If you injure your neighbour, better not do it by halves
George Bernard Shaw
The room was luxurious and plush. There was nothing about it to suggest that it was an abode to one of the most black-hearted humans ever to walk the face of the earth. From the ground up to the high ceilings, every material from canvas to stone spoke of wealth. Not the kind of wasteful opulence the elite in society had on display at their residences. Those were often distasteful, with the riotous colors often speaking of a desire to impress rather than any actual class.
This particular room was stately. The furniture was ornate, the decorations oozing more than simply class. It was spectacular, that’s what it was. The high ceilings were held up by pillars sculpted in different human forms, all in various uplifting poses, arms raised at different angles. The walls were painted white, red, and blue, with stained glass set into the wall facing the outside of the building.
Set into one of the walls was a wooden bookshelf, polished till it gleamed. At the top of the shelf sat a handful of marble figurines, one of which now rested in the hand of a simply garbed man, who stood facing the shelf. He examined the pieces with the keen attention of a collector of antiquity, taking several seconds to stare at some detail visible to only the most dedicated art enthusiasts. The figurine he held in his hand was only a few inches wide, weighing only a handful of grams. Indeed, if he closed his fist around the object, it would be almost totally covered, with only the telling white gleam between his fingers the only giveaway.
After staring at the object for a few more seconds, the man moved slightly, placing the object back to its original position. Then he picked up another, a somewhat larger figurine. This one was carved in the image of an elephant. He observed the object, turning it around in his hand to look at the flanks and the tail. Then he rotated it such that the elephant’s face was facing his. The tusks were a different color from the rest of the body and were carved with real ivory.
The man stood for a bit longer, then he turned, shuffling slowly to take a position at the head of the table set in the exact centre of the large room. His gait spoke of old age, advanced years. And the lines on his face confirmed it. He wore an over-large robe, single-piece clothing that hung over his obviously bony frame. He moved slowly, a frail old man huffing his way to take a seat after the exerting of standing upright. At least, that is how it seemed to neutrals. Those who knew who he was, however, knew that he was far from frail or weak.
Power was a strange thing. It corrupted the minds and hearts of the weak, who go crazy in the euphoria, littering their legacies with a dusty trail of errors, errors that often led to their downfall. To those who handled it aptly, power became a tool, a deadly sharp weapon to be wielded against enemies. It came with a price, of course. For power was not a natural thing. Oh yes, it could be argued in some quarters that power could be earned legitimately, as it is in the case of a political leader who accrues the most votes in a major election; or even on merit, where leaders have emerged from the masses, having proved their mettle while still at the bottom of the hierarchy.
But those who know what power truly is are well aware that there is nothing ordinary about it. All human beings come into the world as screaming, squalling, weak, helpless, and in several cases malformed babes. That is the order of nature. There is nothing natural, however, about wielding the power of life and death over another human. It is unnatural that the decisions of one man should rule the fates of thousands, millions even. And it is unnatural, that such power should persist, even in the face of adversary and discontent.
The Tyrant held the true power in Lagos, held it as tightly as he now held on to the arm of his chair, fury writ upon his face. He was a man used to being obeyed, to the very letter. Some hours prior, he’d issued a summons for the leader of the Black Crew to discuss a sensitive matter. The Executive Governor of the State had been inquiring for weeks about the orifice of the bombings that had made headlines. Having survived the incident himself, the Governor’s fear had been palpable, even then. He’d continued to pester the Tyrant, even to the point of paying him a visit unannounced and going on his knees, pleading for information to satisfy his political allies and put his political enemies off his vulnerable scent.
On the heights, the paths are paved with daggers
Robert Jordan- Path of Daggers
Now the Tyrant waited. A frail old man with unbelievable power and influence, he glanced at the ancient, baroque clock on the wall. At that precise moment came a knock on the door, followed by the sound of footsteps. A few seconds later, Yaya took his place to the Tyrant’s left.
“Apologies for my tardiness. I was delayed by certain misadventures.”
The Tyrant grunted. He wasn’t one for unreasonably nurtured anger. The reason for the delay was logical. He was satisfied. His posture took on a more relaxed form.
“Drinks, for your palate? I seem to remember that you don’t indulge in alcohol or drugged juices.”
“That stance remains. Water would be perfect. My palate is strangely bland, after all of this”. He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the obvious.
The Tyrant huffed a half-hearted laugh, gesturing to a water dispenser some ways off. “Help yourself, Yaya.”
Yaya rose to his feet and began walking toward the direction of the contraption. His eyes did not stray left or right. It was almost as if all of the opulence of the room was lost on him. Even though this was hardly his first time meeting with the Tyrant, this was the first time he’d visited him in his house. At least his primary residence. The Tyrant was understandably the wealthiest landowner in the city, possessing several overlarge plots of empty land and equally empty mansions. He never spent any considerable time in any of his estates, but in this particular residence was known to most of the elite as the home of the Tyrant.
