On the Run by Bethel Okeziri
Synopsis
After a high‑stakes heist against a corrupt Lagos senator collapses in flames, Anu Ojo becomes the most wanted man in the entire Lagos Command of the Nigerian Police Force. The operation was meant to avenge his family. Instead, it destroys it. His brother Dare is dead, and somewhere in the city his sister mourns both her brothers, unaware that Anu is still alive—and running.
His only lifeline is Afam, a man clawing his way back into the good graces of gang leader Sunday Olumiti, who watches him like a hawk. Afam’s every move is monitored, every breath measured. Yet he is the only person who can guide Anu through the tightening dragnet.
To survive, Anu must obey Afam’s instructions without question, even as Afam himself teeters on the edge of exposure. Together, they navigate a Lagos where every alley hides an informant, every phone call is a risk, and every decision could be fatal.
Hunted by the police, shadowed by Olumiti’s men, and haunted by Dare’s death, Anu and Afam must reach into the darkest corners of their minds—where fear sharpens into instinct and loyalty becomes a weapon. Their choices will determine whether they escape the city’s tightening jaws… or are swallowed whole.
1
The slap of the black, brackish lagoon water against the rotted hull of the canoe was the only rhythm left in his life.
It was 3:00 AM in Makoko. Around him, the stilt city slept in a sprawling, skeletal silhouette against the distant, shimmering lights of the Third Mainland Bridge. Hundreds of wooden canoes lay wedged together like matches in a box, rising and falling in unison on the oily water.
Anu lay flat on his back in the narrow rib of the boat, tucked beneath a heavy, damp blanket that reeked of dried sweat and old palm oil. The air around his face was thick with the suffocating stench of decayed tilapia, salt-crusted wood, and the stagnant waste of the slums.
But he didn’t care about the smell. The smell meant he was invisible. The smell meant he was alive.
He didn’t sleep; he floated in a grey, exhausting borderland between consciousness and nightmare. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, his mind would violently jerk him awake. The sharp creak of a neighbour’s wooden floorboards overhead, the splash of a stray dog wading through the shallow marsh, the distant, low rumble of an engine on the highway, each sound made his hand twitch beneath the blanket, his fingers instantly searching for the cold, reassuring grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband.
He was a ghost now. The face of the “Yaba Robbery Kingpin” had been plastered on the front page of every daily newspaper and broadcasted across every television station in Lagos State. The entire command, from the eagle-eyed traffic wardens to the brutal anti-robbery squads, had spent the last seven days combing Mushin, Yaba, and Surulere for him. They were looking for a boy with twenty million Naira in a sack. They didn’t think to look for a broken boy shivering in a fish-gutted canoe under the shadow of the bridge.
The money, the two heavy duffel bags, was wedged deep into the hollow bow of the boat, covered by a tarp and piles of wet fishing nets. It was untouched. Twenty million Naira, and it couldn’t buy him the one thing he wanted back.
In the absolute stillness of the third hour of the morning, the tears finally came, hot and silent, tracking through the dirt and salt on his cheeks.
Dare.
The image of his little brother’s body spinning from the force of the bullet under the Yaba underbridge was burned into the back of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Dare’s voice from the night before the heist: “We watch each other… You watch my back, I watch yours.”
Anu choked back a sob, his chest heaving under the smelly blanket. He had failed the only vow that mattered. He had let his brother die for a pile of paper currency that was currently rotting under a wet fishing net. The television broadcast from a week ago kept repeating in his head like a curse, the Commissioner of Police praising Inspector Afam, the cameras flashing over the two bags of “recovered” cash, and Uncle Sunday standing in the background like a proud, benevolent godfather while Dare’s name was dragged through the dirt as a common criminal.
He was alone. His brother was dead and buried in an unmarked police grave. His sister Ife was trapped back in the city, likely watching the news in horror, unable to know if her brothers were dead or alive.
Anu squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles turning white against the gun grip. The grief was a physical weight, heavier than the water beneath him, crushing the air out of his lungs. But beneath the grief, deep in the hollow space where his heart used to beat, a cold, jagged shard of survival was beginning to harden.
