We come to the end of this series. It’s actually two episodes this, but I didn’t want to break my promise of not exceeding November with this, so I fused them together for your maximum enjoyment (no one will accuse me over a short piece today). You may break it into two and read it twice if you wish. If you are just dropping from Mars, seeing this for the first time, read the first episode here. If you missed the last episode, here.

This is season three of Sade. Read season one here, season two here. Better find time for this or it will take your month away.

I wish to say a big thank you to all who read this, enjoyed this, shared this and talked about this. I wrote every single sentence for you. Because you cared, I am here. God bless you. See you when we see.

Episode Eleven
Sade lifted the pistol, it was unusually heavy. She rolled to her back and placed the barrel on her forehead. Her finger closed on the trigger, she shut her eyes. ‘Do it,’  she urged herself, trying to ignore the pains, the loathing, the depression. She just wanted to do it, to end it now, to end her dirty business of nearly two decades across five continents. But she didn’t feel any sort of relief in the bullet she prepared for herself. And every second she delayed added wood to her emotional pyre, until it burned with vengeance and vindiction. It burned furiously, it burned calmly, it burned her deeply, enough.

Sade removed the barrel of the pistol from her head. She wouldn’t die alone. She would go, but not alone. Killing herself would please the authorities, the patriarchal, evil system that had been manipulating her since her late teens. She was done, fully used, ready for the bin. No one would miss her, the fall of a wornout spanner. A violent urge to do harm gripped Sade. Russians, Nigerians, Islanders, she would hurt anyone. She would hurt Mark, kill him.

Sade rose to her elbows and began to crawl out of the room. Away from Valencia’s corpse, away from the nurse’s corpse  away from the cogitating pool of blood.

She picked up the cell phone outside. She dialled Mark.
#                    #
Mark stood, helpless, watching the Reverend die on the bed slowly, watching his only hope for destroying the Russian satellites die. Ideas, thoughts, emotions shot through his mind, clashing in metallic jam. Chief of his thoughts was contemplating torturing the man in the man’s dying minutes, to get the information he needed. But the thought of torturing a man of God who was just about to go be with God, in the house of God, didn’t excite Mark. He knew he ought to do whatever was within his power to gain the information he needed but he couldn’t just lift a finger….

Sade. He thought of her, what would Sade do in his shoes? The Sade he knew would grab Father Juan and drop her knee on his gun wound. ‘You are dying already, tell me where the Russian satellites are located or I would make you experience hell here. Talk or I would make you go to heaven a burnt offering.’ Or something similar. Or even worse. Sade was built to hurt people, anyone, anywhere, in the name of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. Or was he sure?

Sade, she must be mad at him. She was his lover, something he never encouraged, spies dating, it was forbidden, unspoken but forbidden. He had broken the rule he preached, helped form. Now it had hit the expected rock. It was over, where was it really heading to?

Mark looked down at Father Juan. He felt his pulse, the man was dead. Mark covered him with the sheet, sighed and crossed himself. Mark began to leave the room. The assignment was over, a failure. He would get to the Nigerian Embassy, call Abuja and report the whole thing and let them commission a bigger spy-net. As for Sade… Oh Sade.

He brought out the cell phone and made to dial the number he had used to communicate with Valencia/Sade. A call came in.

‘Mark.’ His heart stopped beating as blood rushed to his head.

‘Yes, Sade.’

‘I want to see you, it’s important.’

‘I’m leaving Father Juan’s Parish. Where are you?’

‘I don’t know where I am. Wait for me, I will come to you.’

Mark said no. ‘It’s dangerous staying here. The Russians might return, the local police too.’

Sade sighed.

‘Let me drive out. I will call you in a couple of minutes.’

Sade said ok. But she knew it wasn’t ok. She knew she was about to do something ridiculous, final, killing anyone wasn’t a joyful thing. Planing to kill someone she had loved was more joyless, but she needed it, Mark needed it. He had to go. He was the symbol of organised terrorist authority. But first she had to survive the pains, she had to reach him… Herculean tasks.

Mark called Sade after a quarter of an hour.

‘Where are you?’

Sade’s head was imploding, her hands shook on the sterling. Something inside her was giving way, painfully splitting. She should let him look for her, drive to a sign board and tell him where she was. But she was determined to meet him. ‘Where are you?’ she returned the question. ‘I just entered Obasanjo Road via Mandela Avenue.’

Obasanjo Road. It was two turnings away. ‘I will be there.’  Obasanjo. The man who had begun her Camus Island woes. He had restored democracy for them and chased the soldier boys as he referred to them. They rewarded him by naming an expressway in his honour. The honour had survived two military rulers.
#                  #
Obasanjo Road had a light traffic even though it was 3am. The thought of meeting Sade turned Mark’s stomach. Waiting in the car made it harder for me. He had spotted an open door that looked like a pub in a score of metres away, he drove towards it. It was really a bar. Bog Sobstvennogo Salón. He stopped the car and dialled Sade. She said she knew Bog Sobstvennogo. ‘Meet me there.’



