THE NEW FORCE

The prison courtyard was a wasteland of cracked concrete, rusted pipes, and walls smudged with the graffiti of broken men. Abdul Ghaffar sat on the far bench under a scorched mango tree stump—dead, leafless, and stubbornly rooted. Around him, the sounds of bickering inmates and guards barking commands blurred into static. It was in this chaos that something strange happened:

Abdul began to listen.

Not to the guards or the noise—but to the rhythm beneath it all. The patterns. The timing of movements. The rotation of shifts. The blind spots in the surveillance. He listened to the way the prisoners moved, how they traded, who led, and who followed.

It was the language of the forgotten, but it spoke volumes.

He wasn't planning an escape.

He was watching a system—just like before.

On the fourth Tuesday after Isaac's betrayal was confirmed, Abdul requested a meeting with the prison librarian. The man, a balding ex-accountant with a limp and a passion for historical war memoirs, was startled.

"You want books on political sabotage?"

"Sabotage. Betrayal. Coup psychology. War transitions. Anything that shows how power can be taken without a gun."

The librarian stared at him for a long moment.

"Why?"

Abdul only smiled. "So I don't forget how the world works."

He left with five books.

One of them was about a South American reformist president who staged a silent revolution from exile.

Abdul read it twice.

In the following weeks, his posture changed. Not completely—he still walked with the heaviness of a man grieving—but his eyes no longer stared into nothingness. They scanned. They read. They noticed.

He began helping other inmates draft letters for their appeals. Within a month, he'd earned a nickname: "the prison clerk."

But it wasn't goodwill he sought. It was information.

For every letter he drafted, someone owed him a favor.

Soon, he knew which inmates had visitors in government.

Which guards were desperate for loans.

Which officials used the prison for off-record interrogations.

He wasn't building an escape.

He was building a map.

Then came the transfer.

Without warning, Abdul was moved to Block C—nicknamed "Hell's Wing." Reserved for men considered dangerous or politically radioactive.

It was there he met Odartey, a former state intelligence agent accused of treason.

Odartey was sixty, bald, and blind in one eye. But his mind was sharp.

He watched Abdul for three days before speaking.

"You're too quiet to be useless," he said, as they mopped the corridor.

Abdul replied, "I used to believe in systems. Now I just map them."

Odartey nodded. "Good. Because there's a system in here too. And it's bleeding into the world out there."

They spoke in whispers late at night.

Odartey shared rumors of secret deals, off-the-books killings, and the silent war between security factions. Abdul shared what he knew of parliamentary manipulations, fake opposition fights, and how youth activism had been commodified.

Together, they began sketching out the anatomy of the rot.

"Your fall," Odartey said one night, "wasn't just punishment. It was prevention."

Abdul looked up.

"You were becoming proof that the people could have power again. They couldn't let you finish your arc."

"So they cut the story halfway."

"But stories can be retold," Odartey whispered. "In whispers first. Then in headlines."

Months passed.

By the time Abdul reached his third year in prison, his body had hardened. He did pushups in the morning. Read in the afternoon. Mapped networks at night.

He was no longer broken.

He was buried.

Like a seed.

One afternoon, a new prison officer arrived. Officer Tsatsu. Young. Arrogant. Loud.

He walked into the cell block, whistling, eager to prove himself. Within days, he was abusing his power. Shaking down inmates. Breaking rations. Mocking the elderly.

Abdul watched him.

Tsatsu laughed in Abdul's face one day. "Big man gone small. How's that humility sandwich taste?"

Abdul didn't react.

But that night, he spoke to an older inmate who once worked in immigration.

"What do you know about Officer Tsatsu's family?"

The man grinned. "Only that his uncle's a disgraced MP from the Eastern Region."

"Perfect," Abdul whispered.

Within a week, Tsatsu was removed. Transferred.

Whispers said someone wrote a detailed report to the ethics board. Anonymous. With photos.

Abdul never confessed.

But the prison noticed.

And so did Odartey.

"You're building again," he said.

Abdul nodded. "But this time, not in public."

Then, one night, he received a visitor.

The warden.

Not a fan of surprise visits. But this time, he came alone.

"You have a visitor. No press. No politics. Just a civilian."

"Who?"

The warden hesitated. "A janitor from Parliament."

Abdul's brow furrowed.

He followed the warden to the visitation room.

There, sitting nervously, was Kojo—the quiet man who cleaned Abdul's office back when he was in Parliament.

"Kojo?"

The man stood. His eyes were wet. "I never got to say thank you. For all the times you stayed late, reading reports, refusing bribes."

Abdul was silent.

Kojo continued. "I kept your old files. The ones Isaac deleted. I printed backups. I have them."

Abdul blinked. "Why?"

"Because I believed you. And now… I hear whispers. That you're not finished."

He slid a tiny USB across the table.

"It's all there. Just in case you walk out of here someday."

Abdul picked it up. Closed his hand over it. He looked Kojo in the eye.

"I will walk out," he said.

That night, he hid the USB inside the hollow of his metal bedframe.

He didn't sleep.

He simply lay awake, heart pounding. Not from fear.

From purpose.

He whispered aloud:

> "Five years, you said, God. You gave me five years to think. I've spent three. That's two left."

He smiled to himself.

> "They should be afraid."

Because the seed was sprouting.

And though no one could see it yet, the roots were growing fast.