Hard Man

45

"Let me go. Let me go, and we'll forget this ever happened. You don't have to tell Chioma you killed her father, and I'll disappear."
— Mrs. Ibe "The Boss"

"You don't fool me. So just know your little act isn't fooling the MG either."
— Mohammed

"I am not the victim here. Chioma is. Look at how they ruined her life, those fucking people. Did she even mean anything to them?"
— General Babalola

Ali trudged out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, feeling more relaxed than he had in years. Despite the pain flaming his body from the ant bites, shoulder wound, and cheek gash, he didn't remember the last time he felt such peace. His heart wasn't thudding in weird anticipation for what the General or the MG was planning — or plotting— behind him in their office.

He never claimed to know them, but he was certain that they were principled men. Unlike the Boss, who would plot and sell you out behind your back, the MG and General would plot and sell you out right in front of you. So he wasn't afraid for now. If they wanted him dead, they wouldn't sneak up on him —especially the MG, who loved to laugh in your face as he pulled the trigger.

There was a shirt and sweatpants laid on the bed, and he slid them on. He was about to lie down when he heard a knock on the door, so he hurried over and yanked it open. It was MG Damola and ADC Mohammed. Mohammed was holding a first aid box, but the most shocking sight was the MG, who held a tray of food.

"I brought you food," the MG said, walking into the room. "Do you feel better now?"

Ali immediately relieved him of the tray. "You shouldn't have done this, sir. Please, I'm not worth the trouble."

"You're not," the MG nodded. "But it doesn't cost me anything."

Ali set the tray on the bedside table, his hands shaky. Whenever the MG treated him nicely, it set him on edge.

"Would you like me or Mohammed to stitch your injuries?" The MG asked.

"Mohammed," Ali instantly answered, remembering the last time the MG stitched him. The pain was so unbearable, and Ali knew he deliberately made it so. He saw Mohammed roll his eyes but stayed calm by his decision. There's no way he was letting the MG touch him with a needle again.

"Fair enough," the MG chuckled, heading for the door. "You have one hour to rest, Ali," he said. "After that, we set out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You good?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright." The door slammed shut behind the MG, leaving Ali alone with Mohammed.

"Would you like to eat first?" Mohammed asked.

"No." Ali shook his head. "You can stitch me."

"Sit down."

Ali sat down, watching as Mohammed set down the first aid box and took out the antiseptic. He dabbed cotton wool in antiseptic and pressed it against his cheek gash. Ali winced, but said nothing.

Mohammed was obviously uncomfortable and upset with this arrangement, so when he held a needle to the gash, Ali tensed, expecting it to hurt a lot.

He was very surprised when it didn't hurt more than usual. Every stitch Mohammed made was done with so much gentleness Ali looked up at him.

"Thank you, Mohammed."

Mohammed said nothing. He finished the final knot and snipped the thread before turning his attention to the shoulder wound. He examined it for a moment before cleaning it with antiseptic.