THE PACKAGE
389 Words
Opening Scene:
Amara Obaje leans over her cluttered desk in The Nation Eye newsroom, the only light coming from her flickering computer screen.
She’s typing the last lines of a story exposing missing COVID relief funds, nothing new, another piece that probably won’t see print. Her editor already told her to “tone down” the accusations.
“You want to stay alive long enough to keep writing, Amara,” he had said earlier, half-joking, half-serious.
She hits save, sighs, and rubs her temples. The power blinks, the generator hums again. Then , a knock on the office door.
Inciting Incident:
A nervous courier, soaked in rain, stands there holding a small brown envelope.
“Are you Amara Obaje?” he asks.
She nods.
He hands her the envelope. “They said you should get this tonight. It’s urgent.”
Before she can ask who they are — a gunshot cracks outside. The courier jerks, collapses right at her feet.
Panic. People scream. Amara freezes. A dark car speeds away in the rain.
Her hands shake as she looks down — the envelope is still in her grasp.
The Mystery Begins:
Back inside, she locks the door and opens the package. Inside:
A flash drive, labeled “Z-24 Confidential”
A crumpled photo of her late father with a group of unfamiliar men in military uniform.
And a handwritten note:
“They killed him for this. Don’t let them finish what he started.”
Amara’s heart pounds. Her father’s death, officially ruled a car accident 10 years ago, suddenly reopens in her memory — the broken windshield, the silence from the police, the unanswered questions.
“What is this?” she whispers.
She plugs in the flash drive. Files appear, heavily encrypted.
But one line in an open text file stands out before the screen glitches:
PROJECT ZENITH – AUTHORIZED BY OFFICE OF THE MINISTER OF INFORMATION.
The computer suddenly shuts off. The power goes again. Only darkness.
Outside, thunder rumbles like distant gunfire.
Amara backs away from the window, clutching the flash drive.
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number:
“We know what you have. Leave Lagos tonight.”
She stares into the dark, rain hitting the glass like whispers.
Then, a slow realization:
“They killed him for this… and now they’re coming for me.”
- Writer