He couldn’t stay in this canoe forever. The police would eventually widen the net, and the twenty million naira wouldn’t keep him hidden in Makoko when the dry season cleared the water. He needed to move, but more than that, he needed to know what Afam’s next move was.
The cheap Nokia burner phone sat against his ribs, completely dead and switched off to avoid cell-tower tracking.
Anu is at his absolute lowest point, grieving his brother in the dark of the slums.
On the other side of town at that same odd hour, Olumiti and the clique of officers loyal to him gathered to celebrate their win. They have been partying from dusk and it was nearly going to be dawn. The bass from the rooftop speakers vibrated through the polished glass railings of the lounge, blending with the steady, expensive hum of the Ikeja GRA night. Up here, five floors above the chaotic traffic of Allen Avenue, the air felt different. It smelled of imported cognac, rich cigar smoke, and absolute, unchecked authority.
“To the newly minted Deputy Commissioner of Police! DCP Sunday Olumiti!”
A chorus of booming, alcohol-flushed voices erupted from the centre VIP booth. Four high-ranking officers from the state command, men of Sunday’s tightest clique, their uniform shirts unbuttoned at the collar, clinked their crystal glasses together.
Sunday sat at the head of the leather U-couch like a tribal king. His civilian agbada was made of the finest white lace, and a heavy gold watch gleamed on his wrist under the ambient blue neon lights. He accepted the praises with a wide, smug grin, throwing his head back as he took a long drag from his cigar.
“I told you boys,” Sunday chuckled, his voice gravelly and thick with pride. “The system always remembers its own. When you know which buttons to press in Abuja, the rank will chase you down. Senator Ishola himself called me this afternoon. The presidency has noted our ‘tactical efficiency’ in resolving that Yaba security threat.”
“And let us not forget the hero of the night!” Harrison, the rugged sergeant who had also secured his cut, raised his glass toward the edge of the terrace. “Inspector Afam! The deadliest rifle in the Lagos Command!”
The clique roared in approval, raising their glasses toward Afam.
Afam stood near the railing, a half-empty glass of Hennessy held loosely in his right hand. He was dressed in his crisp, newly tailored Inspector’s uniform, the silver bar on his shoulder strap catching the neon light. He forced a wide, compliance grin onto his face, nodding respectfully toward the senior officers.
“Thank you, sirs. Just doing my duty,” Afam said, his baritone voice smooth and perfectly measured. He raised his glass in a toast, took a sip, and maintained the illusion of a man who had just conquered his destiny.
But inside his chest, Afam’s soul was as cold as ice.
Every laugh from Sunday felt like a grating insult. Every cheer from the clique felt like a countdown clock ticking closer to his execution. While the others saw a brilliant political victory and a mountain of recovered cash, Afam saw a precarious house of cards built on top of a powder keg.
His mind methodically listed the threats, tracking them with the cold discipline of a tactical officer:
He had left Dare’s body at the scene with three close-range wounds to make the shootout narrative air-tight. Sunday’s men had processed the scene, and the paperwork was filed. That part was secure.
The police had only paraded twenty million Naira as recovered cash. The politicians believed sixty million had been stolen. Sunday knew only of forty million. If the politicians decide to bring this up with Sunday, unlikely, but possible, the numbers wouldn’t add up.
Out there was someone else. This was the hole in the boat that could sink them all. Anu.
Afam’s eyes drifted past the glowing skyline of Ikeja, looking southward toward the dark expanse of the lagoon where the slums lay. Where are you, boy? He thought fiercely his knuckles tightening around his glass until the crystal groaned.
He had lied directly to Sunday’s face, telling him Anu had taken two bullets to the chest and was a corpse in a ditch. But Afam knew Sunday. The new DCP hadn’t called off his private trackers. They were still quietly scanning the mortuaries and the local clinics on the mainland, looking for a body that matched Anu’s description. If Anu showed his face, if he got caught by a regular patrol officer who wasn’t in on the take, or if he tried to spend those thousands of Naira notes in a way that drew attention, the whole story would shatter.
If Anu talked, Sunday would sacrifice Afam in a heartbeat to protect his new federal promotion.
“Afam! Come and sit down, my friend!” Sunday bellowed from the couch, waving his hand expansively. “Stop staring at the city like a philosopher. You are an Inspector now! Drink!”
