REMEMBER

THE UNTOUCHABLE
When Abbas Michael's convoy roared into the sleepy town of Gungun, the earth itself seemed to groan in awe "or perhaps in protest. At the center of the parade was his most prized possession: a Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut, obsidian black, customized with gold trims, and insured for over $3 million. The beast gleamed under the sun like a panther clothed in jewels, its engine purring with the quiet menace of power barely contained. Even in a town known for its silence, the people couldn't ignore the mechanical growl or the cloud of dust it kicked into the air like the king of the wild asserting dominion.
He had come for the burial of Chief Godwin Olarotimi, a political heavyweight in the South-West. Abbas didn't know the deceased intimately, but politics in Nigeria had little to do with love and everything to do with optics. His arrival was both tribute and calculated theatre.
Dressed in a flowing agbada of ivory silk, embroidered with threads of actual gold, Abbas Michael stepped out of the car with the smug grace of a man immune to consequence. His face bore the confidence of old gods- untouchable, permanent, and feared. His gold-rimmed sunglasses reflected the crowd rather than let them in. And the crowd… oh, they were there. Men in worn kaftans, women shielding their eyes from the sun, and young girls in floral dresses all stood by the roadside, silent, watchful.
Behind him, six bodyguards "all former military men with faces etched from stone "formed a human fortress. Their earpieces gleamed in the sunlight, dark suits absorbing the heat like a sacrifice. They scanned the crowd not with curiosity but cold assessment, their hands never far from the hidden weapons beneath their jackets. The tallest one, a giant of a man they called Tombstone, had eyes like empty wells "the kind that had seen too much and reflected nothing back.
In the corner of the town square, whispers gathered like storm clouds.
"That's the one o… the one they said likes small girls. Look at him," one woman murmured, her voice trembling between disgust and awe.
"Na lie? I thought they covered all that up?" replied another.
"My sister's daughter used to work in his Lagos mansion," a hunched man with grey whiskers cut in. "She said he likes them thin, smooth-skinned… small-faced. He'll tell his aides, 'Find me a flower, not yet bloomed.'"
The air around Abbas was thick "not with adulation "but with infamy. There were those who still remembered the case of Kemi Afolayan, the 15-year-old JSS3 student who'd shown up in the news with a baby bump and haunted eyes. She had claimed, tearfully, that Abbas was the father. That he had "sweet-talked her in Abuja, promised to pay her fees, gave her money, and then disappeared like fog at dawn."
When the media picked up the story, for a moment, the nation gasped. Social media flared, hashtags trended, radio shows lit up. Then, suddenly… silence. The story vanished like a breath in harmattan wind. Kemi reportedly tried to leap off Third Mainland Bridge. The lagoon almost swallowed her, but passersby had stopped her. She was never heard from again. Some said she was in a 'rehab facility' somewhere. Others said she was shipped out of the country. No one could verify.
And what about Madam Clara, whose 13-year-old daughter, Morayo, came home crying one night after serving drinks at a political gathering where Abbas was the chief guest? Madam Clara had raised hell, marched into a police station with evidence. But within a week, the case died. A month later, Madam Clara was found hanging from the ceiling of her own house. Suicide, they said. But people in Gungun still whispered.
"They say she saw something too dirty, too big. She couldn't carry it."
"Or maybe someone helped her hang herself," another muttered darkly.
The rumors didn't stop there. There was talk of a network of girls from villages transported to mansions in Abuja, Lagos, Port Harcourt. Girls who disappeared into weekend parties on private islands and emerged with dead eyes and pockets full of naira. There were photographs, too "blurry images" that circulated on encrypted messaging apps before vanishing. Of young faces lined up like cattle at auctions, of men in designer suits making selections while house staff served champagne.
Despite it all, Abbas remained untouched. Untouchable. Politicians from the ruling and opposition parties clinked glasses with him at banquets. He donated millions to flood victims while journalists looked away from the flooding of teenage lives he left behind. International conferences invited him as a keynote speaker on 'youth empowerment'. Photographs of him smiling beside diplomats, clergy, and celebrities adorned magazine covers.