The bar save for a sleepy white barman was empty. Mark took his seat backing the wall, facing door. The barman gave Mark a wicked look and began to approach him. His telephone rang. He scooped it in massive fist and spoke a hushed language that Mark couldn’t place. He spoke for a two long minutes and Mark, glad for some distraction watched him. The man dropped the phone and made towards Mark. He stopped before Mark and pointed a pistol on his face. ‘We don’t allow weapons here,’  he said in bad Spanish. ‘Drop your firearm on the table. Slowly.’

Mark obeyed.

‘Gracias. Tu telefono.’

Mark dropped his cell phone and handkerchief beside his gun. The man gathered them and put them away somewhere in his coat.

‘Now what may I offer you?’

Mark smiled. ‘Scotch.’

‘Never mind the scotch,’ someone said in excellent English. Mark looked up at a tall, lean fellow with the dashing look of an actor and the intellectual eyes of a kind university professor. ‘Welcome to our modest pub, Mark.’

Mark was surprised. ‘You know me?’

‘Yes, after all you did to Russia tonight, who wouldn’t.’

Mark sat back with relaxed defeat. ‘You Russians never lose, do you?’

‘We don’t give up.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Vladimir. The head of Russian Communications in Camus Island.’

‘I thought this is a pub.’

‘It is a Russian pub. Bog Sobstvennogo. Didn’t you read the name?’

Mark nodded at his folly. ‘I believe this is my end.’

‘Not yet. I have to show you the Russian satellites control station you have been after. I think you deserve to see it before you die.’

‘Where is the monitoring base of the satellites?’

‘We are standing on it.’

Vladimir rose to his feet. ‘Follow me.’

Episode Twelve
The ‘barman’ covered Mark with his gun as Mark rose to his feet. The communications head led the way, Mark followed then the ‘barman’. The head opened the door to a spacious tasteless office. They walk in.

Vladimir entered another room which he opened with a key card. It was a smaller room, empty but for the head of a stairway which disappeared into a dark tunnel.

‘If he makes any move shoot him,’ Vladimir said in Spanish.

‘Yes sir.’ The ‘barman’ rammed his pistol barrel on Mark’s back. Vladimir stepped into the staircase and began to descend. Mark and the other followed. It was an exciting walk for Mark despite the certainty of death in the background. He would be seeing the control room of the famous Russian satellites that spy nearly the whole of Africa. He increased his pace.

‘Easy,’ the barman nudged him.

The stairs terminated in a big room the size of a small hall. There were four or five long desks with three giant monitors on each desk. Each desk was manned by an operator. On the wall was a set of three screens the size of projectors.

‘This is the main control room.’

‘This is impressive,’ Mark said.

‘Your sense of euphemism is appreciated,’ Vladimir said. Then he pointed. ‘That door leads to the power room. There we mine data from, control the main room and store data…’ As he spoke the door opened and a thin fellow with cartoon style moustache entered the room. ‘And that’s the operator man.Volshebnik.’

‘That’s the Mark boy?’ Volshebnik asked. Vladimir nodded. ‘They are two of them. Where is the Sade girl?’

‘It’s one of the questions we have for him.’
#                    #
Sade parked the car before Bog Sobstvennogo. She got down. The movement in the left side of her chest was riotous. Even Sade admitted it wasn’t easy, to kill a man you loved, gave your body and heart to. But she was determined, Mark must go. He was the representation of the evil system in her entire life. It was symbolic that she killed him. Earlier Sade had thought of killing him at first sight. Now she decided to talk to him first, confront him with his evil then end it.

Sade didn’t see anyone in the pub. Where the hell was Mark? She drew out her gun and made forward. She spotted a handkerchief on a table. She walked to the table, inspected the handkerchief. She recognised this as Mark’s. But where was he? Sade turned to the direction of the counter. She saw a door besides it. She was going to make sure Mark wasn’t here before she would leave.

Sade thought of going back to the car and get her cell phone and call Mark. Instead she kicked at the door. She thrust in gunfirst, no one was inside. But she saw another door, not fully closed. She walked in, and stopped dead at the sight of the underground staircase, as though she had suddenly hit a wall. She peered into the tunnel, nothing; too dark. She stepped in and began an eery descent.

Sade reached the bottom of the stairs when Volshebnik was saying ‘Where is the Sade girl’. Mark, the barman and Vladimir were backing her. Volshebnik who somewhat faced her was staring too evilly at Mark to see someone else. Sade raised her weapon. ‘Freeze!’ she began to fire.

