đSÂŁĂ IN THE SENATE HOUSE đ„đ„
Episode 9
Revenge in the Bush
After everything, the storm finally looked like it had passed.
I had paid the price with my land and my pride. Katasha had paid with her body to the Senate President. Mrs. Njoku had paid with her own secrets. The videos disappeared. The blogs went quiet.
The Senate President kept his wordâmy seat was safe, my name was clean again.
Publicly, life became calm.
I even got married.
Her name is Amina. Twenty-eight years old. Beautiful like sunrise. Fair skin, long hair, soft voice. We met at a friendâs wedding in Abuja. She was a banker in Wuse. Quiet, respectful, God-fearing. After all the madness, she felt like peace.
We did a small weddingâfamily only, no big noise. The Senate President sent a big cow and envelope as gift. Katasha sent flowers with a short note: âBe happy.â
Alhaji Musa Dantata never said a word again. People said he had travelled to Dubai and stayed there.
We all believed the matter was finished.
It wasnât.
One Tuesday morning, Amina left home for work as usual. 7:45 a.m. She kissed me goodbye, entered her small Toyota Corolla, and drove toward town.
By 8:30 a.m., her office called me.
âSenator, Madam never reached. Her phone is off.â
My heart stopped.
I called police immediately. I called DSS. I called everyone I knew.
By 10 a.m., her car was found abandoned on Airport Road, doors open, bag inside, phone gone.
No ransom call. No message. Nothing.
That evening, a farmer in a bush near Kuje called police. He found Amina.
She was lying under a tree, clothes torn, body bruised, crying silently.
The doctors confirmed itâshe had been r@ped by several men.
I reached the hospital and saw her. My wife. My peace. Broken.
She couldnât speak for two days. Just tears.
I cried like a child in the corridor.
The whole country heard. Headlines everywhere: âYoung Senatorâs Wife Abducted and Raped.â
The Senate President called me personally.
âRashid, I am pushing everything. Police, Army, DSSâeverybody is on it. Whoever did this will not breathe free air again. Your seat is safe. Your family is safe. I promise you.â
He set up a special investigation team. Billions were released for tracking. CCTV checked. Phone records pulled.
Weeks passed. Months.
No single arrest.
No clue.
No suspect.
Everybody said it was armed robbers. Or ritualists. Or random criminals.
But I knew in my spirit it was not random.
One night, six months later, an anonymous envelope was dropped at my gate.
Inside: a small flash drive and one photograph.
The photograph was Amina in the bush that dayâtaken while it was happening.
On the flash drive: a short video of the menâfaces maskedâlaughing as they finished.
And a voice note in Hausa, deep voice:
âTell the young senator this is greeting from Kano.
He touched what is not his.
Now he knows how it feels.â
I played it once and deleted everything.
I never told police.
I never told the Senate President.
I never told Amina.
I just knew.
Alhaji Musa Dantata never forgot.
He waited.
He planned.
He paid.
And when the noise died down, he sent his boys.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
And in Nigeria, some men can wait forever to serve it.
Comment âNextâ for Episode 10.
To be continuedâŠ
Follow Vicky's Stories for more interesting stories.
Episode 9
Revenge in the Bush
After everything, the storm finally looked like it had passed.
I had paid the price with my land and my pride. Katasha had paid with her body to the Senate President. Mrs. Njoku had paid with her own secrets. The videos disappeared. The blogs went quiet.
The Senate President kept his wordâmy seat was safe, my name was clean again.
Publicly, life became calm.
I even got married.
Her name is Amina. Twenty-eight years old. Beautiful like sunrise. Fair skin, long hair, soft voice. We met at a friendâs wedding in Abuja. She was a banker in Wuse. Quiet, respectful, God-fearing. After all the madness, she felt like peace.
We did a small weddingâfamily only, no big noise. The Senate President sent a big cow and envelope as gift. Katasha sent flowers with a short note: âBe happy.â
Alhaji Musa Dantata never said a word again. People said he had travelled to Dubai and stayed there.
We all believed the matter was finished.
It wasnât.
One Tuesday morning, Amina left home for work as usual. 7:45 a.m. She kissed me goodbye, entered her small Toyota Corolla, and drove toward town.
By 8:30 a.m., her office called me.
âSenator, Madam never reached. Her phone is off.â
My heart stopped.
I called police immediately. I called DSS. I called everyone I knew.
By 10 a.m., her car was found abandoned on Airport Road, doors open, bag inside, phone gone.
No ransom call. No message. Nothing.
That evening, a farmer in a bush near Kuje called police. He found Amina.
She was lying under a tree, clothes torn, body bruised, crying silently.
The doctors confirmed itâshe had been r@ped by several men.
I reached the hospital and saw her. My wife. My peace. Broken.
She couldnât speak for two days. Just tears.
I cried like a child in the corridor.
The whole country heard. Headlines everywhere: âYoung Senatorâs Wife Abducted and Raped.â
The Senate President called me personally.
âRashid, I am pushing everything. Police, Army, DSSâeverybody is on it. Whoever did this will not breathe free air again. Your seat is safe. Your family is safe. I promise you.â
He set up a special investigation team. Billions were released for tracking. CCTV checked. Phone records pulled.
Weeks passed. Months.
No single arrest.
No clue.
No suspect.
Everybody said it was armed robbers. Or ritualists. Or random criminals.
But I knew in my spirit it was not random.
One night, six months later, an anonymous envelope was dropped at my gate.
Inside: a small flash drive and one photograph.
The photograph was Amina in the bush that dayâtaken while it was happening.
On the flash drive: a short video of the menâfaces maskedâlaughing as they finished.
And a voice note in Hausa, deep voice:
âTell the young senator this is greeting from Kano.
He touched what is not his.
Now he knows how it feels.â
I played it once and deleted everything.
I never told police.
I never told the Senate President.
I never told Amina.
I just knew.
Alhaji Musa Dantata never forgot.
He waited.
He planned.
He paid.
And when the noise died down, he sent his boys.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
And in Nigeria, some men can wait forever to serve it.
Comment âNextâ for Episode 10.
To be continuedâŠ
Follow Vicky's Stories for more interesting stories.
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