Even now, as his entourage moved through the town square toward the late Chief's family compound, three state governors appeared, embracing him with performative warmth. Their wives stood to the side, faces blank as unpainted canvas. One woman, the governor's wife from Oyo State, watched Abbas with the cold calculation of someone weighing poison doses.
A local youth, Segun, spat on the ground as he watched Abbas step into the church for the burial.
"When God is ready, even kings fall," he muttered.
"God has been ready," an older woman replied. "But the devil is stronger here."
Inside the church, Abbas sat in the front pew, head bowed respectfully, hands clasped like a saint. But even there, behind him, the murmurs grew.
Scandal after scandal had circled him like vultures. Leaked videos. Allegations. Secret settlements. Even a sting operation that caught one of his aides trying to bribe a journalist with diamonds and dollars. All swept away by 'lack of evidence' or 'withdrawn testimonies'. The parents who had screamed the loudest suddenly became silent, as if they had been handed something weightier than justice.

HUNTRESS
Amara Okafor was twenty-six, a journalist with fearless eyes and a spine forged from disappointments. She sat in the back of the church, wearing a simple black dress that stood out for its plainness among the elaborate outfits around her. A small Sony recorder remained hidden in her purse, and a press badge hung around her neck like an amulet.
In the world of investigative journalism, Okafor was a renowned huntress. A feared and hated foe to those who had dirty and costly secrets to hide. She was currently on another high profile hunt. She had been tracking Abbas Michael for three years. Her cubicle at the offices of The Guardian newspaper in Lagos was a shrine to his misdeeds -photographs, testimonies, bank statements showing mysterious transactions. Three times, her editor had killed her story. Twice, anonymous men had broken into her apartment. Once, her mother had received a coffin-shaped box containing a dead bird and a note: Your daughter is flying too close to the fire.
Two weeks earlier, a bullet had whizzed past her head- its ricochet slamming into the pavement with a deafening crack when a shadowy figure had opened fire as she walked home from work. She would never forget the hollow click of the pistol, the flash of its muzzle, or the cold certainty that followed. From that moment on, she lived in a blur of caution and calculation, every knock at the door or car door slamming shut setting her heart racing. She knew the stakes: only one of them would survive this hunt. It would be Abbas or her.
But Amara had come from a line of stubborn women. Her grandmother had fought against colonial forces with nothing but a machete and grim determination. Her mother had raised four children alone after her father's mysterious disappearance during the military regime. And now here she was, watching the devil wearing designer shoes in God's house.
Her phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number:
Back door. Five minutes. I have what you need.
Amara's heart quickened. Her source, the one who'd been promising the "mother of all evidence" for weeks was finally ready. She slipped out of the pew and moved toward the back of the church. No one noticed her leaving; all eyes were on the governor who had taken the pulpit to eulogize the departed Chief.
Behind the church, between graves weathered by decades of rain, stood a thin man in a chauffeur's uniform. His eyes darted around like a cornered animal.
"Oga will kill me if he finds out." The man whispered, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. "But my conscience no dey let me sleep."
He pressed a USB drive into Amara's palm. "Everything dey there. The girls. The politicians. The money. The places. Even the graves."
"Graves?" Amara's blood turned cold.
"Not all the girls survive, madam." His voice broke. "Not all of them are strong enough for what these men do."
Before she could ask more, he melted into the shadows between the tombstones. Amara clutched the drive as if it were made of glass and dynamite.
THE ESCAPE
In Gungun that day, the children watched him. The girls hid behind their mothers. The men grumbled behind clenched teeth. And the elders looked away.
As Abbas Michael walked out of the church and into the golden evening light, his robes flaring like the wings of a fallen angel, someone muttered:
"He is a curse wearing perfume."
But there was one face that did not look away. Amara stood by a flame tree, her phone now recording his every movement. Her eyes locked with his for a moment just a moment but it was enough. Abbas Michael froze. Recognition flickered across his face, then something darker.
He whispered something to Tombstone, his head bodyguard, whose gaze swiveled like a turret to find Amara in the crowd.
She slipped the USB drive into her bra and walked away calmly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew the game now. The drive felt hot against her skin; a burning secret that could finally break the untouchable.
Or get her killed.
