As wise as the ants

By Kolawole Adepoju


As the horn sounds reverberate

The soldiers stand for fate

A bind to their nascent promise

Their oath of office

The survival of their race

As their heels hit the terrace



The undenying sound of unison echoes

Thereafter deafening silence

Marching, one foot at a time

Each foot forward a step in the right line

Every step a step to hardwork

The tumultuous water drops

The scorching sun blaze

The whirling wild winds

We have conquered

And as our muddy naked boots strike the ground

Every effort, every sweat worth the prize

Our journey miles

But a toil with a friend inspiring



We all constitute a multitude

But our strength in fortitude

For there is a time

A season for everything

Now is our time to toil

With all our strength and vigor

With all our might and candor

For with tears in our eyes

We secure our lives

Every tear worth a thousand laughs

A mighty bargain

For only those with clairvoyance

Who see beyond the now

For the storms are coming

With its ravaging force of nature


But in the midst of the storm

We would celebrate

With our hearts sunken with laughter

And our mandibles drunk with joy

With our bellies filled with butterflies

With our eyes brimming with life

And with our antenna’s full of pride

In knowing we had overcome

Daddy’s Little Girl

black girl

“Go to daddy,” Mom said, beckoning me to move closer to dad. Mom and Dad were both still in bed, covered in the big, fluffy duvet, with only their faces and necks jutting out. I sat by the edge of the bed, contemplating whether or not to obey Mom.

“You have bed wet again, haven’t you?” Mom said with a frown. “She’s getting too old for this,” she said to Dad.

“Oh baby,” Dad said with a forced smile. “You can come over. It’s okay,” he said to me, before stealing a quick gulp of the drink by his bedside.

I looked at Mom, looked at Dad and then, turned to Mom again.

Mom shook her head, sprang out of bed and dashed into the bathroom.

“She’ll get used to it,” Mom said as she bathed, referring to our current ‘situation’. We had just moved into this one-room apartment. Mom had told me this was only temporary as she and Dad would soon be over their financial problems. What I hated most about our ‘situation’ was that, at eleven, I had to share the same bed with Mom and Dad.

Mom came out of the bathroom, already dressed.

“I have to see Mama Ngozi at the market. She promised to assist me with some money today,” Mom said to Dad. Then she turned to me, “Clean the room before leaving for school. Take this,” she dropped a fifty naira note on the bed. “Get something to eat.” With those words, she kissed Dad and bolted out of the room.

After some time, Dad looked at me with a wry smile.

“Listen,” he said. “If you stop being childish, I’ll treat you like my daughter. Now come to bed to daddy.”

Today, I dreamt a dream.


Today, I dreamt a dream.

That the world came to an end.

I was in a room with my brother. Or whoever it was.
We were doing whatever it was that we were doing. Then, we heard a terrific thud. The glass windows shook but did not break, the doors trembled but did not shatter. My brother and I rushed over to the window. We saw the thick blue sky move.

Like the sea.

It troubled and troubled and troubled. Then, it began merging with the earth, only this time, the earth was not grey or brown. It was blue, just like the sea. Maybe we were in a high storey building by the riverside, overlooking the waters. Maybe it was the watery clouds which troubled above us that had now fallen to the ground. I had no idea. I still have no idea.

But, the sky above us was blue and moving downwards, and the earth beneath us was blue and moving.

Then something happened which I can’t remember. And everything else became blurred. I was not sure what was happening, but I was sure the world was coming to an end. This was not the first, weird, unfathomable dream I would be having about the world coming to an end.

But it sure was a dream.

That the world came to an end.

It’s never too late to say this

goal Photo credit:

My 2015 writing goals?

No. I stopped setting writing goals since…this year.