“Coming, sir,” Afam called back, stepping away from the railing. He smoothed down his uniform jacket, locking the fake, celebratory smile back onto his face as he walked back into the circle of corrupt men.
He needed to get to his burner phone. He needed to find Anu before Sunday’s dogs did.
The battle lines are drawn in the dark. Sunday is celebrating his peak, Afam is managing a lethal lie from the inside, and Anu is waiting in the slums.
Afam slid onto the leather couch, setting his glass down on the low glass table. The heavy scent of Sunday’s cigar smoke swirled around them, thick and suffocating.
Sunday leaned back, his massive arm stretching along the top of the sofa, his eyes narrowing as the boisterous laughter of the other officers faded into background noise behind the loud music. He didn’t look at Afam directly; instead, he watched the ice melt in his own glass.
“Afam,” Sunday said, his voice dropping below the register of the music, a sudden chill cutting through his previous drunken warmth.
“Sir,” Afam replied, adjusting his posture to show immediate attention.
“A week has passed,” Sunday murmured, turning his head slowly to look at the newly promoted Inspector. “A whole week. My boys have combed the mortuaries from Yaba to Ikorodu. They have paid informants in every local clinic on the Mainland. Yet, there is no breakthrough. No Anu. Why?”
Afam didn’t hesitate. He kept his eyes perfectly steady, delivering the explanation he had rehearsed a hundred times in his head.
“Sir, it’s because of where he fell,” Afam said, his tone analytical and cold. “The Yaba underbridge sector connects directly to the major canal systems. When I hit him, he didn’t just stumble, he was running on pure adrenaline. A man with two high-velocity rounds in his lungs will collapse within three to five minutes. I believe he crawled into one of those deep drainage channels to hide from me, died there in the dark, and the heavy rains we had last week did the rest.”
Afam leaned in slightly, lowering his voice further. “By now, sir, his body is either buried under tons of refuse in a landfill downstream, or it has been washed deep into the lagoon where the fish have handled it.”
Sunday stared at Afam, his dark eyes unblinking, evaluating the logic. He took a long, slow drag of his cigar, the tip glowing a fierce, angry orange before he blew a cloud of grey smoke directly into the space between them.
“It’s a beautiful theory, Afam,” Sunday said, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft whisper. “And for your sake, I hope it is the truth. But let me remind you of something: our victory is not complete until a loose end like Anu is officially tied up.”
Sunday tapped his heavy gold watch against the glass table with a sharp, rhythmic clack.
“Dead men don’t talk, but missing men are dangerous and can return to strike you when you least expect it. If that boy is alive, if he is sitting somewhere breathing, he is a walking confession. Do you understand me?”
The threat was naked, sharp, and absolute. Afam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he didn’t let his compliance mask slip for a single second.
“Perfectly, Deputy Commissioner,” Afam said, using Sunday’s new title with deliberate, respectful weight. “I know exactly what is at stake. I will personally take the boys out again tomorrow morning. We will widen the search to the waterfronts, the scrap yards, and the transit parks. If he is a ghost, I will find out where he is haunting. If he is flesh and blood, I will ensure the tie-up is finalized myself.”
Sunday looked at him for three long seconds, then the tension suddenly broke from his heavy shoulders. He let out another loud, booming laugh, clapping Afam hard on the back. “Good! That is what I want to hear! Harrison! Pour this young man another drink! He is still thinking like a soldier!”
Afam smiled, raising his glass as Harrison poured more cognac, but his mind was already racing. The clock was ticking faster than he thought. Sunday was getting paranoid, and a paranoid DCP was a monster that would sacrifice anyone to stay clean. He needed to get to Anu before Sunday’s private death squads stumbled upon the truth.
Afam excused himself with a respectful nod, his glass of cognac held firmly in his hand as he stepped away from the loud music and the heavy smoke of the VIP booth. He walked across the polished wood of the rooftop deck, his new Inspector’s boots clicking softly against the floor.
The moment he stepped into the enclosed foyer of the elevator bay, the deafening bass of the lounge was muffled behind thick glass doors. The air here was cooler, conditioned, and empty. Afam stood in front of the metallic elevator doors, watching the illuminated floor numbers count down from the lobby. His fake smile vanished instantly, replaced by a grim, hard line. He dumped the remaining liquor into a potted palm tree in the corner, his mind already spinning through the logistics of his next move.