As she reached the dusty road leading out of town, a car slowed beside her. The window rolled down. It was the governor's wife from Oyo State, the one with calculating eyes.
"Get in." The woman said, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "I know what you have. And I know others who want to see it. Powerful women who are tired of men like Abbas Michael."
Amara hesitated, journalist instincts warring with survival ones.
"They're already following you." The woman added, nodding toward a black SUV that had pulled away from Abbas's convoy. "Choose quickly."
Amara got in.
And still… the convoy rolled on. Untouched. Unbroken. Unrepentant.
But perhaps, not for much longer.

VOICES FROM THE PAST
The knock at the door was soft, an almost polite tap but it fractured the heavy silence of Abbas Michael's private sanctum like a hammer against glass. He froze mid gesture, a crystal goblet of vintage claret hovering at his lips.
"Who is it?" He called, voice smooth but edged with irritation.
"It's me, sir," came the reply: low, controlled, respectful yet carrying an undercurrent of steel.
Abbas set the glass on a side table, its contents trembling. "Come in, Peter."
The door swung open to admit Peter, towering, bald, muscles coiled beneath his tailored suit like hunting cats. Behind him stood a girl whose fragile frame seemed almost too slight to fill the doorway: shoulders narrow, chest flat, limbs delicate. Her skin was pale as alabaster, her hair a cascading midnight curtain. Her eyes huge, dark orbs held Abbas's gaze with unnerving calm.
"I brought you the package you requested, sir." Peter announced, nodding once before slipping away without another word.
Alone now, Abbas studied the girl. She stood perfectly still, head tilted slightly as though listening to a melody only she could hear.
"Good," Abbas murmured, stepping forward. "Leave her with me."
Peter's footsteps faded. The door clicked shut.
Abbas cleared his throat. "What's your name?"
"Kemi." She replied softly.
The syllable struck him like a blow. Kemi; fifteen, pregnant, buried in a shallow grave three years ago. The memory of her hollow eyes, her fear, came rushing back.
"How old are you now?" he asked, voice low.
"Eighteen." She answered without hesitation, her tone unguarded, as if stating the weather.
Abbas's lips curved in a predatory smile. "Are you afraid of me?"
She shook her head. "No. Why should I be?"
He laughed, a rich baritone that echoed off the marble walls. "Good. I like bold girls."
Her smile was slight, enigmatic. "I know what you want." She said. "It will cost you."
He arched an eyebrow. "Money is no object. Name your price."
She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "Everything. And more than you have."
Impatience flickered in Abbas's eyes. He strode toward her. "Take off your clothes." He commanded.
She raised one slender palm. "Wait. Let's not fight over this."
He paused, chest rising and falling with controlled impatience.
Slowly, she slipped off her blouse. Beneath, she wore a simple gray vest unremarkable, almost boyish. Abbas's eyes flicked to her chest, anticipation gleaming in his gaze.
Then she tugged at the vest. And slid out of her skirt.
Abbas's breath caught. His eyes widened, not in desire but in a sudden, visceral horror.
Where flesh should have been, only bone remained: ribs curved in perfect white arches, collarbones sharp as knives, hip sockets hollow and unyielding. She tugged behind her head and the skin peeled off her face. Her skull glowed pale beneath her hair, empty eye-sockets fixed on him.
He staggered back, goblet shattering on the marble floor, red wine blossoming like blood. Heart hammering, he reached for the console table, anything to steady himself.
"Kemi?" He croaked, voice cracking. "What... what are you?"
Her skeleton form did not tremble. In the empty sockets where eyes once were, darkness seemed to swirl.
"A debt." She whispered, a hollow, echoing sound that filled the room like a dirge. "You thought you could bury me. You thought I'd stay dead."
Abbas's knees gave out. He sank to the floor, hand pressed to his heart as if to stop the wild beating.
"I am the price you never paid." She continued. "And now... I've come to collect."
He stared up at her, terror stripping away his arrogance. The ornate chamber, the trophies of his wealth, the million dollar cars, all of it seemed suddenly meaningless in the presence of this ancient, bone white specter.
She reached out, a skeletal hand drifting toward him.
"Remember me now." She intoned. "Remember all of them."