Now to the purpose of this post… I know this might be coming late, but it’s never too late to say happy new year.  I bless the good Lord who made it possible for us to see 2015. It was not by our power nor by our might. If it had not been the Lord who had been on my side, I would have been history by now. Despite my unfaithfulness, He still showered me with His steadfast love. 2014 was a particularly amazing year for me. Not so great for my writing craft, but in other respect, it was amazeballs!!! For starters, I celebrated one year anniversary at my paid job in December 2014. Wait, did you think I write for a living? Really? Nah, I don’t write (creative fiction/non-fiction) for a living. Not just yet. It’s something I intend doing later in life. For now, I write for the love of the craft. Okay. I was saying I celebrated one year anniversary on my paid job in December 2014. As most of you don’t know, I was thrown into the labour market some two years ago as a Corper (whatever this word actually mean in English). By the end of my service year (December 2013), the good Lord provided me with a job, which, by its requirements, I was the least qualified for. You know when you apply as a youth corper for a job, which basic qualification for, is to have at least 3 years post-NYSC work experience? Yup, that was the sort of job I applied for. And I was hired.

Before December 2014, when I celebrated a year on the job, the Lord blessed me with this beauty below: car   If you are friends with me on facebook, you would have seen my post on the above. One thing you may not know, is that, within two weeks of getting it, I was welcome into the club of fresh owners with three “bashes”. One was self inflicted, the other two were courtesy of our friends who drive that yellow whale on Lagos roads.  Good Lord, did I almost cry?…Anyway, story for another day….

Asides the material gifts, the Lord also blessed me emotionally and spiritually. My mental strength toughened in 2014. I became braver than I was in 2013 and I was able to face and withstand seeming challenges without breaking.

My inter-personal relationship with fellow humans also blossomed in 2014. I love keeping to myself, but in 2014,  I made sure I made some new acquaintances. Just a few, though.

I also tried to know God more. Yes, the key word is “Tried”,because, truth be told, I am not yet where I want to be spiritually. But yes, I grew in that regard in 2014. I just want to better it in 2015.

Health-wise, the Lord was also faithful to me. I did not have any reason to visit any hospital in 2014. It’s been about three years now since I last visited a clinic. And it’s a testimony for me. The closest I came to visiting a place full of drugs is the pharmacy to buy paracetamol.  And oh, I also bought anti-malarial dose once in 2014. *wide grin*

My love life also finally  took a turn in the positive direction for the first time in four years. Shussh..Story for another day.

God has started 2015 in grand style for me as well. On the 6th of January, 2015 as I was driving home from work at night, one of those  fine boys who rob unsuspecting motorists and pedestrians along Iyanoworo/Car Wash axis came over to my car whilst I was in traffic. He pointed a gun at me and demanded for my phone…or my life. I starred at this guy for God-knows-how-long without flinching, not because I was brave, but for whatever-reason-it-was, I did not move at the sight of his gun to my face. As he cocked his gun and made more dramatic demands, God took care of the situation by making a way out. I did not lose any personal belonging or my life. What more can I ask of the Most High who promised us the gift of life and was faithful to His word when I needed it most?   Why am I sharing the above with you? We are encouraged in the following Bible verses to do so: Luke 8: 39, Psalm 71: 15 – 18, Mathew 10:32, 1 John 1: 1- 4.

Let me also use this opportunity to say a big thank you to everyone who visited my blog last year, commented on a post or suggested ways to better my craft. God bless you richly. In 2014, I hit over 100 likes on my facebook page here. Thanks to everyone who like my page, follow me on Twitter, instagram or add me on BBM.

I have a feeling 2015 is going to be an awesome year for everyone reading this. As for my writing, some of my plans that have been incubating for a while now should manifest this year by the grace of God. If you have been following my writing, I would love if you could apply some more pressure on me to write more. I have some “crazy” readers like that. They buzz me every now and then to remind me to post a story or two. I need more of these buzzes. They jolt me out of my struggles-of-life-induced reverie.


An Interview with God

I stumbled on this work which I had saved as a draft in my email since 2008. The words spoke to me like I had just read them for the first time. The source of this work is unknown. Do give it a read. And if you enjoy it, kindly share your thoughts in the comment box below and/or share the post with friends and loved ones.


I dreamt I had an interview with God. “Come in,” God said. “So, you would like to interview Me?”

“If you have the time,” I said.

God smiled and said: “My time is eternity and is enough to do everything; what questions do you have in mind to ask me?”

“What surprises you most about mankind?”

