You wake to the sharp pangs of hunger, twisting deep in your gut like a living thing. Your insides coil and convulse before slowly settling into a hollow ache. Left hand clutching your stomach, you press your right palm against the cold tiled floor, using it to haul yourself upright. 

You try to stand, but the room tilts and sways around you so you sink back down, weakness seeping into your limbs. Days have passed without food, and your body protests with every tremor.  

“Mommy, he’s awake!” a small, bright voice calls out. China, your youngest niece.  

“Okay, I’m coming,” replies a familiar voice, and something else that is not hunger twists coldly in your chest.  The slap of flip-flops against the floor grows louder, announcing Meggie—formerly your Meggie, now your sister-in-law, slightly younger, impossibly beautiful, and achingly caring.  

“It’s been two days. I’m worried. Won’t you eat something?” Her eyes search yours, concern threading every word.  You try to smile, but it falters.  

“Really though, Sisi, I’m fine. It hasn’t even been two days, and the pastor said at least three.”  

“But God sees your heart,” she insists. “Look at you, you’re shaking all over.”  

“I have to be more desperate, Sisi. God is busy. I have to snag His attention by starving.”  

Meggie shakes her head, exasperated. “See me, I don’t like this at all. Tomorrow’s the third day, right? I’m in the kitchen right now, baking cinnamon rolls. Once it’s twelve, you are eating. And God better answer your prayers.”  With that, she leaves, the echo of her steps fading, and you sigh, still slumped on the floor, hollow and achingly alone.  

“Oh no! Mommy is angry!” a tiny, dramatically accented voice whispers-shouts from behind the chair.  You smile despite yourself. 

“China, when did you even get here?”  Silence. No reply. You try again, your voice half-laughing. “I won’t let you watch cartoons on my phone if you don’t come out now.”  

Almost instantly, a burst of giggles erupts as she darts forward, leaping onto your legs, still laughing uncontrollably.  

“What are you even doing there?” you ask, tickling her gently.  

“Mommy said you were shaking… shaky, shaky, Uncle!” she giggles, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.  

“And where are Paris and America?” you ask, continuing the tickles.  

“Paris is—” she giggles, barely able to speak through laughter, “Paris is sleeping! America is sleeping!” She drags out the word sleeping like it’s a magic spell.  Breathless now, she blurts, “Uncle don’t want to eat.”  

“It’s not that I don’t want to eat,” you sigh, the words heavy on your tongue. “It’s that… I can’t. I just cannot eat.”  

“You cannot eat?”  

“Yes. And it’s because I’m fasting. I have to fast because—” You pause, staring at her. The words falter. “What am I even doing having this conversation with you?”  

You look down at your niece, her little fingers twisting the hem of her rainbow-colored dress.  

“Well,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I want to talk, and you’re the only one I have to talk to right now, so China… story, story.”  

“Story,” she echoes, distractedly, still playing with her dress.  

“There were two boys, Dube and Ebele. What did I say?”  No response. You sigh, shaking your head. 

“China, if you follow my story, I’ll buy you that pineapple stick sweet you love.”  

“Dube and Ebele!” she answers eagerly, her eyes locking onto yours. You feel no shame whatsoever in bribing a four-year-old.  

“Okay,” you continue, “so there were two boys—Dube and Ebele. They were brothers, cousins. Both incredibly bright, both clever in their own ways. Ebele was the strategist, the thinker—someone who could scheme and plan years in advance. Dube, well… Dube was the realist. Bold. Outspoken. Fearless. The kind of person who put himself on the stage and never looked back.”  You chuckle softly. 

“Together, they were a perfect team. Ebele worked expertly behind the scenes while Dube took the spotlight in everything they did. It was a dance they had perfected over years—a dance of brains and bravado, of plans and daring moves, each covering the other’s blind spots.  Like all kids, they wanted to do big things, achieve things, change things. They had dreams, but, you see, China, life has a way of tapping you on the leg and saying, ‘Hello, you’ve been dreaming for too long. Wake up and face the real world.’ 

‘In their case, it wasn’t just the world. It was the country they were born into.  Ebele and Dube were passionate about many things: fashion trends, entertainment, news, sports, but most of all, politics. They wanted to know. They wanted to share. They wanted justice, fairness, equality. So, in their university days, they started an internet blog: Tea with D and E.  

“At first, it was just petty school gossip. Who was dating whom, which lecturer had a new car, the usual. A few online followers trickled in. But then, in their final year, something happened—a single incident that would change everything and catapult them far beyond the small world of their campus.  