Back at the leather booth, Sunday Olumiti’s eyes followed Afam until the heavy glass doors swung shut behind the young officer. The jovial, celebratory expression on the newly promoted Deputy Commissioner’s face vanished instantly.
He leaned over the low glass table, his white lace agbada rustling, and sharply gestured with his cigar toward Harrison.
“Harrison,” Sunday muttered, his voice dropping into a low, menacing rasp that didn’t carry past the back of the couch. “Come closer.”
The rugged sergeant immediately leaned down, his ear inches from Sunday’s mouth. “Sir?”
Sunday took a slow, deliberate drag of his cigar, his eyes fixed on the empty elevator foyer. “I don’t trust him.”
Harrison blinked, slightly surprised. “Afam?”
“This story about the elder boy crawling into a canal and washing away into the lagoon… it is too neat. Afam is smart. Too smart. And a smart officer who feels guilty is a dangerous animal.”
Sunday turned his head, his dark, heavy gaze locking onto Harrison’s eyes. “I want you to watch him. Closely.”
“Understand, sir,” Harrison nodded, his expression hardening.
“From this moment, every movement he makes outside the barracks, I want to know about it,” Sunday ordered, tapping his thick finger against the leather seat for emphasis. “Every patrol he takes, every informant he speaks with, every phone call he makes when he thinks he is alone. If he goes to look for a body, you go with him. If he meets anyone who doesn’t wear a uniform, I want a name and a face before they finish talking. If Afam is covering for that boy, or if he is planning a smart move of his own, I want to know before he even thinks it.”
Harrison straightened up, adjusting the heavy service pistol at his waist. “Consider it done, DCP. He won’t take a step without my shadow on him.”
“Good,” Sunday whispered, a dark, satisfied smirk returning to his face as he leaned back into the cushions. “Go. Don’t let him get too far ahead of you tonight.”
Harrison nodded, turned on his heel, and walked toward the elevator bay, leaving Sunday alone with his cigar and his stolen empire.
Afam made his way to the car park and straight to his car. The interior of his old Toyota Camry was baking hot, the vinyl seats holding onto the daytime heat. Afam shut the door, the thick click of the rubber seal muting the ambient street noise of Ikeja. He didn’t turn on the ignition. He didn’t turn on the cabin light.
He reached beneath the passenger seat, his fingers tracking past the metal adjustment bars until they brushed against the rough surface of a magnetic plastic case. He pulled it free and popped the latch, extracting a secondary, completely unlinked mobile phone.
His fingers moved with rapid, defensive precision, punching in the numbers for the cheap Nokia he had thrown at Anu’s chest in the alleyway. He brought the receiver to his ear, his eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the ground-floor car park through his tinted windshield.
“The number you are dialled is switched off or outside network—”
The automated operator’s voice cut off before she could finish. Afam snapped the phone down, his jaw locking. Still off. Anu was playing it smart by keeping the device dead to avoid cell-tower triangulation, but time was running out. Sunday’s dogs were salivating.
Afam shifted to the messaging menu, his thumb clicking the rubber keys in a frantic, silent rhythm.
TODAY. THE AGREED TIME AND PLACE. BE THERE. NEW THREAT.
He hit send. The message queued into the network, waiting for the exact second Anu powered the Nokia back to life in whatever hole he was digging into.
Afam leaned back, preparing to slip the phone back into the magnetic case beneath the seat. But as his hand dipped low, his eyes instinctively flicked up to the side-view mirror.
A shadow had moved.
Near one of the massive square concrete pillars supporting the rooftop lounge, about thirty yards back, a figure stood in the deep twilight gloom. The person was leaning casually against a parked Hilux, but their head was tilted directly toward Afam’s windshield. In the faint reflection of a nearby security lamp, Afam caught the briefest, unmistakable glint of light bouncing off a metallic badge or a watch bezel.
Harrison. Or one of Sunday’s other loyalists.