God answered:

  • “That they get bored of being children, are in a rush to grow up, and then long to be children again.
  • That they lose their health to make money and then lose their money to restore their health.
  • That by thinking anxiously about the future, they forget the present, such that they live neither for the present nor the future.
  • That they live as if they will never die, and they die as if they had never lived…”

God’s hands took mine and we were silent for a while and then I asked…”As a parent, what are some of life’s lessons you want your children to learn?”

God replied with a smile:

  • “To learn that they cannot make anyone love them. What they can do is to let themselves be loved.
  • To learn that what is most valuable is not what they have in their lives, but who they have in their lives.
  • To learn that it is not good to compare themselves to others. All will be judged individually on their own merits, not as a group on a comparison basis!
  • To learn that a rich person is not the one who has the most, but is one who needs the least.
  • To learn that it only takes a few seconds to open profound wounds in persons we love, and that it takes many years to heal them.
  • To learn to forgive by practicing forgiveness.
  • To learn that there are persons that love them dearly, but simply do not know how to express or show their feelings.
  • To learn that money can buy everything but happiness.
  • To learn that two people can look at the same thing and see it totally differently.
  • To learn that a true friend is someone who knows everything about them…and likes them anyway.
  • To learn that it is not always enough that they be forgiven by others, but that they have to forgive themselves.”


I sat there for a while enjoying the moment. I thanked Him for his time and for all that He has done for me and my family, and He replied, “Anytime. I’m here 24 hours a day. All you have to do is ask for me, and I’ll answer.”


As an addendum, always remember that,

People will forget what you said.

People will forget what you did,

But people will never forget how you made them feel.


Photo Credit: TeachWithJoy.Com



Let me know what you think. You can follow me on Twitter (click here) and like my Facebook page (click here). Gracias.

Actus Dei

TGIF, people! Unfortunately, due to reasons beyond my control, I won’t be publishing any episode of Amicus Curiae today. I’ll do that next week. I sincerely apologise to every one who had been looking forward to this. My BBM has been on fire since morning when I broke the news vide my PM.


Tolu, Uwah, Daneil, Nkem, Sokoribobo, Ify baby, Mani, Teemee et al, make all of una forgive me, abeg.


To calm flaying nerves, I decided to publish a short story instead. Please do give it a read and let me know what you think. Also use the share button too. It’s free, I promise. O se!


judgeJustice Aderemi-Ishola Fagbohun of the Lagos State High Court walked sluggishly into his seat. He looked downcast and forlorn. His heart was heavy. Although, today was another Monday, which meant another week of hearing the problems of the world had begun, this was not the primary reason for his unhappiness. His unhappiness lay between the thighs of Lara – his standby call girl, who had denied him a gate-pass into her throne of grace over the weekend because he had refused to furnish consideration for the ceremony. What consideration was this? A million naira.

Lara had requested that he gave her a million naira, but Justice Aderemi-Ishola had blatantly refused to oblige her. He did not consider her worthy of such amount of money. Lara was a cheap call girl whom he once picked along Allen Avenue one faithful Friday evening when the call of nature erected a mountain-of-fire consciousness around his groin as he returned home from Court. Justice Aderemi-Ishola has always had the same problem as the legendary King of Israel – the love for a maiden’s garden. He had battled with this personal demon all his life. However, the demon only seemed to have grown bigger since his elevation to the Bench. So, this faithful Friday evening after a hard day in court, he had a visitation from this demon on his way home.

Lara proved to be the very angel he needed that evening as she quenched his ravaging fire with acrobatic, WWE-esque bed moves. She then lit his ravaging fire, quenched it again, lit it once more and quenched it yet again. All in the space of three hours. Within those three hours, Lara transformed the learned Bench into the monster he had always only dreamt of being with his wife. There and then, Justice Aderemi-Ishola knew that he had found heaven. He knew he had to have her all to himself. Thenceforth, he made it a habit to boost her financial health. Every month end, he always sent her gifts wrapped in beautiful linens, accompanied with a hundred thousand naira worth of cheque. Just a hundred thousand naira worth of cheque. He knew the money was not reflective of his status, but he needed not give Lara any ideas that she could have more.