“It was near the end of the academic year when rumors spread that the staff had not been paid in months. The news reached Tea with D and E, and the brothers sprang into action. They organized a protest, a peaceful one. They were loud, they were angry, but above all, they were patriotic.  

“On the first day, they were at the forefront, leading the march while their blog carried the story online. They called for others to join, tagging TV stations and news outlets. By the end of the day, the streets were alive with people echoing their demands.  

“The second day saw the same energy, the same determination. By the third day, their efforts had captured the attention of the state’s Minister of Education. The strikes were suspended, the staff paid, and the brothers’ names began to spread beyond campus. Interviews followed. Praise poured in. Across platforms, they were celebrated for their courage, their passion, their youthful energy, a pair of students who refused to stand by and watch injustice unfold.  

“Okay, okay… this is beginning to sound boring,” you murmur, leaning down to look at China, who has fallen asleep on your lap, “…like I’m reading from a biography, singing their praises and whatnot. But I tell you, China—”  You stop, a soft chuckle escaping, bitter and hollow. What were you even thinking, telling her this story? Yet the truth waits ahead, the part that changes everything, the part you must confront: the brothers’ sudden rise to fame, their sudden fortune, and the equally sudden fall—all triggered by one man, Senator Sani.  

You remember it all like it happened yesterday. Bright-eyed, salt on their skin, fresh out of university, they’d first met him at home. He wouldn’t say how he’d found them, only that a man like him had access to a lot of information, and that he had a proposition.  When they asked him what he wanted, he smiled and said he simply wanted to be their godfather: to set them up for life and hand them their first well-paying gig. Then, without another word, he drops a Ghana-must-go bag onto the floor of their room and parlor, along with his card, and leaves.  They tear open the bag to find it overflowing with naira notes. Screams of disbelief and joy escape them, lasting a full forty seconds. They were rich.  

It wouldn’t be long before he set them up further, eventually giving them their own radio station. Their first job was to push his campaign. And with the nation’s ears and hearts already listening, they succeeded. He ran for governorship and won.  They feasted on the national cake, growing robust and confident. However, as with all overeating, one side effect emerged: the gradual forgetting of who they were. 

With each endorsement, each sponsorship, each political favor, one line of their creed was buried, then another, until the young men they saw in the mirror—the 20-something idealists devoted to justice and fairness—were gone.  They knew they had crossed the line. They had covered up enough bribery, enough scandals, enough extortion, to know that the dark side had claimed them. They weren’t sure exactly when it had happened, but they knew it had.  

You are exhausted now. The hunger of the past two days is finally catching up with you, gnawing at every bone. Regret seeps in. You shouldn’t have started this story. Why tell your niece about you and your brother? You don’t want to remember the past, but it’s too late now.  The door is unlocked, and the memories come flooding in, vivid and relentless. Especially that day. 

You’ll never forget it. Who could have imagined that everything could change in just twenty-four hours?  You and your brother, Ebele had been living together for a while. It was a wise arrangement. It made working together easier. Besides, it was a big house, and you rarely got in each other’s way. You were about to leave that evening when an unfamiliar car rolled out of the driveway. Ebele returned, face grim.  “Who was that?” you asked.  “That?” he replied. “Oh, just Governor Sani’s PA.”  And you weren’t told he was coming? Strange.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he added. “It wasn’t a serious visit. Just stopped by to say hi.”  As busy as he was, something didn’t add up but you pushed it aside. You had a date, and that was on your mind. You shrugged off the unease, climbed into your car, about to drive off, when sirens pierced the air.  

At first, you thought nothing of it. Some top clients arrived with police escorts. But then the cars blocked your exit. 

That was unusual. 

Then they marched into your house and dragged Ebele out in handcuffs. 

That was very unusual. 

Then they came to your car, roughly yanking you out, slapping cuffs on your wrists. 

Unthinkable.  

The handcuffs were ugly, biting, cold. Your irritation flared. They had no right. You shouted, demanding answers, invoking your connections, your authority. But they ignored you, backing out of the compound, heading toward the station with you and your brother in the backseat. Rage boiled over. Ebele remained silent, unnervingly calm.  

In the station, they placed you both in a massive, dark cell. Just the two of you. Hours passed—two, perhaps more—while frustration burned and questions remained unanswered. Weariness finally crept in. You turned to Ebele, seeking at least his presence.  

