger Delta. The headlights carved through the darkness, revealing fleeting glimpses of armed guards patrolling the swampy expanse.
The businessman, seated in the backseat, adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable. He glanced at his watch—gold-plated, understated but undeniably expensive—then turned his gaze back to the window. His driver, eyes fixed on the road, maintained a silence honed by years of service.
As they approached the hideout, the SUV at the front came to an abrupt stop. A group of militants emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by balaclavas, rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them approached the driver's side of the Maybach and rapped on the window with the barrel of his gun.
The driver lowered the window just enough to speak. "We're here to see your boss," he said evenly, his voice devoid of fear.
The militant squinted, his suspicious eyes scanning the vehicle. "Na who una be? Wetin you dey find for here?"
The driver glanced at the businessman through the rearview mirror, awaiting a signal. A subtle nod was all he needed. "Na customer we be," the driver replied. "Your oga dey expect us."
The militant hesitated, exchanging glances with his comrades, before stepping back and signaling for them to proceed. The convoy rolled into the compound, the tension palpable.
The hideout itself was a crude assembly of wooden structures, reinforced with corrugated iron sheets. The air was thick with the mingling scents of diesel, sweat, and the faint tang of saltwater from the nearby estuary. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements marked by a predatory alertness. A massive generator hummed in the background, casting flickering shadows across the compound.
The businessman stepped out of the car, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the damp earth. His every movement was deliberate, exuding a quiet authority that clashed with the chaotic energy of the place. He adjusted his cufflinks as his gaze swept across the compound, taking in every detail. His body language was calm, but his eyes held the sharpness of a man who always calculated his odds.
Two guards flanked him as he was led toward the central building. Inside, the militant leader awaited him.
The room was sparse, its walls adorned with maps, old photographs, and a few crude banners bearing militant slogans. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh light over the scene. At the center of the room sat the leader—a large, imposing man with a weathered face and an air of barely contained aggression. He wore a sleeveless vest, exposing arms scarred from years of violence, and his machete rested conspicuously against the table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
The businessman entered without hesitation. The leader's sharp gaze locked onto him, a flicker of disdain in his eyes. He motioned for the guards to leave with a curt wave, then gestured toward a chair across the table.
"Abeg, siddon," the leader said, his voice gravelly. "I no get all night."
The businessman took his seat, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing one leg over the other. "Thank you for seeing me," he said smoothly, his tone devoid of condescension.
The leader poured himself another glass of whiskey, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't offer any to his guest. "You no dey come here for small talk. Wetin bring you?"
"Opportunity," the businessman replied, leaning forward slightly. "An opportunity for you to secure your legacy, to ensure that your people are never trampled by foreign powers."
The leader raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "Big grammar. Abobi reason me simple, Wetin you want make I do?"
The businessman smiled faintly. "Azadistan," he said, letting the name hang in the air.
The leader's smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. "Azadistan? Wetin concern dem for here?"
"They've been making moves," the businessman explained. "Their so-called 'agreements' with your government—they're the first step in taking over your resources. Your oil, your land, your people. If you don't act now, you'll be nothing more than tenants in your own home."
The leader took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes narrowing. "You dey talk like say you dey fight for me. Wetin be your own?"
"I represent certain interests," the businessman said vaguely. "Interests that align with yours. We both want to see Azadistan's influence curtailed."
The leader chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. "And you bin want make I do wetin? Go carry gun go fight dem?"
"Not exactly," the businessman replied. "There's an excursion happening soon—a group of elite students from Greenfield International. Some of them have direct ties to Azadistani officials. If they were to disappear—"
"Kidnap?" the leader interrupted, his voice rising. "You dey jonze? You know wetin go happen if we try dat kind thing?"
The businessman's calm demeanor didn't falter. "It's not just about the act. It's about sending a message. Demand the removal of Azadian influence from this region. Force them to abandon their foothold."
The leader leaned forward, his tone deadly serious. "And if I gree? Wetin be my own inside?"
The businessman reached into his briefcase and placed a stack of naira on the table. "This is just the beginning. Complete the task, and you'll be rewarded handsomely. More than money, you'll have power."
The leader eyed the money, then looked back at the businessman. "Dis bar na chicken change na. If you wan make I carry this kind risk, you go add plenty bar."
"You'll get what you deserve," the businessman said, standing. "Succeed, and you'll have more than you've ever dreamed of."
The leader stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "If e backfire, na your head I go first find."
"It won't," the businessman replied, his voice icy. Without another word, he turned and left.