Last week Thursday, everything was about to change. He got a text from Lara requesting that he upped his monthly sacrifice to a million naira. Justice Aderemi-Ishola knew the game was about to change. But he was not ready just yet. Give in to her demand and she would ask for a hundred million naira the next time. These street ratchets were not loyal.

No. He would not accede to her request. If she wanted to call it quits with him, good riddance to her throne of grace.

Last week Friday, Justice Aderemi-Ishola decided to call Lara’s bluff. So, he dialled her line to book the regular visit, but lo and behold, she did not answer. This had never happened before. Ever. She almost always picked his calls on the first ring, like she was always staying on standby, waiting for him to call. There and then, the Learned Bench knew that the house cat had become a Sambisa tiger.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola dialled her number all through the weekend. She still did not answer. Lara was serious about her threat. This morning however, he got a text from her which read,

Dun u efa in ya lif, call ma line agn. Efa!

Justice Aderemi-Ishola grew goose pimples all over his groin. His man swelled like it would explode. There and then, it dawned on him that, his staff of honour had lost a rare gem of inestimable value. Forever. The sweetest garden he had ever harvested was gone. And this saddened him greatly like his mother had died. He felt as if he was carrying the burden of the world on his shoulders. An unfathomable act of god.

“Call the first case,” he said nonchalantly to the court clerk upon recovering from his reverie.

“Suit No: LD/1427/2013: Oluwayemi Falode and six others and Otunba Rasak Onikoyi.”

It was a land dispute suit. The seven Claimants had sued the village head, Otunba Rasak Onikoyi a.k.a Old Money Never Dies for using touts to trespass over their land.

“Parties?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola asked in low tone. He wished the day was over already.

The parties were absent. None of the seven claimants nor the defendant was in court. Justice Aderemi-Ishola could not have been more irritated by their absence.

“Any appearances?”

The Claimants and Defendant’s counsel announced their appearances.

“Why are your clients not in court?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola asked the claimants’ lawyer.

The lawyer, an old man who looked to have clocked past his “death age” stared at the Judge without an answer. He had no answer. He had no idea why his clients were not in court. He had informed them the previous day of today’s proceedings and they had promised to be available. Now they were not here.

“My Lord,” he said with a shaky, unsteady voice. “My clients are on their way. Just before the court sat, they had called to say they were in traffic…”

“Case struck out,” Justice Aderemi-Ishola interrupted. “Registrar, call the next case.”

“What?” the claimants’ lawyer said in disbelief, unconscious of how loud his voice was. “But My Lord…”

“Counsel, I am done with you. Registrar, next case.”

“Petition No: LD/1111/1997: Mrs Patricia Araromire and Mr. Felix Araromire….”

“No! My Lord,” the Claimants’ lawyer persisted. He could not understand what warranted his case to be struck out. This was a case in which he was handling almost pro bono because his clients could not afford his professional fees. They had only given him a paltry sum to file the processes in court and had agreed to be paying him “appearance fees”. If this case was struck out, his clients would not give him a dime for appearing in court today. He could not let that. “My Lord, you can’t strike out our case…”

“Will counsel address the court properly?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola said, his patience running thin. Lara’s text message had destroyed his day.

“I will address My Lord as I want!”

The whole court was in shock. This was an unprecedented reaction from Counsel in court.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola was not in the mood for any hyperactive Hollywood-wannabe Counsel today. He knew what to do.

“Baba, I will charge you with contempt if you don’t keep quiet,” he warned.

“My Lord, the law is trite….”

Justice Aderemi-Ishola had had enough.

“Musa,” he called at his Police Orderly who sat behind him. “Take this man into the box…”

As Musa approached the elderly lawyer, the learned Bench’s phone which was beside his gavel, buzzed. He had a Whasapp message. He stole a quick glance at the message. It was from Lara. Justice Aderemi-Ishola’s face brightened. Slowly, he moved his hands towards his phone to access the message. Lara had sent him twenty Whatsapp messages. They were all provocatively nude pictures of her.

