Chapter 10: The Two Clocks
1309 Words
We were running on two clocks.
Mine started when I landed in Abuja.
Aisha’s started the second my plane took off.
*Tayo’s Clock: Abuja, 1:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.*
The reply from Adebayo came at 4:12 p.m.
Not a call. A single encrypted message to the burner they’d given me in the airport.
> _Conditions accepted. Draft board structure attached. Meeting 09:00 tomorrow. Do not discuss with Sade._
Sade.
So she wasn’t in on it. Or they wanted me to think she wasn’t.
The attached PDF was clean. Too clean. A “National Fraud Interdiction Board” with three civilian members, one EFCC liaison, one CBN observer, and a technical lead—me. Kill switch required two of three civilian votes. No unilateral shutdown.
On paper, it looked like oversight.
On paper, everything looked legal.
I didn’t sleep. I spent the night walking the floor of the hotel room, reading the draft board charter line by line. There were clauses buried in section 7 that let the board “suspend oversight during active operations.”
Active operations defined by the technical lead.
Me.
They were giving me the leash and hoping I’d never pull it.
At 7:30 a.m. I sent one message back:
_Agreed. But I choose the civilian members. You get veto, not selection._
At 8:59 a.m. the reply came:
_One. You choose one._
One was better than zero.
I sent back a name.
_Dr. Nkechi Okoro. University of Lagos. Cybersecurity ethics._
If they said no, the deal was dead.
If they said yes, I’d have one person in the room who couldn’t be bought with a contract.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Adebayo walked into the room.
“You’re difficult, Bello,” he said.
“You’re illegal, Director,” I said.
He smiled. “We’ll make each other better.”
The meeting lasted 47 minutes.
When I walked out, I had a contract, a budget, and a target on my back.
And I had 30 days to deliver a working prototype for the board to review.
After that, either I owned the system, or the system owned me.
I turned on the burner for 10 seconds. Sent Aisha one word:
_Clear._
Then I switched it off and dropped the SIM in a gutter.
*Aisha’s Clock: Lagos, 6:00 a.m. – 8:00 p.m.*
Tayo’s plane left at 6:45 a.m.
At 6:46 a.m., Dipo knocked on my door.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said.
“Neither did you,” I said.
He was right. I’d spent the night moving the Iceland dead-drop. If Tayo didn’t send “clear,” the real log file—names, methods, the Dubai shell companies—would auto-send to three journalists and the Sahara Reporters tip line at 8:01 p.m.
No turning back once it triggered.
Dipo didn’t ask why. He just said, “You need eyes on the building in Surulere.”
“Why?”
“Because they were there last night. Two hours after Tayo left.”
My stomach went cold.
“Did they go inside?”
“No. They stood outside for 20 minutes. Then left. But they took pictures.”
They were marking the place. Building a case. Or a threat.
I couldn’t sit still.
At 9:00 a.m. I went to the cybercafé. Not to hide—Dipo’s place was compromised now. I went to use the one machine that wasn’t in the café’s inventory. A laptop Dipo kept in the back for “emergencies.”
I opened the fake draft Tayo had made.
And I started editing it again.
If Tayo was negotiating, I needed leverage that wasn’t just “burn it all down.”
So I built a second trap. Smaller. Personal.
I embedded a silent beacon in the code. If the file was opened on any device outside the Frankfurt IP range they’d used before, it would ping a server I controlled. No data. Just a location and timestamp.
It wouldn’t stop them. But it would tell me who they were talking to.
Stupid? Maybe.
But sitting and waiting was worse.
At 2:00 p.m. my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I didn’t answer.
It buzzed again.
I answered.
“Miss Bello,” a man said. Not one of the two from before. Older. Tired.
“Who is this?”
“Name doesn’t matter. Tayo made a deal. You need to know what that means.”
“What do you want?”
“To give you a choice he doesn’t have. Leave Lagos tonight. Go to Accra. We’ll get you a passport. Tayo’s deal won’t protect you if it falls apart.”
I went quiet.
“How do I know you’re not with them?”
“You don’t,” he said. “But I’m the one who told Tayo about Frankfurt in the first place.”
The line went dead before I could ask more.
I called Dipo.
“Tayo said no contact,” he said.
“I’m not calling Tayo,” I said. “I’m telling you—if I’m not back by 8 p.m., don’t stop the dead-drop.”
He didn’t argue. He just said, “Come back.”
I didn’t leave Lagos.
I went to Surulere.
At 5:30 p.m. I stood across the street from my building.
Two men were there again. Not the same two. These were younger. Sloppy.
They didn’t see me.
I took their picture.
I sent it to the beacon server.
If Tayo’s deal held, nothing would happen.
If it didn’t, I’d know who to name.
At 7:58 p.m. my phone vibrated.
_Clear._
One word. From Tayo.
I sat on the curb and let myself breathe for the first time in 14 hours.
Then I deleted the beacon code.
If Tayo could make this work, I didn’t need to be his backup plan anymore.
*11:00 p.m. – Lagos*
Tayo’s flight landed at 10:40 p.m.
He took a bike from the airport to Yaba. Didn’t go home. Didn’t call me.
He showed up at Dipo’s at 11:12 p.m., looking like he hadn’t slept in two days.
“Board’s approved,” he said before I could ask.
“With conditions?” I asked.
“With one condition,” he said. “I choose one civilian member. I chose you.”
I stared at him.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” he said. “If I’m building this, you’re watching it. No one else I trust.”
I wanted to yell. I wanted to say no.
Instead I said, “You know they’ll come after me first if this fails, right?”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re not doing it alone.”
We sat in silence for a while.
Outside, Lagos was loud like it always was.
But inside, for the first time since Kano, it felt like we had a plan that wasn’t just running.
“You said yes?” I asked.
“I said yes with terms,” he said. “Now we have 30 days to make sure those terms mean something.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we use the other clock,” he said.
The dead-drop clock.
The one that ended everything.
I nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “But I’m not sitting in a boardroom while you do all the work.”
“Good,” he said. “Because you’re going to Accra next week.”
“What?”
“If this falls apart, someone needs to be outside their reach. You’re going to set up the fallback server. Quietly.”
I wanted to argue.
But I knew he was right.
“Fine,” I said. “But you’re coming with me if it goes bad.”
“Deal,” he said.
We didn’t sleep that night.
We started building the board charter for real.
Two clocks.
One chance to make sure they didn’t both run out.
- Writer
