In the glow of his opulent home office, Roger Wakefield furrowed his brows as he typed furiously on his laptop, crafting a carefully worded article to respond to the mounting complaints from Ghanaians. It had been a wonderful night out with Asahene, Hubert and the other guys. Sure, they had trolled him relentlessly for not having any interest in philandering, but he didn’t care much. Cheating on his wife was a no-no for him, and no amount of mockery would change that.
That aside, it had been great. Lots of laughs, lots of wine, and lots of enjoyment.
Also, there was the tiny little matter of his boys successfully snatching that disrespectful pastor and taking him out of town to deal with him. The plan had worked perfectly, and this time, there would be no disappointment. With the type of punishment they’d dish out to him, he would be a totally different man with a new mindset.
Now it was time to get this article in order, to trash the complaints of Ghanaians about the numerous taxes. They needed to know that they had a role to play in building their country, and that only ungrateful and lazy people whined about having to pay taxes.
Halfway through, he decided to call one of the boys. “Let’s see if they’re getting the work done,” he murmured. “By now, they should be giving it to him paaa.”
He searched for the contact and dialled.
The MTN number you are calling is currently switched off. Please try later.
He looked at the phone in surprise. “Ah, but why the hell would Kwesi-T turn off his phone?” he wondered out loud. “Is it just the network or something? Chale, let me try again.”
He attempted two more times, only to be met with the same response.
“Ah, na this boy paaa! How do you turn your phone off at this time?” he grumbled. “This thing that I’ll want to see for myself how they’re tormenting that idiot. Ah, what kind of foolish boy…”
His rant to self was interrupted by the vibration of his phone. He looked and saw the number of the President. He frowned. “Ei, na why is he calling me around 3 am in the morning? Is there an emergency? Well, let’s see.”
He answered. “Why hello, Mr. President,” he cheerily greeted. “To what do I owe this-“
“Roger, cut the foolish crap! What the hell is wrong with you? How could you be so stupid? Huh?!”
Roger sat up in confusion. “Ah! But, Your Excellency, why?” he demanded, immediately miffed by that biting retort from the first gentleman of the land.
“Don’t play stupid with me, do you understand? I’m not a child. What did I tell you about that Mensah-Jones pastor? Huh? Did I not tell you specifically not to touch him in any way?”
“Uhhh, yeah, you did. Why?” Roger enquired, pretending to be confused.
“Word is out that you ordered the abduction of Pastor David Mensah-Jones. Four young men, under your orders, apparently took from his home and took him as far as Asamankese. And according to sources, including one of the young men, they were involved in an accident, with three of them dying on the spot, and the last one confessing that you sent them before he also passed on. Somehow, the man of God isn’t dead. Not even a scratch.”
What the absolute hell? Roger gasped internally, stunned to hear this. So the plot had backfired? They didn’t even get to the warehouse?
For the love of God, what is this? How stupid are those boys? Driving to that place too is a problem? Ahhh! And how the hell did he survive that?
“Ummm, Your Excellency, I assure you that I have absolutely no idea of what you’re talking abo-“
“Please, please, please! Don’t annoy me! You think a dying man will just mention your name for fun? In any case, they checked the young men’s phones, and everything connected to this mission traces back to you. Roger, I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you. Now look at what you’ve done!”
Roger, quite irritated at this point, stared at the phone and sneered at it, mocking the President’s sentence.
The President’s tone hardened. “Now listen to me, and listen well. We can’t afford to have any association whatsoever with this, and I can’t have the government linked to such actions. So Roger, this is an order. Turn yourself in. Immediately.”
Roger stared at the phone in disbelief. “What??”
“You heard me, Wakefield. There’s nothing else I can do; your fingerprints are all over this, and the police already have a warrant for your arrest. Turn yourself in immediately. We can’t afford a scandal of this magnitude to taint our government, and you know that damn well. Maybe next time, you’ll listen to instructions before running off on a frolic of your own.”
Roger’s jaw clenched, his blood boiling. Of all the things to suggest to him!
“Herh, is that what you’re telling me? After all I’ve done for you-“
“Don’t play that card with me, Roger! It won’t work! I said turn yourself in, and that’s an order. I’m not covering up for you when you can’t obey simple instructions.”
Roger narrowed his eyes. “Mr. President, you must be deluded if you think I’ll do that. Hell no! I won’t sacrifice myself for your political convenience. You know me better than that.”
The president, now livid, bellowed, “This is not a negotiation, Roger! This is an order from the President of the Republic of Ghana! Turn yourself in or face the consequences!”
Roger’s scornful laughter cut through. “I’m afraid I don’t take orders from you anymore, Mr. President. Goodbye.”
He hung up and quickly switched his phone off. “Stupid man,” he snarled. “If it wasn’t for my money you used to campaign, would you even have the chance to become president? Idiot!”
He rose to his feet and closed the laptop. The article was no longer important. If there really was a police warrant out, he needed to escape as quickly as possible. There was no way he’d stick around for any policeman to slap handcuffs on him.
He needed to act fast.
He picked up one of his other phones, scrolled through the contacts, and found the number he was looking for. He dialled.