“Jesus,” Justice Aderemi-Ishola whispered unconsciously as he jerked in his seat. Suddenly, his man started rising gloriously underneath his pants. Gradually, it hardened like the rock of Gibraltar. He felt throngs of electrodes fire through his system as the hair on his back rose in attention.

Another message from Lara came in. It read,

If u want dz, mt me @ Room 400 @ 4 Pointz by Sharatin by 10.00 am

Justice Aderemi-Ishola could not believe his eyes. Was this for real? Was the Queen of Sheba returning to Solomon? Was his gate-pass to the throne of grace returned? Oh! How much he had missed her water melon! Lara was one weird floosie. He loved her little games.

Another message from Lara came in.

Not a 2nd late.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola looked at the clock hanging on the wall of the court room. It was five minutes past nine. He looked at the court room. It was as full as a pack of sardine, with expectant faces of lawyers and their clients.

“Let Baba go,” he said to the Police Orderly who was leading the past-death-age lawyer to the dock.

The audience in court were surprised at the sudden turn of events. What was His Lordship up to?

“The court shall go on recess…..till 12pm,” he said, without offering an explanation. He rose, took a bow and scurried out of the court room. The lawyers were left stunned.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola dispensed with his driver and decided to drive himself instead. He was not sure of what he was doing. He did not care. The only thing he was sure of was that, he had to get into Lara’s throne of grace, else, he could run mad. He would run mad. The last three days had been the most miserable in his life.

He cruised his SUV on Lagos roads as a Formula One driver would and by 09.55am, he was already at Four Points by Sheraton in Victoria Island. He hurried over to the elevator and punched the keys like Mike Tyson, his heart pounding like Usain Bolt rode on it. By the time he got to his floor, he was already sweating profusely like a dejected dog drenched by its abusive owner. He pulled his shirt over his fat body as he ran down the hallway. His protruding tummy jiggled like Miley Cyrus on a “wrecking ball”.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola rushed over to the room with Number “400” inscribed on the door and pushed open the door. By now, he was already lost for breath. He bowed his head, his tongue hanging out as he panted. When he raised his head, his eyes witnessed the last thing in the world he had expected to see: his wife.

Their three kids.


His Pastor.



Let me know what you think. You can follow me on Twitter (click here) and like my Facebook page (click here). Gracias.

Amicus Curiae 3: Press Release


Folayemi, her male colleague on striped suit and the man in denim pants rode in the man in denim pant’s Mercedes Benz V12 G65 AMG to the Police Station located along Obafemi Awolowo way at Alausa, Ikeja. The Police station was a ten minutes’ drive from the office.

“This should be fun,” Folayemi’s colleague whispered to her as they walked in through the gate of the Police Station.

Folayemi shook her head mildly in disbelief of her colleague’s excitement. She did not bother herself with a response. Instead, she fetched her Law School log book from her bag and tried jotting a few points from her experience so far.

“You brought your log book along?” her colleague asked. “Why don’t you wait until the day is over so you can have a more comprehensive report to make?”

Folayemi shrugged.

“And why write while walking?” her colleague continued.

“Duhh. Why talk while walking?” she retorted.

The man in denim pants was ahead of them. He waved at a few Police officers who saluted as they walked past. It was obvious he was a familiar face. They arrived at the counter at the station. Boldly pinned to the counter was a cardboard cut-out with the inscription: THE POLICE IS YOUR FRIEND. On the mutilated walls of the lounge hung another cardboard cut-out with the inscription: BAIL IS FREE.

The dirty walls of the lounge were defaced with several ragged posters and loose electricity cables. The damp stench of body odour, faeces and cigarette oozed from the adjacent hallway which held the cells. Folayemi used her log book as cover for her nose.

“Oga Bee, welcome,” a haggard-looking officer in faded uniform saluted the man in denim pants.

“Joe, how far?” he saluted back.

“Oga, I dey kakaraka,” the officer responded. “Wetin carry you come here again?”

