Chapter 12: Broken, But Not Gone
386 Words
> “Aaaaaaarghhh!”
Tola’s scream echoed through the belly of the prison—then vanished into darkness, swallowed by the stone-cold silence.
His arms were stretched, chained above his head to a rusted pole, the metal biting into his wrists. Fire burned beneath him, licking the soles of his bruised feet. His body sagged, scorched, broken.
His clothes? Nothing more than blood-soaked rags, hanging in shreds from his scarred skin. His face was swollen. Fresh lashes marked his chest. A violent mural painted in pain.
And yet…
> He was silent now.
Too weak to scream.
Too wounded to move.
His soul hovered between life and death.
A DSS officer leaned lazily against the wall, chewing something sour and spitting occasionally, eyes fixed on Tola.
> “This one no dey break? Spirit dey hold am, abi?”
He chuckled, cruelly.
“Make we test that spirit.”
!! Swissss!!
The whip cracked again, drawing blood.
Tola didn’t even flinch.
Then—
Footsteps.
Firm. Sharp. Authority-laced.
From the shadows stepped a tall man in a trench coat, shoulders broad, face unreadable. At his side, a short, round man in a clean black agbada, flanked by armed guards in plain suits.
Everyone froze. Even the DSS officer straightened.
The two men walked toward Tola slowly. Talking in hushed tones.
Tola blinked through blood. Barely awake. But he heard them.
He knew the sound of illegal dealings. Of political silence bought in blood.
He didn’t know what they were saying—but he knew this wasn’t a rescue.
This was a transaction.
> “This is the boy,” the tall man confirmed.
The short man walked closer, his eyes studying Tola like a buyer inspecting worn merchandise.
> “Poor child,” he said with a faint smile. “He’s seen too much.”
He took one step forward.
> “Tola.”
The name rolled off his tongue like a command.
Tola’s blood-crusted eyes twitched.
> “Let him go.”
CLINK—CLANK—SHHRRAKK!
Chains dropped.
Tola’s arms fell limp.
His knees gave way—but hands caught him.
It was over.
> Or so he thought.
As his vision faded, he caught one last whisper…
Something about being “cleaned up.”
Something about keeping him “quiet.”
Then—darkness.
- Writer