The marble beneath Abbas began to crack, hairline fractures spreading like spider webs across the polished stone. From these fissures, tendrils of darkness seeped upward, not smoke or shadow but something more substantial, more alive. They writhed and twisted, forming slender, feminine silhouettes that gradually took shape.
"No," Abbas whispered, scrambling backward until his spine hit the wall. "This isn't real."
The shadows coalesced into recognizable forms: young girls in various states of undress, their faces half-formed but distinctly familiar. Morayo, the thirteen-year-old who had disappeared after serving drinks at his party. Adunni, the fourteen-year-old aspiring singer whose audition had been her last public appearance. Fadekemi, whose pregnancy made headlines before she vanished without a trace.
They moved with unnatural grace, their feet never quite touching the ground. Their eyes hollows of deep, impenetrable darkness fixed on Abbas with silent accusation.
"I gave you everything." He pleaded, voice breaking. "Money, gifts... I made your families rich!"
The phantom girls continued their slow advance, circling him like vultures. Where their feet passed, the marble turned black, as though scorched by their passage.
"You can't touch me," Abbas gasped, desperation making his voice shrill. "I'm untouchable! Ask anyone! The police, the courts, "even your parents took my money!"
Skeletal Kemi tilted her head, the motion unnaturally fluid.
"We're not here for justice." She said, her voice now joined by the whispered chorus of the others. "We're here for memory."
The shadows lengthened, stretching toward Abbas like hungry fingers. They touched his ankles first, cold as grave soil, then climbed higher, winding around his legs, his torso, his throat. He tried to scream, but the sound died in his constricted windpipe.
The girls drew closer, their forms merging with the darkness that enveloped him. Their whispers filled his ears, not accusations or curses, but simple, terrible truths:
"I was fourteen."
"I wanted to be a doctor."
"I wanted to be a musical star."
"My mother still visits my empty grave."
"I had a name before you made me a ghost."
Abbas thrashed against the shadows, but they only tightened their grip. His lungs burned for air. His vision darkened at the edges.
As the darkness claimed him, the skeletal Kemi leaned close, her bone-white jaw clacking softly as she spoke her final words:
"In life, you were untouchable. In death, we touch you now."
Abbas Michael sat bolt upright in bed, a scream tearing from his throat. Sweat drenched his silk pajamas, plastering them to his trembling body. His eyes darted wildly around the luxurious bedroom searching for skeletal girls, for rising shadows.
Nothing. Just the gentle hum of the air conditioner, the soft glow of Lagos's skyline filtering through the curtains, the distant sound of his security detail making their rounds.
He pressed his palms to his face, feeling the cold sweat, the rapid thump of his pulse at his temples. Just a nightmare. A terrible, vivid nightmare.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. With shaking fingers, he reached for it, desperate for something real, something normal, to anchor himself back in the world he understood the world he controlled.
A text message from an unknown number glowed on the screen:
"We touch you now. We touch you always. Sleep well, Abbas Michael."
The phone slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

THE FALL
The following morning, Abbas Michael sat in his Ikoyi mansion, watching CNN. A sumptuous breakfast before him. His face appeared on screen, not in the usual context of charity galas or political victories. The headline scrolled beneath: "Nigerian Billionaire Politician Indicted in International Human Trafficking Ring."
The glass of cognac slipped from his fingers, shattering on the marble floor like the beginning of an end.
His phone rang. The caller ID showed "UNKNOWN."
When he answered, a woman's voice, cool, composed, and terrifyingly familiar came through:
"Even kings fall, Abbas. Even untouchables bleed."
The line went dead. Outside, police sirens wailed, growing closer.

The courthouse steps teemed with a restless sea of bodies on that scorching Tuesday morning. The day of his first appearance in prison. Journalists jostled for position, their cameras trained on the armored black SUV that had just pulled up. The crowd's murmur swelled to a roar as officers opened the vehicle's door.
Abbas Michael emerged, squinting in the harsh sunlight. The handcuffs, gleaming, industrial-grade steel ooked obscenely out of place against his hand-tailored Brioni suit. Gone was the imperious stride, the godlike tilt of his chin. He shuffled forward, each step heavy with the weight of a man watching his empire crumble in real time.