“And you… you’ve just been keeping quiet while letting these imbeciles—” your voice rose, shaking with fury, “—treat us like dirt!”  

“I’m here, Dube,” came his soft, steady voice from the darkness.  

“Oh,” you mutter. It was so dark you hadn’t even noticed.  

“I know. Follow my voice. Come and sit down.”  

You obeyed, sliding beside him, backs pressed to the cold wall.  “What is happening, Ebele? I—I—I don’t understand,” your voice cracked, the last reserves of your energy spilling out. 

“Do you remember how we started?” His voice was soft but steady. “School blog. We wanted to write all the wrongs. We looked at the politicians in power, judged them. Dirty bastards, we called them. We said we’d come into the system and do things differently. Do you remember? What happened, Dube? How did we become enablers of the same dirty bastards?”  

You knew what he was asking. “We grew up. That’s the bitter truth. We saw the game for what it was, rigged against guys like us from the start. But why all these questions now? This isn’t the time.”  You sigh, rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your left arm. 

This conversation was exhausting but perhaps it was the right time to finally say what you’d wanted to say for a long time.  “But as much as I believe we did what we had to do to survive… I regret it. I regret all of it. I’ve felt it for a while now. I want to retire. I want to quit. I want out. Call it what you will, but I don’t want to do this again. I won’t do it again, Ebele.” Your voice began to break. 

“Look at us now, ‘ you continue, “ who knows why exactly we are here? Which atrocity, in the name of PR, did we commit to land us here? Which of our sins? I’m tired… really tired. And I know we can’t undo years of damage and lies, but I want to try. I want a clean conscience. Maybe I’ll create a foundation… send kids to school. Try to live a normal, quiet life. You know, I had a date today with Meggi. I really like her. I want to get married, have three kids, maybe give them silly names, names of countries or whatever, just because it’ll sound posh.”  You laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “I just want out.”  

“I knew you’d say this.” His voice turned cold. “I suspected it, actually. So you want to live small? Die small?” 

You wonder why his anger was directed at you.  

“Inspector Bolu!” He calls, “We’re done here. Let me out of here!”  

You are lost. You don’t understand.  A torchlight flashes across the hallway, keys jingle. You watch, baffled, as someone opens the iron doors. Ebele strides out, cuffs being unlocked from his hands. You keep watching because you still don’t understand.  He steps out and the doors clang shut behind him. 

Just like that. No explanation. 

He doesn’t look back.  

It wasn’t until seven years later that you heard from him again. That was four months ago. He came to visit for the first time, saying he wanted to take you out. He looked older—chubbier, rounder in the belly. You thought you even glimpsed a few strands of grey in his hair.  He apologized. He explained that, seven years prior, Governor Sani had learned of irrefutable evidence that his opponents possessed, evidence enough to send him to jail for tax fraud. And they couldn’t let that happen. No, they simply couldn’t.  

He said it was Governor Sani’s PA, the one you had seen that day, who had informed him that a solution had been found to acquit the governor, but someone would have to take the fall temporarily. Collateral damage for the greater good. 

You knew how these things worked and simply nodded.  He confessed that he had given you up because he knew you wouldn’t mind taking one for the team. He even shed a few tears there in the visiting cell, but when you looked at him, your gaze was empty. You felt nothing.  

He explained that your last court hearing had technically sentenced you to life imprisonment, but he had leveraged contacts high up to intervene, paying off the system and substituting a petty thief or robber in your place.  He spoke as though he had done you a favor, expecting gratitude in return. You felt none. 

You walked out that day, and you breathed the sun directly for the first time in seven years.  You drove home with him and met his family: his wife, Meggie—your Meggie—you didn’t know how that had happened, and he hadn’t told you; and their three children, Paris, China, and America. Names of countries, just like you’d said you wanted to name yours. 

That night, you sit on the floor of your room and cry until morning.  

It has been four months now. You’ve dusted off your CV, trying to piece your life back together. You’ve applied for countless jobs, only to be turned down without explanation.  Ebele has said you can live with him forever, and that he wants to employ you. You heard it, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you would rather die than accept it.  

So here you are, on a three-day dry fast, hoping for a break, a chance to prove yourself on your own terms. 

A tear slides down your cheek, unnoticed.  With China in your arms, you rise and carry her to her room, placing her gently in her bed. Then you begin walking toward the kitchen, mind wandering. You pause, shrug, and think:  Cinnamon rolls.