Abuja doesn’t shout like Lagos. It watches.
The roads here are wide and silent, with hedges trimmed like the city is perpetually waiting for an inspection. In December, the tension in the capital tightens. It’s the “End-of-Year Squeeze”, the season of last-minute budget approvals, frantic contract signings, and “favors” being called in before the calendar resets.
Amina landed just before noon. As she stepped out of the terminal, her phone buzzed with a message from the same unknown number.
“WELCOME TO ABUJA. STILL WATCHING.”
She locked the phone, her heart doing a slow thud.
Waiting at the pickup lane was Imran Bello.
Amina had met Imran three years ago at a conference in Geneva. Back then, he was the rising star of Nigeria’s Budget Office, a brilliant analyst who could spot a hidden line item from a mile away. They had bonded over a shared frustration: watching billions of Naira disappear into “interest payments” on loans that never seemed to reach the people. Imran was the insider; the one who saw the data but lacked the power to change the system.
“Amina,” he said, looking at her intently. His suit was crisp, but his eyes were tired. “You look as tired as I feel.”
“Maybe I am.” she said.
As they drove, Imran seemed to be taking longer, looping routes.
“Are you okay? You seem to be on the look out for something or someone. Do we have a tail?” Amina asked.
“I’m not sure I’m okay, and yes, we have a tail,” Imran replied. “Since I started flagging those shadow loans in the national budget, I don’t go anywhere directly because it seems like there’s always someone following me. There’s a group, Amina. They call themselves The Order of the Ledger. On paper, they are just a consortium of lenders and politicians. In reality? They own the debt of this country. And they don’t like people like us looking at the math. I’m sure some of them will be at the policy event.”
Amina leaned back, the name chilling her. The Order. It sounded so formal for something so predatory. Were they the ones sending her those messages from the unknown numbers?
The policy event at the Transcorp Hilton was the definition of Abuja polish.
When it was Amina’s time to address the room, she tried to speak like a partner and advocate.
“Profit isn’t the problem,” she told the room. “But when a bank makes a profit while the borrower loses their livelihood, that isn’t finance, it’s a trap. True ethical finance is a partnership. We share the risk, or we don’t share the reward.”
She saw real nods from the younger crowd, but in the front row, the “Big Men” remained stone-faced. After the session, a young man approached her. “Ma’am, you’re requested in the VIP room.”
Imran was beside her instantly. “I’m coming with her.”
The staff member hesitated. “Sir… the invitation is for Ms. Danjuma alone.”
Imran’s voice went cold. “I’m a Senior Analyst with the Budget Office. If she enters, I enter. Or we both leave.”
A moment later, they were ushered into a freezing room. Three men sat around a glass table, led by Dr. Yakubu, a government adviser whose smile felt like a threat.
“Amina Danjuma,” Yakubu said. “We hear you’re a woman of high principles.”
“I try to be.”
“Principles are expensive,” the man at the head of the table added. He didn’t introduce himself, but the way Dr. Yakubu deferred to him told Amina all she needed to know. He was the “The Order” in human form.
He slid a manila folder across the table. Inside were photos of Amina in London, and then, the photo from the Lagos airport arrival.
“We like to be prepared,” Dr. Yakubu said gently. “We want you to lead a new national committee. You’ll give our new ‘interest-free’ products your stamp of approval.”
Amina looked at the draft term sheet in the folder. It was a mess of hidden fees and compounding penalties. “This is just riba with a different name. I won’t lie for you.”
The head man’s smile thinned. “Careful, Amina. Your mother in Lagos still likes her early morning walks? The end-of-year period is one ridden with so many road dangers, it’ll be a shame for her to encounter any.”
Amina’s phone vibrated. A text from the unknown number.
Careful Amina, COOPERATION is SAFETY.
Outside, the wide Abuja roads felt like a trap.
“They’re on us,” Imran said, eyes on the rearview mirror. A black SUV was two cars back.
“They threatened my mother, Imran,” Amina whispered, her voice shaking.
Imran gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “That’s how they operate. They find the thing you love and put a price tag on it. But they haven’t won yet.”
He took a sharp turn, tires screeching against the dry pavement.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re not going to the hotel,” Imran said, his insider instincts kicking in. “In Abuja, if you want to disappear, you don’t hide in a room. You disappear into the noise.”
He sped toward the Wuse Market area, where the holiday shopping chaos was at its peak. As they merged into a sea of cars and shoppers, Amina looked at the SUV behind them. It was still there, a patient predator in the rearview.
Amina realized with a quiet dread: The “End-of-Year” wasn’t just a holiday. It was a harvest. And The Order of the Ledger had already decided she was the crop.