"Abbas! Abbas! Did you pay off the witnesses in the 2021 case?" A reporter shouted.
"Is it true you have offshore accounts with over $400 million?" called another.
"What about the allegations that you personally selected girls as young as twelve?"
More and more questions pelted him like stones, but he maintained his silence, eyes fixed on the ground. Only the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed his rage.
Behind him walked his legal team; seven of Nigeria's most expensive lawyers, their expressions grim. They knew what the public didn't yet fully comprehend: the evidence against their client was not just damning; it was catastrophic.
Inside Courtroom 3B, the air was cool but charged with anticipation. The gallery was packed: journalists, legal observers, family members of victims, and curious citizens lucky enough to secure a seat for what the national press had dubbed "The Trial of the Century."
The case had become a national obsession. For three weeks, Nigerians had awakened each morning to new revelations, each more shocking than the last. USB drives with meticulously documented financial transactions. Security camera footage from private islands. Testimonies from drivers, house staff, and bodyguards who had finally found the courage or the incentive to speak. International bank records showing millions flowing to silence families.
Throughout it all, Abbas maintained his innocence, his lawyers filing motion after motion, claiming evidence tampering, witness intimidation, political witch hunts. But the tide of public opinion had turned irrevocably against him.
On day seventeen of the trial, as the prosecution called its star witness, Abbas's carefully composed facade finally cracked.
"The state calls Amara Okafor to the stand," announced the lead prosecutor, a stern woman whose reputation for incorruptibility had earned her the nickname "Iron Justice."
Abbas's head snapped up. The courtroom doors opened, and Amara walked in shoulders squared, steps measured. She wore a simple navy blue dress, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. Nothing about her appearance suggested the seismic role she had played in bringing down one of Nigeria's most untouchable men.
As she passed the defense table, Abbas's eyes narrowed first in shock, then blazed with a hatred so visceral that several jurors later reported feeling physically chilled by it. Amara, catching his gaze, did something that would be photographed, shared, and analyzed across social media platforms for weeks to come: she smiled and lifted her hand in a small, almost playful wave.
"Ms. Okafor," The prosecutor began after the oath had been administered, "please tell the court how you came into possession of the evidence central to this case."
For the next three hours, Amara detailed her three-year investigation, the threats, the break-ins, the informants who disappeared, and finally, the chauffeur who could no longer bear the weight of his knowledge. Her testimony was meticulous, unembellished, devastating.
"And this collection of women," She said, gesturing to a group seated in the gallery's front row, "they were instrumental in piecing together the final elements."
The women, twelve in all sat with perfect posture, their faces masks of determination. Among them was the governor's wife from Oyo State, whose husband had been notably absent from the proceedings. There was also a former beauty queen whose sister had vanished after attending one of Abbas's parties, and the headmistress of a girls' boarding school who had blocked Abbas's "scholarship program" after noticing that recipients rarely returned to complete their education.
"A coalition of the willing," Amara called them. "Women who used their positions to gather what I couldn't access alone."
Throughout her testimony, Abbas whispered furiously to his lawyers, his face contorting with rage. Twice, the judge had to admonish him to maintain decorum.
When Amara stepped down, Abbas's lead counsel rose for cross-examination. It was brief, almost perfunctory. The defense team knew they were fighting a losing battle.
Outside the courtroom, Nigeria watched and waited. The case had transcended mere scandal. It had become a national reckoning, forcing conversations about power, impunity, and the value placed on young, female lives.
Politicians who had once clinked glasses with Abbas at galas now scrambled to distance themselves. His former allies released statements expressing shock and dismay at the "disturbing allegations." Newspaper editorials dissected the culture of silence that had protected him for so long. Protests formed outside his now-empty mansions in Lagos, Abuja, and London.
On social media, the hashtag #RememberTheirNames trended for weeks, with users sharing stories of the girls who had disappeared into Abbas's orbit over the years. Some were just rumors, but many were accompanied by photographs: young, hopeful faces that had vanished from classrooms and family albums.
As the trial progressed, the defense strategy shifted from outright denial to damage control. They conceded some improprieties while denying the most serious charges. They suggested their client was being scapegoated for practices common among Nigeria's elite. They pointed fingers at co-conspirators who remained unnamed.