She shot Vladimir first, then the ‘barman’ as he drew out his gun. Mark grabbed his gun as he fell. Sade fired at the power operator as he ran back into the power room. The other operators had now drawn out there guns. Sade fell on her belly as a volume of bullets above her. Mark shot down two of the operators, Sade shot the third and as the fourth fired at Mark, Mark killed him.


It was over, less than fifteen seconds.

‘Are you hurt?’ Mark inquired. For answer Sade moaned and rose to her knees. Mark stood up and his mouth fell open. Sade was pointing her gun at him.

‘What’s the idea?’

‘Drop your weapon.’

Mark let his gun fall. ‘You want to kill me?’

‘You are evil Mark. I want to retire you.’

‘Ok, but first I have to go to the power room and corrupt the memory of the satellites, then start a fire to destroy the whole system.’

‘No need, you should think about dying.’

Mark took a step forward. ‘Sade…’

‘Mark stay were you are… Stay where you are!’

‘I am not afraid of dying but I must do what I have to do. Nigeria needs me alive for the next two minutes. If you are a patriot you must let me finish putting this satellites out of order.’

‘Why should I be a patriotic Nigerian? What has the country done for me? For eighteen years now the country has been putting me in arm’s way. For two years now the country has ordered me killed! Why should I serve her?’

Mark sighed. ‘It’s a shame the country doesn’t know how to reward her servants but we can’t stop serving her.’

‘Serving Nigeria has brought me only grief.’

‘That is how it works, some people have to grief, to die for the rest rest of the country to be safer.’

‘But there are some people in Abuja who know nothing about sacrifices, who mercilessly loot the commonwealth.’

‘Yes Sade, I know such people exist but I am not going to become corrupted because some people are. That will amount to double tragedy for 160 million Nigerians. I will play my part to the best of my ability.’

‘And your part happens to be killing people.’

‘It’s my luck and I accept it. I do it my grand kids.’

‘Grand kids you’ll never have.’

‘Yes, every child born in 2060 is beneficial to what we did today. These are the grand kids I refer to.’

‘Oh shut up!’

‘Sade listen, we don’t have time. I have to get to work.’

‘Turn and I am going to shoot you in the back.’

‘No, Sade, if you want to shoot me you must shoot me while looking me in the eye. And do it now.’

Sade shut her eyes, the weapon shaking in her fist. When she opened her eyes, Mark was gone. She lowered her gun, sat down and waited. She would kill him when he came out.

Mark came out after nearly five minutes. ‘The whole place will be on fire in few minutes time.’  He sounded excited but looked pain, with his hand on his side.

‘What is it?’ Sade asked.

‘I think I was hit.’ He showed her his bloody palm.

Sade gasped. ‘You are really hurt. We need first aid fast.’

‘No, I need your bullet, remember?’

‘You are such a fool, come on.’ Sade held him and they began to climb. Mark’s legs were rubbery and walking was an ordeal. At the head of the stairs he could move no more. Sade had to carry him on her back. He weighed a ton and she nursed internal wounds but her love for him, which she lost but found with additional vigor, gave her the strength, she carried on. They passed the office into the bar.

‘Where should I take you to?’

‘Our embassy. I will like to die on Nigerian soil.’

‘If you mention dying again I am going to drop you here and you will crawl to the embassy.’

‘You dare not.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you love me.’

‘Shut up.’

He laughed.

When Sade reached the car and lowered him, he was unconscious. She took one look at him and knew he wouldn’t make it to the embassy. A wave of sorrow that shook her rushed to her head.

She remembered a thousand episodes between her and Mark and most were pleasant. She remembered how he held his nerve and defused a time bomb few seconds to explosion… How he urged her back to the jungle to rescue the girls… How he jumped into a lorry from a helicopter and killed the terrorist driver–when Sade asked if he was hurt he had replied, ‘I broke his neck.’… The look on his face when Sade shot Shaka and told him only a terrorist might kill a terrorist… He called her Sade Haram… He hid her in Cameroon, disobeying a standing order to kill her. She couldn’t tell when she fell in love with him but she knew the taste of his kiss, she knew his warmth beside her, on top of her, inside her…

Unable to recount this further she lifted his head, buried it on her breasts and wept.

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We called his room Slaughter House. We called the lodge Sodom and Gomorrah Lodge. If you know Anambra State University, Igbariam Campus beyond the school gate then you might have known Achala village and might have passed by (if not actually visited) Sodom and Gomorrah Lodge. No, not as Sodom and Gomorrah, you probably know it with its real name. Sodom and Gomorrah was the code name given to our lodge by the lodge and used only in the lodge. The lodge was a pompous storey building with about three dozens of rooms occupied by more than two scores of students, students because they had their records in some dusty half-forgotten departmental file but really fun-catching maniacs with some of the wildest experiments in sex, alcohol, drugs and cooperative immorality.