“Hello? Yes, yes, Joseph, good morning… Yeah, yeah, look, I know this is rather impromptu, but I’ve just been asked to make my way to South Africa. Pretoria, to be exact. Can you make one of your jets available for me?… Yes, yes, I’m heading to Pretoria… great, great, perfect. Yes, I’ll be at the airport in the next thirty minutes… alright, good. Bye.”
Nodding at how effortless that went, he scrolled through the list again, found the other number he wanted, and called.
“Hello, Imoro! Imoro, listen, come to my place right now and take me to the airport. Right now… what is ‘ei, boss’? I said come and take me to the airport. Now! I’m waiting for you… my friend, how does that concern you? Hurry up and come and pick me! Now!”
He hung up, taking a look at the time. “I need to be out of here within the next ten minutes,” he muttered to himself. “The faster I get out of here, the better…”
***
Taking a delicate sip of champagne, Roger leaned back, his gaze on the runway as the private jet’s engines roared to life. “Ah, Roger Wakefield, always one step ahead of the curve,” he muttered to himself, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
Imoro had arrived just in time to take him to the airport. Thankfully, the few police checkpoints he would have passed were unmanned, so the journey to Kotoka International Airport was smooth and eventless.
And by the time he arrived there, the private jet was ready and waiting for him.
His impromptu plan had worked perfectly. Now he could sneak out of the country before anyone else knew he had even planned to leave.
As the jet taxied on the runway, Roger continued his gloating monologue. “The President won’t know what hit him. By the time he realizes I’m gone, I’m sipping some sweet cocktails kraa on some tropical island bi somewhere. You think I’ll turn myself in? To do what? Go and sit in prison? Tweakai!”
The champagne glass clinked against the tray table, and Roger lifted it for another triumphant sip. “To freedom and enjoyment galore!” he declared to himself, taking the sip.
He put it down…
… and a sudden searing pain erupted in his chest. His eyes widened, his face contorted in pain, and he doubled over with a sharp groan, the glass slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor.
The air hostess who served him with the champagne turned, hearing his groan. “Mr. Wakefield?” she called to him in concern, moving slowly towards him.
Gasping for breath, Roger clutched his chest, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. “My heart! My heart!” he whimpered, a claustrophobic feeling suddenly closing in on him. “Please… help…”
The colour slowly draining from his face, he slumped backward in his seat, consciousness fast slipping away.
“Emergency! Emergency! Tell the pilot to halt the plane! We need medical assistance! ASAP!”
***
Many moments later, after the frantic efforts of the on-board medical team, the paramedics who had swiftly responded to the emergency call, and the state-of-the-art equipment at their disposal, the cabin was filled with an eerie silence. The once-confident Roger Wakefield now lay motionless in his seat, surrounded by medical personnel who exchanged solemn glances.
The lead paramedic gently placed a stethoscope against Roger’s chest, his expression turning somber as he listened for any signs of life. After a brief pause, he looked up, turned to the flight attendants and his fellow personnel, and sadly shook his head.
“We’ve done everything we could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s over. He’s gone.”
***
“Oh God, David! David!”
It was about 6:30 in the morning when the police vehicle carrying David arrived at the main police headquarters, where a relieved but highly emotional Sika was waiting for him.
After he had been taken away, she absolutely freaked out, screaming her head off and wailing with every sinew of energy within her. Neighbours came around, wondering what was going on, only to hear that their neighbour had been kidnapped. One Mrs. Johnson, the wife of the man whose car the abductors had used a mimicry of, took her to the nearest police station, where a report was immediately filed. That evening had been one of the lowest in Sika’s memory, as she wept relentlessly, immune to any words of comfort or encouragement.
It was a good thing the children were at her mother’s end, else they probably might have been traumatized too.
It was only around 4 am, while Sika remained at the station, that a call came through from Asamankese, confirming that her husband was fine and would be returning to Accra shortly. One of the officers offered to take her to the headquarters to wait for him, which she agreed to.
And once she saw him step out of the vehicle, nobody was going to tell her to relax. She sprinted from her sitting place all the way to the vehicle, throwing herself into her husband’s arms.
“Oh, God, David, I thought I had lost you!” she wept, holding his face as tears streamed down hers. “I was going crazy, I didn’t know what I was gonna do, I thought I had lost you forever…”
David simply held her close and hugged her tightly. “I’m fine now, Sika. It was horrific, but our God never disappoints,” he uttered gently.
Still sobbing tears of relief, she wrapped her arms around David. “Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God! David, I don’t want what I’d do without you. I love you, David, I love you…”
“And I love you too, Sika. There’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m home. Safe and sound.”
She nodded, sniffing as he lifted her head up and wiped her tears. He then landed a sweet, little kiss on her lips, which elicited a delighted smile from her.
As well as amusement from the surrounding officers.
“Eish, Osofo, wo yɛ romantic ooo, herh!” one of them quipped.
David and Sika couldn’t help but laugh along with the other officers.
Just then, the radio inside the car blared with a major announcement.
“We interrupt this program for some breaking news. Sources from the Kotoka International Airport have confirmed, that Mr. Roger Wakefield, owner of Fitase Press and a well-known defender of the government, has passed away from a massive heart attack…”
And Roger meets his end! He thought he was going to get away with it? Nahh, forget it. His cup was full, and that’s how it ends for him. Speaking of ends, we get to see this thrilling story end on a great note…
