THE NEW FORCE

It had been over two months since Abdul Ghaffar descended into the shadows.

The man who once stood beneath the golden dome of Parliament, fire in his voice and justice on his tongue, now lay among rusted metal and damp concrete. Prison had not just caged him—it had erased him. Scrubbed his face from public memory. Rewritten his legacy in blood and suspicion.

But Abdul didn't fight it. Not anymore.

He barely spoke. His words, once powerful enough to move crowds and stir hope in broken communities, now lived only in his memory—muffled echoes in a cell too narrow for dreams.

He stopped praying.

Stopped writing.

Stopped hoping.

The only sound he listened for now was the evening lockstep of the guards. Not out of fear. But because the rhythm grounded him. Reminded him he was still alive.

Then came the envelope.

It arrived like a ghost. No stamp. No mark. Just a manila folder slid under his door in the middle of the night. Abdul stared at it for a full ten minutes before picking it up.

Inside were three printed emails. Unmarked. No explanation. Just text.

He began to read.

And with every line, the chill of betrayal ran deeper.

Email 1

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Operation Fall Curtain

> "Attached is the final audio cut. Remove context. Emphasize the 'pipe funding' quote at minute 9:36. It will appear as financial misconduct. Public won't question details."

> "Witness is secured. Kweku Sampson knows what to say. Motivation confirmed—he still holds a grudge for his dismissal. I've provided talking points."

Abdul froze.

He reread the sender.

Isaac.

Not someone with the same name.

Not a stranger.

Isaac Adubakar.

His closest ally.

His best friend.

His political brother.

The man who sat by his side during rallies, who helped craft his speeches, who held his child in the hospital after her birth. Isaac—the one who promised never to let the system swallow them.

Email 2

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Bloc Transition Strategy

> "Ghaffar's exit provides the opportunity to reposition our majority agenda. He is too rigid and has made enemies we no longer need."

> "Following his conviction, the youth wing will splinter. We'll bring their loyalty under new leadership. I'll lead communication from the shadows. Keep your hands clean."

> "In six months, he'll be irrelevant."

Abdul lowered the paper. His fingers were trembling. His heart thudded like a drum played too fast.

So it was all deliberate.

Calculated.

A betrayal so refined, so surgically executed, it didn't even feel personal. He wasn't a man betrayed—he was a step in a strategy. A pawn sacrificed with indifference.

He turned to the third page.

Email 3

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Final Confirmation – Witness and Timeline

> "Sampson will go public on Thursday. I will tip the journalists anonymously. The audio file will follow."

> "He must not be allowed to challenge the accusations. Pre-trial detention must be prolonged. Assign a tight-lipped judge. We can't afford a surprise."

> "He won't recover from this."

Abdul let the papers fall.

Silence swallowed the room. Even the wind from the broken window paused.

Isaac… had not just abandoned him. He had built the gallows.

He had forged the chains.

He had placed the knife in the mouths of the wolves.

For what?

Power?

Position?

Security?

Abdul staggered to the small basin and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection that met him was not one he recognized. This man looked ten years older. Hollow. Shadowed. Bruised by more than fists.

He slid to the floor, back against the wall, head tilted to the sky.

"Why?" he whispered.

No answer came.

The following day, Mensimah returned from kitchen duty with stale bread and a scoop of beans.

Abdul didn't touch it.

"You alright?" the young man asked.

Abdul didn't respond.

He simply handed him the envelope.

Mensimah read it in silence. Slowly. Line by line.

When he finished, his hands shook.

"You're sure it's real?"

Abdul looked up. "He knew where every file was. Every vulnerable spot. Every whisper in the Bloc."

Mensimah's jaw clenched. "This is treason."

"No," Abdul replied. "This is politics."

That night, Abdul dreamt of fire.

In the dream, Isaac stood on a podium surrounded by flames. He smiled. Waved. Gave interviews.

And behind him, Abdul's childhood home burned to ashes.

His father's voice cried from the smoke.

"Stand up. Before you're forgotten."

He woke up gasping.

The day after, a guard slipped a folded newspaper through the bars.

It carried a headline:

> "Isaac Adubakar Receives National Medal for Reform Strategy"

Abdul laughed. A dry, haunted laugh.

Reform?

He had used Abdul's sacrifice to build a new image. He was now being hailed as a visionary. A man who cleaned up a corrupt system by taking down his own friend.

The media played it like a noble betrayal.

"He did what had to be done," one pundit wrote. "For the greater good."

The greater good.

Abdul tore the paper into shreds.

Later that evening, he received a letter. It bore no name, but he recognized the handwriting.

Serwaa.

He almost didn't read it.

But curiosity—flickering like a dying match—nudged him.

> "I heard what Isaac did. I'm sorry. I defended you, but my voice was too small. The world already chose its villain. I don't know how to make it right. But I believe you'll rise again. And when you do—don't forgive him. Don't forget this. We are not all silent."

Abdul read it twice.

Then folded it carefully and placed it under his mattress.

Not as hope.

As evidence.

In the following weeks, he didn't change much.

He still walked slowly.

Still ate quietly.

Still stared for long hours at the wall.

But something had returned to his eyes.

Not light.

Not peace.

But focus.

An ember.

He began to write again. Not letters. Notes. Names. Maps of memory.

The people who'd helped Isaac.

The journalists who ran the false headlines.

The ethics committee chair who delayed his hearing.

He wrote them all in tiny letters in the corner of his pillow cover.

A list.

Not for justice.

For reckoning.

Mensimah noticed.

"You're planning something," he said.

Abdul didn't reply.

"You're not just surviving anymore."

Still, silence.

"You're remembering."

Abdul nodded.

"Yes."

He stood and faced the bars.

Then whispered something he hadn't said in months:

> "I'm coming back."