Afam didn’t freeze. His tactical training took over, keeping his movements smooth and natural from the outside. He knew that if he shoved his hand under the seat right now, an observer looking for suspicious movement would note the exact location of his stash. If they searched his car while he was upstairs or on duty tomorrow, the burner would be found, and the line would lead straight to Anu.
Instead of reaching down, Afam pulled his hand back up into his lap. He slid the slim burner phone down the side of his right ankle, pushing it deep into the thick leather shaft of his ceremonial combat boot until it wedged firmly against his sock, completely hidden by the hem of his starched uniform trousers.
He reached for his primary, official police device on the dashboard, held it up to his ear, and pretended to carry out a brief, animated conversation with a fictitious informant—nodding his head, talking into the dead screen, playing the part of the dedicated newly promoted Inspector.
After a minute, he hung up the fake call, tucked his official phone into his breast pocket, and opened the car door. He stepped out into the humid, pre-dawn air of the car park, locking the vehicle with a loud, mechanical beep.
He didn’t look back at the pillar. He adjusted his uniform belt, squared his shoulders, and began walking back toward the building entrance as if he had simply forgotten something upstairs, his boot pressing hard against the hidden plastic casing against his ankle with every single step.
Afam stepped back onto the rooftop lounge, his expression a practiced mask of routine focus. The music had been dialled down to a low hum, and the morning air was turning a pale, hazy blue over the Ikeja skyline.
He walked smoothly back to the VIP section, where Sunday was pouring himself another small glass of gin.
“Sir,” Afam said, standing at a respectful distance before easing back onto the edge of the leather sofa. “I just got off the line with one of my street connections, a boy who manages the scavengers along the Yaba-Iddo rail line. I told him to pull three of his boys together. We’re going to search the canal paths and the concrete culverts near the lagoon junction this early morning, before the market crowds block the visibility. If Anu’s body caught on the debris, that’s where it will be.”
Sunday paused, his glass halfway to his lips. He looked at Afam, his heavy eyes unblinking, before a slow, approving nod broke his rigid expression.
“Excellent,” Sunday murmured, setting the glass down. “Swift action. That is exactly why you have that new bar on your shoulder, Inspector. You don’t sit around waiting for the paperwork to clear.”
Afam shifted his weight, preparing to stand. “With your permission, sir, I should head down to the vehicle and meet them before the sun gets too high.”
“Sit, sit a moment longer,” Sunday said, waving his thick hand casually, gesturing back toward the leather cushions. “The boys can wait another fifteen minutes. The dead aren’t running away. Sit with me.”
Afam suppressed the sudden spike of adrenaline that threatened to tighten his jaw. He sat back down; the hard plastic edge of the burner phone pressed uncomfortably against his ankle bone inside his ceremonial boot. Every passing minute was a minute closer to the agreed time, and he had no idea if Harrison was already downstairs waiting by his car.
For the next twenty minutes, Sunday became unusually conversational, but the topics were entirely mundane. He talked about the rising cost of importing building materials for his new house in Lekki Phase 1, the upcoming retirement of the old Deputy Commissioner in Zone 2, and the changing politics of the police barracks.
But as they talked, Sunday’s attention was visibly fractured.
Every two or three minutes, the screen of Sunday’s private phone would light up on the glass table. The old man would pick it up, slide his thumb across the glass, read whatever was on the screen with a completely blank face, and then set it back down face-front. He didn’t type any replies. He was just monitoring.
He’s waiting for an alert, Afam realized, his chest tightening as he maintained his side of the casual conversation. He’s waiting for Harrison or his tracking teams to report a sighting.
“Yes, sir,” Afam replied smoothly, commenting on Sunday’s complaint about cement prices. “The local suppliers are making it impossible to finish a foundation without a government contract.”
Sunday grunted in agreement, his eyes flicking down to the glowing phone screen once again as it buzzed with a short, silent vibration. He picked it up, stared at it for five heavy seconds, and then locked the device, slipping it completely into the deep pocket of his white lace agbada.
The old man looked up at Afam, a cold, satisfied smile slowly returning to his face.
“Alright, Inspector,” Sunday said, leaning forward and slapping Afam’s knee with a heavy palm. “Go and find that ghost for me. Let’s make sure this city is completely clean before the weekend.”
