THE NEW FORCE

Two days after Bediako's threat arrived, Abdul Ghaffar began planning like a man on a deadline. The urgency wasn't driven by fear—it was driven by timing. If Bediako was desperate enough to threaten him, it meant his world outside these walls was crumbling. That vulnerability could be harvested.

That night, Abdul unfolded a torn piece of his mattress lining where he had scribbled three columns of names. Column one: Betrayers. Column two: Enablers. Column three: Witnesses. Bediako belonged to all three.

Mensimah glanced at the sheet while folding clothes. "You're creating a hit list?"

Abdul didn't look up. "No. A history. Because history determines the future."

He had no weapons. No army. No access to media. But he had memory—and memory was a blade if wielded right.

Odartey, the former intelligence officer, noticed the change.

"You're preparing," he said one afternoon as they peeled cassava in the kitchen shed.

"I'm setting the stage," Abdul answered.

"Still intend to confront Bediako?"

"I intend to use him."

Odartey grinned. "Good. The man's too arrogant to know when he's bleeding."

On the following Friday, Abdul arranged for a book exchange through the prison library—one that would place him in Bediako's path again. As expected, Bediako arrived under supervision to collect a novel on wartime diplomacy. Abdul stepped out from the bookshelf.

"Did you enjoy my silence?" he asked casually.

Bediako flinched. "You again."

"You'll keep seeing me, Chairman. I'm part of your nightmares now."

"Threatening me won't change anything."

"I don't need to threaten you. You're unraveling all by yourself."

Abdul handed him a piece of paper. On it, a list of shell companies linked to Bediako's name, including one registered in his brother-in-law's name.

"Where did you get this?" Bediako asked, voice barely a whisper.

"Old staff with good memories. And a janitor with a long lens."

Bediako looked like he'd swallowed gravel.

"Keep pushing me," Abdul said softly. "And I'll make you the first domino."

He walked away, leaving the former committee chairman trembling.

Later that night, Abdul met with Odartey and Mensimah behind the laundry unit. There, under the cover of thick steam and hissing pipes, he began laying out his plan.

"I'm not waiting until I'm free to start," Abdul began. "The strike begins from here."

"How?" Mensimah asked.

"Through influence. Whispers. Proof."

"You'll need hands outside."

"I have them. Kojo. A few loyal Bloc remnants. And maybe… the ones who feel the weight of their silence."

Odartey crossed his arms. "It's a dangerous dance. If Bediako senses you're building anything, he'll try to finish you before you step out of this gate."

Abdul nodded. "Then we misdirect him."

Over the next month, Abdul launched a psychological campaign. He began planting rumors among prisoners—about a possible presidential pardon. About old allies lobbying for his release. About a journalist preparing an exposé on his conviction.

None of it was true.

Yet.

But it didn't need to be. It only needed to rattle Bediako.

And rattle he did. Within weeks, Bediako requested an emergency legal session outside the prison. Rumors had it he tried to bribe a judge to reopen his own corruption trial under new terms.

The news reached Abdul.

"He's twitching," Odartey said, amused.

Abdul smiled. "Perfect. Now let's give him something to twitch about."

That weekend, Kojo smuggled in the first printed documents from the USB drive. Abdul received them sewn into the lining of a donated shirt.

Inside were bank statements, meeting records, and a partial recording of Isaac coordinating with Langston agents to suppress a rival Bloc candidate.

Abdul's hands trembled as he read.

This wasn't just betrayal.

This was leverage.

Proof that could fracture the very system that exiled him.

He folded the documents carefully and tucked them into the back wall panel behind his mattress.

His resolve hardened.

"I'm not coming back to clear my name," he whispered. "I'm coming back to torch the temple."

Then, another surprise.

A letter. No name. Just five words in tight script:

> "They're planning your removal. Soon."

Abdul read it thrice.

He showed it to Odartey.

"Internal hit?"

"Possible. Or a legal transfer to silence you permanently."

Mensimah looked frightened. "What do we do?"

Abdul folded the letter. "We move up the plan."

The next day, he sent word through a contact in the kitchen delivery chain. It reached Kojo in two days:

> "Activate 'Red Tape'. Leak enough to cause confusion, not chaos. Target: Bloc headquarters and State Procurement Board. Wait for follow-up."

Kojo didn't reply. But Abdul knew he would act.

He always did.

By the end of that week, three investigative journalists had published threads on social media detailing shell companies, procurement violations, and internal Bloc inconsistencies—all traced back to the same network Isaac had used.

The political air shifted.

On radio panels and TV debates, commentators began asking:

> "Was Abdul Ghaffar framed?"

> "Who benefited from his downfall?"

> "Is it time to revisit the case?"

Isaac made no public statement.

But Bediako did.

In a hurried interview from prison, he claimed innocence. Then accidentally confirmed the name of one shell company previously unknown to the media.

The fire was catching.

Abdul watched it burn from behind the bars.

And smiled.

That night, he dreamt of walking through the streets of the capital again. But this time, people didn't chant his name. They whispered it. Reverently. Curiously. As if waiting to see what he would become.

He awoke before sunrise, walked to the barred window, and whispered:

> "Soon."