THE NEW FORCE

Abdul Ghaffar stood before the cracked mirror in the prison washroom, his face half-shadowed by the dim bulb above. The scars had healed into reminders. The bruises had faded, but the memory of pain still haunted his bones. He stared at his reflection—not to admire, but to remember who he had been, and to examine who he was becoming.

The USB Kojo had given him lay hidden deep inside the frame of his metal bed. Abdul hadn't accessed it yet. He couldn't. No computers. No electricity outside designated zones. But the knowledge that it existed was enough. Like a time capsule waiting to detonate.

He had built routines now—measured, strategic. Mornings were spent exercising, afternoons assisting inmates with letters and petitions, and evenings devoted to mental mapping, connecting what he knew to what might come next.

But this day felt different.

He sensed something stirring.

The guards escorted him to the infirmary under the pretext of a routine check-up. Abdul didn't resist. His health had improved, but in prison, a sudden visit from the nurse could mean anything.

Inside, Nurse Efua was waiting, her eyes unusually sharp.

"Sit," she said without pleasantries.

Abdul obeyed.

She checked his vitals. Scribbled notes. Then glanced at the door.

"You've been quiet," she said.

"I've been listening."

"To who?"

"To silence. It speaks louder here."

She leaned in. "Be careful. They're watching you again. You're rising. Quietly, but it's noticeable."

Abdul tensed. "Who's watching?"

Efua hesitated. Then slid a small paper across the table. One word was written on it:

> Langston

Abdul stared.

Langston was a private intelligence firm contracted by the state for internal surveillance and political assessments. The last he heard of them was three years ago—shortly before his arrest.

"If they're back," Abdul said, "it means someone outside thinks I'm still dangerous."

Efua nodded. "Or someone inside is feeding them."

Back in his cell, Abdul's thoughts churned. If Langston had activated interest in him, it meant the ruling party—or someone with access—was either scared or curious. Either option could be turned into leverage.

He took out his scrap paper notes hidden inside an old law textbook. Piecing together what Kojo's files might contain, he drew out a theoretical chain of emails, authorizations, and procurement contracts connected to Isaac's clique.

He didn't need to see the USB to guess what it held.

He had lived it.

He remembered the phone calls, the mysteriously canceled meetings, the sudden disappearance of his budget files days before the accusations hit. Everything had been orchestrated.

That evening, a hush spread through Block C. A new inmate was being brought in under heavy guard. Usually, no one cared. But this time, whispers spread fast.

"It's one of them…"

"One of who?" Abdul asked Mensimah.

"One of the lawmakers. Ex-committee chairman. Busted for procurement fraud."

Abdul's ears perked up. "Name?"

Mensimah looked left and right. "Amoako Bediako. The guy who chaired the Ethics Committee during your case."

A jolt of recognition hit Abdul like ice water.

The same man who delayed his hearings. Who dismissed key evidence. Who refused to summon a key witness.

Abdul stood. "I need to speak to him."

"Dangerous," Mensimah warned. "He'll know you're hunting ghosts."

"I don't need him to talk. I need him to know I'm still alive."

Two days passed before Abdul orchestrated a hallway encounter during cleaning hour. As he pushed the mop past the library corridor, Bediako was walking with a limp, flanked by a guard.

Their eyes met.

Bediako froze for half a second. Recognition. Then panic. Then arrogance.

"You?" he sneered.

Abdul said nothing. He simply smiled.

A slow, calculating smile.

"I see prison hasn't humbled you," Bediako spat.

"No," Abdul replied. "It's taught me patience."

That was all. He walked on.

But he knew. That fear in Bediako's eyes? That was power.

That night, a note was slid under Abdul's door.

Written on prison-issued stationery.

> "If we're going down, you're not climbing out. I'll see to that. —B."

He read it. Then burned it with a match smuggled from the laundry room.

Later, Abdul sat on his bed, staring at the metal frame that hid the USB.

Five years, he thought. That was the sentence. He'd served three.

He now had two years to build the perfect counterstrike.

Not just for revenge. Not just to return.

But to destroy the illusion.

He whispered to himself:

> "They think I'm still buried. But roots don't sleep."