Port Harcourt isn’t Lagos. It carries a different kind of heat.
Not the festival heat of Lagos. Not the dusty pressure of Abuja. PH heat feels industrial; oil, engines, metal, money. The air smells like fuel and saltwater, and the city moves like it knows someone is always watching.
Tari Briggs watches a container truck reverse into his yard and feels his chest loosen slightly.
One delivery completed. One payment coming.
February has been a grind. The “New Year” energy has evaporated, clients are still dragging their feet, and the “managing” excuse has become a permanent anthem. But Tari has always believed one thing: if your work is clean and your name is clean, you can survive
He is thirty-four. Logistics operator. Quiet confidence. The kind of man who doesn’t talk too much because he understands the cost of loose words in a city where money and danger sometimes share the same phonebook.
His phone rings.
It’s his younger brother, Boma.
“Tari,” Boma says, voice too fast. “You dey where?”
“At the yard,” Tari replies. “Why?”
Boma hesitates. “I need small help.”
Tari closes his eyes. February is when the bills truly start to bite. “How much?”
“Not plenty,” Boma says quickly. “Just small. My guys say we fit do one job. Fast money.”
Tari’s jaw tightens. “Which kind job?”
“Oil money,” Boma says carefully, as if wrapping a lie in tissue. “Just transport. Nothing illegal.”
Tari’s voice turns low. “Boma. Don’t play with that. Oil money is rarely clean.”
“It’s just one run,” Boma insists. “Everybody dey do am. Man must survive this February.”
Tari exhales. “No.”
Silence on the line. Then anger. “So you want me to suffer?”
Tari’s voice is firm. “I want you alive.”
Boma hangs up.
Tari stares at his phone for a moment. Then he puts it away, as if locking the worry inside his pocket will keep it from spreading.
Later that day, Tari drives to meet a client at a waterfront restaurant. As he parks, he notices two things.
First, a black SUV across the road, engine running, windows dark.
Second, a man he doesn’t recognize leaning on the restaurant wall like he’s waiting for someone.
Tari’s instincts flicker.
Inside, the client smiles too widely.
“Tari my brother! Happy new year. Well, the year is already running. But we have something sweet for you.”
Tari sits. “Talk.”
The client leans forward. “You help us move something. Not too much. You collect your money. Everybody smiles.”
Tari’s eyes narrow. “What is ‘something’?”
The client laughs. “Bro, don’t ask. If you ask too much, you go spoil business.”
Tari stands immediately. “Then no business.”
The client’s smile disappears. “Tari, don’t be holy. Everybody dey do am.”
Tari’s voice stays calm. “Everybody doesn’t carry my name.”
He walks out.
Outside, the man by the wall watches him. The black SUV starts moving.
Tari’s heart beats once, hard.
He drives off, careful, not panicked. But he notices that the SUV follows.
One turn. It follows.
Second turn. Still there.
Tari takes a busier road, merging into traffic. The SUV keeps pace like it has time.
His phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
He doesn’t answer. A message comes in. He doesn’t open the message. He just drives faster.
Finally, at a junction crowded with hawkers and angry drivers, the SUV slows, boxed by traffic, and Tari slips away.
He exhales shakily and pulls into a petrol station to breathe.
His phone buzzes again.
This time, he opens it.
You walked away from easy money. Respect. But we still need you. It’s time to cooperate.
Tari’s stomach drops.
He deletes the message. Immediately.
As if deleting it deletes the reality.
That evening, Tari returns home and finds his mother waiting, face tight.
“Where is Boma?” she asks.
Tari’s chest tightens. “Isn’t he home?”
She shakes her head. “He never came back.”
Tari calls Boma.
No answer.
He calls again.
No answer.
He tries Boma’s friends. One refuses to speak. Another says, “Oga, make you no vex” and hangs up.
Tari’s hands go cold.
At midnight, a number calls him.
Unknown.
He answers.
A calm male voice. “Mr. Tari Briggs. Good evening.”
Tari’s throat dries. “Who is this?”
“You know who we are,” the voice says gently. “We gave your brother an opportunity. He entered. He owes.”
Tari’s voice shakes with anger. “Where is he?”
“Safe,” the voice replies. “For now.”
Tari’s chest burns. “What do you want?”
“Partnership,” the voice says, smooth. “You have credibility. You have routes. You have assets. We can fund you properly. Clean structure.”
Tari’s laugh is bitter. “You kidnapped my brother and you’re selling me ‘clean structure’?”
The voice stays calm. “Nigeria is complicated, Mr. Tari. We solve complications.”
Tari’s fists clench. “Release him.”
“Tomorrow,” the voice says. “Come to Lagos. You will meet someone. You will understand the ask and who is asking.”
The call ends.
Tari sits in the darkness, breathing hard.
February is tight. True.
But this isn’t just a tight month; this is a current pulling him under.
His phone buzzes one last time.
A location pin. Lagos, and a line beneath it:
Come, for your brother’s future.
Tari stares at the screen, then whispers to the empty room, “God help me.”