In a few minutes, the man in denim pants disclosed the reason for his visit and requested that his client be brought to him. His client, a young man in his mid-thirties was ushered into the lounge. An aura of affluence hung around him. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored Ankara outfit and had a gold Rolex wrapped around his wrist. Folayemi was surprised that, the man was allowed to keep his personal belongings. His aqua-scented cologne filled the air in the lounge. He looked wealthy, but he also looked scared.

The client, the man in denim pants, Folayemi and her colleague in striped suit were ushered into a small private room close-by on the request of the man in denim pants. In there, the client relayed the reason for his arrest. He was calm and soft-spoken as he gave detailed, unwavering account of what had transpired. He looked tired. He looked weak. He looked lost.

“Has your statement been taken yet?” the man in denim pants asked.

His client – Bamidele Odusote – shook his head.

A policeman who stood by the wall kept focused eyes on the other four occupants in the room.

“I told them I wouldn’t do so until I saw my lawyer. So I called Nwachukwu, but he directed me to your law firm. He said you are the best in these type of cases,” Bamidele said.

“Oh yes. Nwachukwu and I were colleagues both at the University of Uyo and at the Law School, Abuja Campus. He brings impossible briefs to us….”

“Tell me you can get me out of this mess,” Bamidele cut in. His shirt was getting soiled with sweat. He looked scared. “I did not kill my girlfriend… I have done terrible things in my life,” he said in a whisper. “Yes, I may have meddled in corporate fraud, forgery, manipulate financial standings of my companies… Just about any corporate sin you can think of… But murder? To kill a human?” A ball of tear welled up in his right eye as he spoke. “I had only just delivered a lecture last night… and Bimbo was not even with me… I have not seen her in three weeks… Who could want her dead? Who could want her dead?” he asked rhetorically. “Please tell me you can get me out of this?”

The man in denim pants looked assuredly into Bamidele’s eyes and said, “We’ll give it our best shot. We have never lost a case and this won’t be the first…. This isn’t even a court case yet. It’s just a Police matter…”

“I swear to you, I did not kill her,” Bamidele pleaded his innocence, his voice breaking. “I loved Bimbo to dea…I loved Bimbo to bits. We were soul mates. I wouldn’t …” He squeezed his hands like he was strangling an imaginary neck. “I wouldn’t ….”

“I know,” the man in denim pants said as he held Bamidele’s shaky hands. “I believe you.”

Folayemi and her colleague in striped suit looked surprised. How could the man in denim pants possibly clear Bamidele Odusote of any guilt without proof? What if Bamidele Odusote was putting up a show?

Folayemi did not have the guts to ask the man in denim pants. Neither did her colleague. Both students kept taking as much notes as they could. They could not wait to share the excitement of their first day of chambers attachment with their colleagues. Then, they heard some noise in the hallway. Sounds of footsteps approached the door. A corporal burst into the room and shut the door quickly. He signalled silent pleasantries to the other Policeman in the room and said, “Oga, you have to write your statement now.” His words were directed at Bamidele Odusote.

“Why the hurry?” the man in denim pants asked.

The corporal, panting hard, replied, “the press is here.”


“What has that got to do with my client?” the man in denim pants asked.

The corporal looked at his colleague. “Oga said he would appear before the press,” he said, pointing at Bamidele.

“Oga? Which Oga?” the man in denim pants asked, looking confused. “My client will be paraded? What?”


“Who ordered this?” the man in denim pants broke the silence. “Who is your Oga?”

“Oga DPO,” was the short reply.

At this sudden turn of events, the man in denim pants was hit hard with deep thoughts. He could not wrap his head around the reality that a man who was only just arrested on allegation of committing a crime, would be thrown to the press to be devoured, just a few hours after his arrest and before investigations were concluded. He knew the Police sold sensational stories to the press, but he could not understand how this could happen so soon. From experience, he knew that most suspects who were usually paraded before the press were those who refused to “cooperate” or “drop something for the boys”. Did the Police ask for bribe from his client?

“Did the Police ask for a bribe upon arresting you?” he quickly asked Bamidele.

“No,” was the quicker response. “Why?”

The two Police men in the room scoffed.

“Never mind.” The man in denim pants turned to Folayemi and said, “I need you to go out there and disperse the press men.” The instruction was very direct and unequivocal. “Now.” It needed no questions for clarification.