He reached the dispenser, reached for a glass nearby, and poured himself a drink. He drank thirstily.
”The heat is catching up to you, I see. Do let me know when the water is no more cool enough to suppress the flames”, said the Tyrant, amusement in his voice.
Yaya turned around to face him, cup in hand. It was a vast room, and the dispenser was some meters away from the center table. But even at this distance, he knew that the Tyrant was looking into his eyes, searching his features for any sign of discomfiture, or weakness.
“I will not deny that there have been… complications.” He paused, then continued. “Has he come to visit you yet?”
The Tyrant let out a genuine laugh, an evil-sounding thing that would chill the hearts of those whose hearts were not already frozen over, like Yaya’s.
“Even if he did come to visit, which hasn’t, at least for now, why would I be interested in telling you about it?”
Yaya began walking back to the table, taking slow, measured steps, all the while keeping his gaze on the smallish man in front of him. His next words were uttered with deliberate concision.
“The rules state that you cannot take sides, as long as we both pay our dues to you. I wonder what would happen if you suddenly were somewhere other than in mid-ground.”
“You forget your place, Yaya,” snapped the Tyrant, his gaze burning into Yaya’s. He went on, more controlled. “The both of you have declared war in my city. My people have become cannon fodder; my lands, your battlefield. I am not pleased. The both of you must end this foolishness at once…”
“It is sadly too late for that,” Yaya cut in. “Money was killed only some days ago. Outside of her death, the Professor has something of mine. Something I plan to retrieve from his cooling corpse, as soon as I have ended his reign as leader of the Blacks”.
“Bold claims, Yaya. But I’ll leave you two to sort it out however you will, as long as you play by the rules. If you blow your cover, it’s the end of the road for you”. The Tyrant shifted in his seat, producing a newspaper clipping from somewhere within his bulky robes. He waved the paper at Yaya meaningfully, proceeding to speak with a voice filled with mirth.
“You have a loose end here, Yaya. Now I could just simply take care of it myself, but it’s really none of my business…”.
In three quick steps, Yaya reached the table, hands outstretched to whisk away the paper clipping. He glanced at the headline, invisible gears whirring and coming to life somewhere within his cranial recesses.
“How much does he know?” Yaya asked.
“Probably as much as either of us does, although I think that highly unlikely. He is a pest, though, so he must be dealt with.”
“Ah, so that is why you agreed to meet with me tonight. Not because of the debacle with the Scarlets. But because you’ve taken a particular interest in this Bonny fellow.”
“He is a risk to you, too. More than me, even. I couldn’t really care less about a curious journalist, but he seems to be very much in the know.” He gestured at the paper still in Yaya’s hands. “I’d like to know who his sources are. What you do with him afterward is none of my business”.
Yaya was silent for a few seconds, then he slowly cleared his throat, daintily placing the paper on the table, and took a seat beside the Tyrant.
“So this is a job.”
“Yes,” came the expected reply.
“I suppose you won’t be sharing the whys of this business with me, yes?”
“Yes, Yaya,” replied the Tyrant with the benevolent patience of the aged wise.
Yaya scratched his chin thoughtfully, then reached again for the table, this time to carefully fold the newspaper clipping, putting it into his breast pocket.
“You do realize that your motives will be exposed during the course of my investigation? So why not just tell me the reason now?”
“I’m willing to take that risk, Yaya,” said the Tyrant. Then, slowly, he stood up, grimacing slightly, and for a few seconds, Yaya saw not the Tyrant but an old man indeed.
Then, he was up, and the mirage of weakness had vanished. Now Yaya saw not bodily weakness, but great spiritual strength. And not for the first or last time, Yaya wondered in awe at the sheer powers this man must command to completely control a city as dangerous as Lagos.
The Tyrant’s eyes bored into Yaya’s, seeking something within. Finding nothing, the intensity withered. All of this happened within the span of three or four heartbeats.
Then, Yaya stood to his own full height, easily towering over the wizened old man. But there was no threat in his posture. The place of master and servant was established to unalterable totality. It would take the Almighty Himself to strike down the Tyrant of Lagos.
“I suppose you will want something in return for this service, yes?”
“Of course,” replied Yaya. He was still for some seconds, considering what to ask. Then finally, he made up his mind.
“I will make my request when all of this is done.”
“So we have a deal?”
The two shook hands.
************************************************************************
Outside of the Tyrant’s manse, Yaya got into the back seat of his car and motioned for his chauffeur to take him home.
The war with the Scarlets had only just begun.
Soaringwords 