“Male, late thirties, multiple contusions, blunt force trauma. GCS score is dropping!”

“Get him into Trauma Bay Two. Move! I want vitals every two minutes. Let’s go!”

“BP’s crashing—78 over 40!”

“Start a wide bore IV, bolus him with fluids now!”

“Good God Almighty, what the hell happened to this guy?”

“We don’t have time for theories, Nurse. Someone call surgery—we need a trauma surgeon on standby. Get him prepped for CT, head and abdomen.”

“No, no, no, no– Pulse is thready. We’re losing him!”

“Not on my watch! Crash cart, now!”

***

The morning sun brightly filtered through Amos’ window, but it did little to brighten his spirit.

He sat at the edge of his bed, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, his jaw clenched with frustration.

First ring… second ring… third ring… fourth ring… fifth ring… voicemail again.

He ended the call and sighed heavily. That was the fifth attempt to call Aaron. Each one had gone unanswered.

No returned calls. No message. Nothing.

He threw the phone onto the bed and stood up, pacing across the room in agitation. “Where has this man gone to that he won’t pick my calls?” he wondered. “I have to speak to him, ASAP!”

It was a pretty urgent matter for Amos at that moment. He needed to be sure that Aaron had received the credit alert.

Because every cedi in his account that Aaron had ever given him for the fabricated prophecies had been sent back to him. And if he needed to find a way to pay back the rest, he was ready to find one and pay back every pesewa.

Because he was fed up, he was done with this charade.

“This has gone too far,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not ministry anymore. It’s manipulation. Control. Lies. I’m sorry, but he can do what he wants. I’m not going any further with this anymore. Enough is enough.”

He rubbed his face wearily. He hadn’t slept well. The guilt had festered all night, and warnings from various mentors and men of God kept haunting him like ghosts, reminding him how wrong it was to misuse the gifts meant for ministry.

Now he wasn’t scared anymore. Maybe Aaron would cuss him out or threaten him, but facing that wrath was better than dealing with the wrath of the Maker of heaven and earth.

He glanced back at his phone.

“What if something’s happened to him?” he asked himself aloud, although a part of him wasn’t entirely sure if he truly cared anymore.

He just needed Aaron to know it was over. He wanted his conscience clear.

He sat back down and folded his hands, staring at nothing in particular. “Father God, I know I have messed up. I’m sorry. Please, I just… I want out of this. I want out. Please let this be my way out.”

***

The doctor’s words rang like the loudest of thunderclaps in Phyllis’s ears.

“He’s in a coma, Mrs. Essel. We’ve done what we can for now, but… we can’t say when—or if he’ll wake up. We’re really sorry.”

“No—no, no, no! NOOOO!!” Phyllis screamed, staggering backward from the ward door. Her legs gave way, and she dropped to her knees in the middle of the corridor, her wails echoing through the hallway.

A few nurses rushed to her, trying to steady her trembling frame, while the doctor stood awkwardly nearby, sympathy etched into his tired face.

“Please… please take her outside,” he murmured to one of the nurses. “Let her get some air. The rest of you can get back to your rounds, please.”

The nurse in question gently helped her up and guided her out of the hospital building.

Phyllis clung to her arm for support, her body wracked with heaving sobs. Totally overwhelmed with grief, she didn’t even realize when they reached the car park. The nurse, taking her car key from her hand, opened her car door and gently helped her inside. Phyllis sat heavily in the driver’s seat, her face pale, lips quivering.

She watched the nurse walk back toward the hospital, then turned her face toward the dashboard, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She knew something bad was going to happen. She knew it. She tried to warn him, but as always, he attached no weight to anything she said.

Now look!

“How could this happen?” she whispered. “How could this—”

Her breathing turned shallow. Then something shifted in her eyes.

The grief, still present, was swept aside by a sudden surge of fury.

“This is all Zack’s doing!” she spat. “That violent, blasphemous, arrogant… madman! He did this! He did this!”

She grabbed her phone and dialed him, hands shaking.

The MTN number you have dialed is currently switched off. Please try later.

The automated voice pushed her further to the edge.

She dialed again.

Same response.

And again.

Off.

She hurled the phone into the passenger seat and slammed her fists into the steering wheel.

Again. And again. And again.

“DAMN YOU, ZACK! DAMN YOU!” she screamed, the name a raw cry from somewhere deep within her. “WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?! WHY, WHY, WHYYYYY?!!”

Her wails filled the confines of the car, thick with rage and despair.

“I told you not to do this! I told you! Why would you do this? Why?” she sobbed, beating her fists against the leather until her arms gave out.

She slumped forward, burying her face against the wheel, her body convulsing with grief as she continued to bawl her eyes out, stricken at the unfolding drama playing out right before her eyes.

***

His eyes shaded behind a pair of dark sunglasses, Zack looked too calm and collected as he drove through Winneba, already on the move.

On the car’s Bluetooth speaker was Mr. Akowuah, who had sent him screenshots of the Mobile Money transactions between Aaron and Amos, fully confirming that the latter had been a paid actor all along. The private investigator was now updating him with relevant info on the young man.