Folayemi scuttled out of the private room and walked sheepishly into the open visitors’ lounge at the station. The terrifying presence of quite a number of media houses was heavily registered there. The haggard faces of the journalists brightened up when they saw a figure walk into the lounge. But the excitement blotted out from their faces as soon as it had appeared when they noticed it was just a girl. A young looking girl.

One of the journalists – a woman – beckoned to the Folayemi. “Pssssss, do you work here?”

“No,” Folayemi answered.

The journalist heaved a deep sigh. Folayemi could spot the inscription “ChannelsTV” on her microphone.

“We heard Bamidele Odusote of Bamz Holdings was arrested. We had hoped he would be brought forth to confess before camera,” the journalist said with a giggle. “Do you know what cell he is?”

Folayemi looked at the journalist without saying a word, thinking of an answer. She did not know how to address the journalist, let alone the crowd in the room which she would have to face in no distant time. She was just a law student on chambers attachment who had hoped the chambers she was posted to would cut her some slack and allow her study for the bar finals. She never expected to be thrown into the fray of Police matters on her first day of attachment. She never expected to work at all during the chambers attachment period. Prior to the commencement of the attachment programme, she had heard news of how most law firms treated law students who were posted to their firms for the compulsory chambers attachment. These law firms would rather have the students study their books each day of the attachment period in preparation for the bar finals. Folayemi did not expect OakTree Partners to be any different.

“Hello?” the journalist jolted her out of her reverie. “”Do you happen to have an idea which cell Mr. Odusote is?”

What do I say to these journalists to keep them away? Folayemi thought, anticipating her next move for the crowd in the room.

Think! Think!

“I think he is in a cell far away,” Folayemi heard herself say.

“What’s that?” the journalist asked. “What cell? How did you know?”

“I’m a student of Mass Communications at Unilag.. Currently doing my industrial attachment with 123 Media…. I came here because I heard some story…”

“Oh,” the journalist nodded her head. She then pulled Folayemi to one corner in the lounge. “So you have heard about Mr Bamidele’s arrest?”

Folayemi nodded.

“Umm, why was he arrested? Any ideas?” the journalist pressed.

Folayemi shook her head. “I really don’t know… but I heard…” Her eyes roved round the room as her partner listened with rapt attention. “I heard…”

“Come on, you can tell me. I promise I won’t say a word.”

Folayemi swallowed spittle which had formed in her mouth. “I heard he has been transferred to Zone 2 at Ikoyi for questioning.”

“What? We heard he was detained here,” the journalist asked in a whisper, looking surprised.

“Yes. He was arrested last night and brought here, but was taken in the wee hours of this morning to Zone 2 for questioning…”

“Why would they do that?”

Folayemi shrugged. “I guess orders from above.”

The journalist nodded. “That’s true. He is a powerful man after all.”

Folayemi nodded. She remembered how Bamidele shivered like a baby while recounting his story in the private room.

Powerful man indeed.

“So tell me, how did you hear of his arrest?” she asked the journalist.

The journalist smiled. “Ordinarily, I shouldn’t be telling you this but since you’ve been of help to me and you are a young colleague in the profession I’ll give you a tip. Make friends with the Police and wet a few palms. Once an arrest is made and the story is quite interesting, you will be the first to know of it.” The smile broadened on the face of the journalist. “I hope you understand?”

Folayemi nodded even though she would have wanted more explanation on the “wet a few palms” part of the sentence. “Thanks,” she said instead.

The journalist nodded, then, brought out her complimentary card. “Modupe Fagbohun is the name. Give me a ring. Whenever.”

Before Folayemi could respond, the journalist scurried out of the lounge in such haste. Other crew members who had the “ChannelsTV” tag on, joined her. Folayemi noticed that the remaining media houses personnel also joined the rush. She wondered how they knew where Modupe Fabgbohun was heading to. Then a press man with a “Punch” badge on his chest turned around and said, “Thank you. Your whisper was loud enough.”

Folayemi smiled. Her loud whisper was deliberate. Now, there was only one place the press was heading to.