THE NEW FORCE

Nsawam's walls didn't talk—but they listened. And they remembered. Word of Abdul Ghaffar's silence spread through the blocks like smoke. Some whispered that the former MP had gone mad. Others claimed he was dead inside, just waiting for the body to follow.

But a few inmates—old revolutionaries, broken soldiers, men who once dreamed like him—knew what that kind of silence meant.

It was grief. Too deep for language.

And sometimes, it was the kind of silence that comes before a second storm.

Three weeks had passed since Abdul read the emails.

Three weeks since he learned that Isaac—the brother, the friend, the right-hand—had sharpened the knife and buried it in his back.

Abdul hadn't spoken to anyone but Mensimah since.

He didn't eat much. Didn't sleep much either. Some nights, he sat for hours, staring at the single bolt that held the bed frame together.

Other nights, he scratched words into the wall with a spoon.

Words like "trust," "ashes," "venom," and "resurrect."

Mensimah watched all of it.

"You should leave something behind," the young man said one night. "A letter. A warning. A verse."

Abdul said nothing.

Because what could he say?

What could a dead man leave behind except silence?

Then came the fight.

It started as a rumble two cells down. Guards yelling. Metal doors clanging. A tray thrown against the wall.

Then a roar. Then fists. Then screams.

The guards dragged three inmates into the corridor.

One was bleeding from the ear. Another was unconscious.

The third was an ex-bodyguard named Kwame Viper. A beast of a man. Tall, scarred, dangerous. He had served time for attempted murder. Twice. And rumor had it, he was connected to the same political circles that wanted Abdul buried.

As they passed Abdul's cell, Kwame stopped.

"Ah, the fallen prophet," he sneered.

Abdul didn't look at him.

Kwame spat on the floor. "You think silence protects you? You think you're safe because you once wore a suit?"

Still, no reply.

Kwame leaned closer to the bars.

"They're not done with you. Isaac may have cut the rope, but I'm the noose. One day soon, the lights will go off… and someone will make sure you never talk again."

He was dragged off laughing.

Abdul didn't flinch.

But later that night, he couldn't sleep. The sound of that laugh echoed louder than any of the screams from the cell block.

Two days later, it happened.

During evening meal, the lights flickered. A sudden blackout.

Common in Nsawam. Nothing unusual.

Except this time, the guards were absent. No flashlights. No whistles. Just darkness.

And footsteps.

Several. Slow. Purposeful.

Abdul was already on his feet, back to the wall.

He couldn't see. But he could hear them breathing.

Then the lock clicked.

His door creaked open.

For the first time in weeks, his heartbeat sped up. Not from hope. From primal fear.

A shadow entered. Then another.

"You should've stayed dead, Ghaffar," a voice whispered.

Then something hard struck his ribs.

He went down. Tried to crawl.

Another blow—this time to his back.

Then fists. Then boots.

Four against one.

He couldn't scream. Could barely breathe.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred.

Then—footsteps. Louder. Closer.

The attackers fled.

The lights snapped back on.

Mensimah burst in. Shouted for help.

Abdul lay there, barely conscious. His blood pooling on the floor, teeth missing, eye swollen shut.

He spent six days in the infirmary.

No visitors. No questions.

Not even the nurse spoke to him.

He stared at the ceiling, each breath a pain.

In his dreams, Isaac stood over him with a medal in one hand and a knife in the other.

His daughter called out to him, but when he turned, her voice came from a television, and she looked through him like he wasn't real.

He wept in his sleep.

And for the first time, he whispered, "I want to die."

On the seventh day, Mensimah visited.

"You survived," he said softly.

Abdul turned away.

Mensimah placed something on the table—a folded cloth.

Inside it, a small wooden cross.

"I know you're Muslim," he said, "but it's not about the cross. It's about the wood. It's from my uncle's farm. Mango tree. Survived a fire years ago. Everything around it burned. But it still bears fruit."

Abdul didn't respond.

"Don't talk," Mensimah added. "Just… just let it sit with you."

He left.

Abdul stared at the cross all night.

It did nothing.

And yet… he didn't throw it away.

Later that week, the doctor came in.

"You've lost fifteen kilos," he said. "You keep this up, you'll leave in a coffin."

Abdul managed a smile, crooked and tired. "Maybe that's the only way I leave."

The doctor paused. "You know… I knew your father. Long ago. Northern Region. He was a good man."

Abdul looked up, surprised.

"Everyone talks about you now like you're finished," the doctor said. "But I remember when you were the man they said would never be bought. Never broken."

He stood.

"I don't believe you're broken. Just… waiting."

He walked away.

Abdul closed his eyes.

Was that what he was doing?

Waiting?

Or simply wasting?

That night, he opened his eyes to darkness again.

No lights.

But this time, no footsteps.

Just silence.

And within it…

A flicker.

Not of hope.

But of something else.

Something angrier.

He sat up slowly, pain crackling through his bones like broken glass.

He reached under the bed where he had once hidden his spoon.

He pulled out the makeshift blade the attackers hadn't found.

And he whispered—

Not a prayer.

Not a name.

Just one word:

> "Enough."