None of it worked.
By week six, seven additional men had been indicted; three politicians, a hotel magnate, a celebrated film producer, and two international businessmen with connections to trafficking networks across West Africa. The case had expanded into what the media called "Nigeria's #MeToo moment," with new victims coming forward daily.
Abbas, meanwhile, grew increasingly isolated. His family had fled to properties abroad. Friends stopped accepting his calls. Even his legal team seemed to be going through the motions, their arguments perfunctory, their rebuttals weak.
Then, on the morning of what was to be the final day of the trial, when the jury was expected to deliver its verdict after just three hours of deliberation, the courthouse was thrown into chaos by breaking news.
Abbas Michael had been found dead in his cell.
A guard doing morning rounds had discovered him hanging from the ceiling fan, a belt from his prison uniform fashioned into a makeshift noose. His face, according to leaked accounts, was purpled and distorted, his eyes bulging, tongue protruding. There was a note, its contents immediately sealed by authorities.
The media erupted in a second frenzy, more intense than the first. Headlines screamed across the nation:
JUSTICE DENIED: Abbas Takes Secrets to the Grave.

SUICIDE OR SILENCE? Questions Surround Abbas's Death"

"WHO KILLED THE KINGPIN? Sources Suggest Powerful Interference"
The official statement came swiftly: suicide under investigation. But no one believed it- not fully. The timing was too convenient, the circumstances too suspicious.
Conspiracy theories proliferated. Some said it was the work of political rivals, worried that Abbas might implicate them in a last-ditch attempt to reduce his sentence. Others pointed to international trafficking networks that couldn't risk exposure. Still others suggested family members of victims had bribed guards to look the other way while justice was served more directly.
Three separate investigations were launched: by the federal police, by an independent commission, and by international human rights observers. None would ever reach a definitive conclusion.
At a small café near the courthouse, Amara sat with the twelve women who had helped her build the case. They sipped tea in silence, their expressions unreadable.
"It's over," one finally said. "But it doesn't feel finished."
Amara nodded slowly. "The case against him is closed. But the system that protected him for so long still continues."
"Then so do we," said the governor's wife, her voice low but firm. "This was never about just one man."
That evening, as the sun set over Lagos, a vigil formed spontaneously at the federal courthouse. Hundreds, then thousands of people arrived, each carrying a small candle. They weren't mourning Abbas, they were honoring his victims, named and unnamed.
Among the crowd moved young women in white dresses, distributing flowers. Each bloom had a name tag attached, names of girls who had disappeared over the years, whose cases had been closed without resolution.
Two days later, Abbas Michael's body was released to his family. His funeral was a small, hurried affair, attended by only a handful of relatives. No political figures came to pay respects. No eulogies celebrated his achievements. The man who had once commanded admiration and fear across West Africa was laid to rest with little ceremony, his grave marked by a simple stone.
In the months that followed, the investigations continued. Six of the seven co-defendants were convicted on various charges. Legislation was introduced to strengthen protections for minors and increase penalties for trafficking offenses. A foundation was established in the names of known victims, providing scholarships and support for vulnerable girls.
And in the offices of The Guardian, Amara Okafor began work on a book that would document not just Abbas's crimes, but the broader network that had enabled them. It was a project that would eventually earn her the Pulitzer Prize and force the resignation of two presidents.
As for the mysterious circumstances of Abbas's death, rumors persisted. Some claimed to have seen shadowy figures entering the detention facility that night. Others spoke of strange noises; not screams, but whispers, as though dozens of voices had been speaking in unison.
A night guard, speaking anonymously to a local blog, described finding something odd in Abbas's cell: small handprints in the dust on the walls, too tiny to belong to an adult man. When he reported this, he was immediately transferred to another facility.
The official cause of death remained suicide. But in Gungun and other small towns where Abbas's victims had once lived, old women told a different story, one of spirits who refuse to rest, of debts that must be paid, of justice that comes not through courts, but through memory.
In these stories, Abbas did not die alone in that cell. He died surrounded by shadows that rose from the floor, by girls with hollow eyes who had waited years for this moment, by the consequences he had thought himself immune to.
The untouchable, at last, had been touched.