Sodom and Gomorrah Lodge is not the subject of my story. No, Kamso and the Slaughter House ran is. I stayed in Sodom and Gomorrah Lodge in my year one, Kamso was in his third year and had been running his abattoir for three years. A fat kid of twenty two years whom we called BIG behind his back or before his drunken presence, nothing gave him satisfaction more than taking a girl into his room and slaughtering her. He never made love or had sex with them, he butchered them. Four times a week, sometimes every day of the week.

He used his belt, his giant fists, kicks, everything to subdue them. “Open, my friend,” he would shout. Whip! “Open, come on open your legs.” Slap. “Idiot.” Kick. The girl would cry, whimper, beg but Kamso never listened, words like “I am a virgin” and “I am on my period” would have had more effect on a rotten corpse. In a few occasions the victim would shout and call on the neighbours for help but no one ever bothered. Both male and female lodgemates would go about their business as though the screams came from Awka. Some would switch on their generators and play music to drown the voice. When Kamso had a girl in his room he wouldn’t stop hurting her until she gave in to his animal desire.

“Why don’t the girls ever report him?” I asked my elder brother whom I was staying with.

“To whom?” he returned. “The question they would ask the girl is, what took you to his room? Again, the girls are ashamed. No girl wants to announce to the whole world that someone entered her.”

I was an upcoming bad boy still struggling to smoke weed with a straight face and survive three shots of Castello, but the routine rape of girls by Kamso horrified me. I however kept my horror to myself because guys hailed Kamso.

“Does it mean no girl can stand up to him?” I asked my brother.

“Who, that pig? They can’t endure him. But he will see thunder if he mistakenly carries a cult boy’s girlfriend. But the idiot is very careful.”

I hissed.

“Forget that thing,” my brother said, “In fact I want to learn BIG’s style, girls have done me shege.”

Usually when the girl came out from Kamso’s room, limping plus a black eye or broken jaw, depending on how hard and far she resisted, guys would crowd into Kamso’s room and shout his praise. He would mostly be seen fanning his sweating hide with the girl’s panties. Yes, he usually seized their panties. He said they were the reward for his sperm, and he had a travelling bag full of panties. Kamso was a legend.

I forced myself to begin to admire him in order not to be termed “learner”. I tried to justify this primitive acts with the reasoning that any female who came to Kamso’s room knew what she was playing with. But it was hard to suppress the fact that some of these girls actually came to borrow a texbbook or watch some interesting Korean movie, or came with the thought of visiting a human being who came in the guise of “just friends”.

One week to my second semester exams it happened. BIG Kamso brought the last girl to the Slaughter House. I was leaning on the balcony when they came down from the motorcycles that brought them. The girl wasn’t more than eighteen and she looked sickly, so much that I felt she was more in need of her mother’s close watch than the empowerment of the university. Now she would be slaughtered, given a scaring baptism of campus. Or, perhaps, she would quietly open her legs and sorrounder her dignity, and underwear afterwards, and save her skin. Poor girl.

Five minutes or so later, I had even forgotten all about the ill-matching couple, an animal scream tore into the lodge. The voice was unusually deep, like a man’s voice. I decided to enter my room and block my ears with earphones. I crashed into my brother at the door. I expected a biting reprimand but he grinned at me. “Did you hear the shout? It’s BIG’s voice.”

“It’s a lie.” I couldn’t believe this. We ran to his door and listened. We heard the gasps and kicks of struggling bodies, then “Uwaihoo! Uwaihooo! Uwaihoooo!!”

“It’s him,” my brother and I exclaimed. Doors began to open and lodgemates rushed out.

“Is that not BIG shouting?” Obinna asked. I nodded. “Mehn we have to save our guy o.” He advanced to the door.

“What is the idea?” My brother blocked his way.

“Give way, we have to save our guy man.”

“Have you ever saved a girl in the Slaughter House before?” Jane asked him.

“He’s my guy!”

“To hell with him,” said Nancy.

“Whoooohh! whooooooh!!”

Obinna forcefully made for the door but my brother pushed him away. They stood, sizing each other, hating. My brother had spent a great deal of time with Obinna lifting weights downstairs and he looked ready to match Obinna muscle for muscle. My presence further served to make Obinna rule out physical combat. Kamso continued to shout. We waited. The girls, one or two had been BIG’s victims, giggled excitedly. It was Christmas in July.

Kamso’s door finally opened and the little girl came out, unruffled. She smiled brightly at us. “He raped my sister,” she announced, shrugged then winked. “Karma. You need a tank of water.”

We stood, rooted to the ground long after she was gone, afraid to check on our neighbour, afraid to confirm the worst. It was Obinna who summoned enough courage to open the door a crack; my brother pushed it. They entered, I followed. A look at Kamso’s bed brought a rush of nauseous waves to my body, which got me so sick l had to hold my brother’s back for balance. What I saw that day, of Kamso’s body, is unprintable.

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