The Storm

It would rain soon.
Dark grey clouds stole thickly across the mid July sky like acrid smoke from the diseased engine of a prodigious Mac truck.
From miles across, the sun seemed to regard this intrusive abomination with horror from behind a puny tuft of Cumulus.
Atlas in a moment would exhale oh-not-so gently, unsettling elements haphazardly all across the landscape.
And the Wuse market went on about its own business briskly, languidly, scornful of such things ineffectual as an impending rainstorm.
Car horns bleated impotently as streams of multitude, white ants marshalling around some priceless bounty, rendered the Wuse market road almost impassable.
Traders coarsely bawled fantastic offers and prices at passersby, dangling their wares in sweaty, often uninterested faces; a youth hefted loads of foodstuff off his barrow and held out a dirt blackened paw to an obese, sweaty lady for his payment. Two abokis apparently thought it was more profitable trading invectives than aki Hausa, dried dates, groundnut; they pranced in martial stance at one corner, grappling themselves tightly about the throat, arguing heatedly.
Kamalu took all these in from the interior of the Toyota Corolla parked slightly adjacent to the Zenith bank, betraying as much stolid detachment as an ancient wooden idol might express.
Only if they knew.
He was nervous, very; but the only tell tale sign was the sweat streaking copiously, inexorably down his body.
Whether under the sun or in an air-conditioned environment, once nervous, the sweating began.
This was his first bombing mission. And using the word ‘nervous’ to describe his anxiety was like using a gallon of water to dilute a pinch of salt; he was terrified.
The fear wasn't just logical. But there it was, a cold lode of terror lodged deep in his chest.
Why?
This wasn't even his first, second or third IED; he'd actually put together, tested five small, makeshift bombs over the past three weeks. Rigging the whole thing was like second nature. Child's play (Chukky sticking knives in people like butter).
Power supply - the car battery. Check.
The container - N400, 000 worth of Toyota chrome and engine. Check.
The trigger - a trip wire between his legs, on the floor of the car. Check
Main charge - dollops of stolen Semtex. Check.
The detonator... Check
His motivation wasn't seven virgins on which he could vent unbridled lust. It wasn't that idiotically simple. Although JTF - or WTF they answered- would chalk it all up to some Islamic Terrorist Group. So be it, the fools we suffer.
"Our government is too relaxed." Banaca's brusque, authoritative voice, seared in his consciousness by repeated playbacks on his iPod Nano over a period of four months.
"We need to keep them in a permanent state of emergency and Operation Yellow is the impasse! That is what would yield results against the real terrorists."
His philosophy was simplistic, conviction profound. That was what made it so irrefutable.
What Operation Yellow all boiled down to was to stage several pseudo- terrorist strikes in strategic regions across Abuja. The end result, hopefully, would be to galvanise the authorities into meaningful action which would lead to the establishing of veritable, imposing solutions to the menace of terrorist bombers in Nigeria.
Much like a weaker strain of a virus is introduced into a person's bloodstream to trigger a chain of reactions, all to reinforce the body's immune system.
It was a worthy but gravely dangerous cause. Banaca made that brutally clear in no small measure.
"People will die." His voice quivered in the grip of his passion." Some of us seated here, yes!
"Innocents - children, parents, teachers, wives- He spread his hands expansively.”Across our nation!
"But blood is the price for life! Our sacrifice will be the birth stone of decades of national security and peace for our families, our children, our babies..."
The face of his watch registered 8 minutes to 2pm. By the hour, there would be simultaneous explosions across the city.
In exactly three minutes, he would...
The door glass exploded suddenly, and as he ducked instinctively to shield his face, he felt cold metal press excruciatingly into his exposed neck. Unmistakably, a gun.
"Freeze!" The owner of the gun spat viciously.
Powerful hands grabbed, dragged him through the shattered door window, dumped him hard on the tarred road.
Cold steel, handcuffs, clamped at his wrists.
Someone kept shouting "Bomb! Bomb!", a warning, and as though from a great distance, even though it was just a few metres away, people were screaming, scrambling, running.
This can't be. This can't be...
He felt a sharp sting in the small of his back and in seconds, all sight, sound and sensations generally dissolved into quiet darkness.
*****************************************
So that was really fake Semtex?
Yes, there wouldn't have been any explosions even if they had tripped the detonators.
A dry delicate laugh.
So where are the subjects?
Area 49, each in solitary confinement.
What is their current state?
Most have recovered from the effects of the sedative. Two are still unconscious-
Why? Slight urgent concern in the voice.
Nothing unusual, sir. They'll be awake in a few minutes.
Have the doctor examine them in five minutes if they aren't up by then.
Yes sir. An electronic device beeped severally as keys were depressed.
A pregnant pause.
So what would you say has been truly accomplished so far?
A small sigh, for reflection.
We have successfully documented the precise physiological & physical responses of the sixteen personality types, carried out our research on 50 different batches of 16 personality-
I'm asking for the results of all this, Dr. Banaca... in plain English too. Slightly impatient, firm.
Okay sir. Muted embarrassment.
I can confidently say that, through the results of this project that a potential terrorist can be spotted by monitoring certain individual physiological, psychological and physical parameters.
I see. A note of approval.

You do know however that our methods are highly unorthodox and every bit illegal.

It wasn’t a question, a warning.

Encrypt your findings, send a copy to me.

Yes sir, right away.

The rasp of clothing against leather, shuffling feet.

Uh, sir?

Yes?

The subjects, what is the conclusion on them?

Deprogramming, fast track. Get every one of them out of this hole within a fortnight.

The success rate of the deprogramming process isn’t uh, perfect yet, sir.

Implication being?

We may have uh, individuals who might still retain extreme anti-societal proclivities from the Yellow Program. However the extent is not measurable.

A long pause.

We cannot afford to discharge any individual who doesn’t succeed the deprogramming procedure.

What then would be done to them, sir? Hesitant.

Eliminate them.

DANIEL OKOLI, MARCH 2013