“So, his name is Amos Manford. Hails from a small town near Agona Swedru in the Central Region. His parents still live there, while he came to the capital to find a better life for himself. He’s a graduate of Ohr Seminary. Isn’t tied down to one church, but frequents quite a few, particularly Restoration Chapel. Lives alone in a pretty cheap chamber-and-hall near Kwabenya. I’m sending the address.”

Zack nodded slowly, his lips curling into a cold smirk. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. Should I keep trailing him?”

Zack didn’t answer. He hung up without another word.

He then pulled over into a quiet lay-by, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a second burner phone. He had already discarded his main number, so that blockheaded dimwit was never going to get through to him.

He dialed a number from memory.

A gruff voice picked up after one ring. “Yeah, big man?”

“It’s time,” Zack stated. His tone was deadly. “I’ve found the prophet’s home.”

He read out the address, then paused.

“Do the needful,” he ordered, the ice in his voice deeply chilling. “I don’t want any scriptures left behind.”

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then came the grim response:

“Understood.”

Zack hung up, set the phone down on the passenger seat, and leaned back in his chair. His expression was stone cold.

“It’s all gonna be over now,” he murmured. “No more fake prophecies. No more snake oil sermons. No more games. It ends now.”

He started the car and continued his journey, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

***

It was evening.

Inside his modest living room, Amos paced the floor barefoot, his brows furrowed in deep worry. His phone lay on the table as he glanced at it in frustration, still unable to hear the voice he desperately wanted to hear.

He had called Aaron at least ten times more since noon, and all went unanswered.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

And it didn’t just have to do with the fact that Aaron was not answering his phone. He could feel it in his chest, like a brick pressing hard.

Something was very, very wrong, and he just could not shake it off.

He had tried to pray. He knelt, paced, muttered in tongues, even cried out. But the heavens felt silent. Unmoved. He kept reaching, but nothing reached back.

Frustrated and desperate to escape the gnawing stillness in the room, he walked over to the small radio perched on a corner shelf and turned it on.

As the object crackled to life, he twisted the knob, skipping through various stations. From one playing highlife songs, to another station with a shouting preacher, then a football analyst mid-rant…

And then, on one local language station…

“Eheh, so what’s this thing we are hearing about Aaron Essel?”

Amos’s hand froze.

“Hmmm, it’s serious ooo. So the reports are that Mr. Aaron Essel, the CEO of Tete Munchies was brutally attacked last night by unknown assailants…”

Amos gasped.

“…and sources say he is currently in a coma at LifeCare Medical Centre. Police are investigating who did this evil act.”

“Yiee! People are wicked ooo! See this fine entrepreneur creating jobs for our youth. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

Amos staggered backward and collapsed onto the couch, the breath leaving his lungs. “Jesus…”

His hands trembled as the weight of the report settled in.

Aaron. Attacked. In a coma?

This was it. This was the reason why he had not answered his call. This was the reason he felt so uneasy.

The weight that had sat on his chest all day now crushed him entirely. This had gotten way out of hand. He might not have had any real confirmation, but he knew this had something to do with all the deceptive games.

The seeds had been sown, and now the season for reaping had arrived.

He dropped to his knees, the wooden floor hard beneath him, but he didn’t care.

“Lord, I’m sorry… I’m sorry!” he cried, his voice breaking as the first sobs forced their way out. “I was wrong! I should have walked away from this the moment he offered me money. I should have known better. I knew it wasn’t right, but the love of money… oh God!”

His words came tumbling out in desperate prayer, his hands raised, his tears spilling freely. “Please, Merciful Father, forgive me. Spare me from this cup. I’ll make it right—I’ll make it right, I promise–”

In that holy moment of repentance and pleading, though, a sound tore through the atmosphere.

A woman’s scream.

It came from the compound.

Amos froze.

Another scream. Then shouting.

Male voices. Angry ones.

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, eyes wide with fear. “What—?”

Heavy boots thundered outside. The clatter of metal. Then a voice, rough and vicious, barked out:

“Herh! Where that fake prophet dey?! Open up if you dey love your life! Check fast!”

Amos’s blood ran cold.

Reaping season had fallen at his doorstep much quicker than he had anticipated.

“No, please! No!” he cried as he darted to the front door and slammed the bolt into place with trembling hands.

Just as he stepped back, the first violent kick landed—BANG!

The thin plywood door buckled under the blow.

Another kick—CRACK!

“Gbele the door! Kwasia, you dey do 419 tins dey use God ein name! Make we see sey your azaa power fit save you!”

Amos stumbled backward, eyes darting around the room for a hiding spot.

The kitchen was a bad idea, nowhere to hide. The bathroom was not an option…

“The bed!” he gasped. “Under the bed!”

He quickly ran into the bedroom and dove toward the bed, struggling to squeeze underneath.

The third kick shattered the door. Boots trampled over wood as they swarmed the place.

Sadly for Amos, in his rush, he forgot to close the bedroom door. His residence being a rather small one, it didn’t take long for them to spot him in his quest to evade them.

“There he dey!”

“He dey go hide bed ein unders! Kwasia!”

They were too fast for him, unfortunately.

Rough hands dragged him out by the ankles, slamming his back into the wooden floor.

He barely had time to scream before fists descended like rain.

A boot connected with his ribs.

A hard object—maybe a stick, maybe a gun barrel—crashed against his head.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!” he screamed in pain.

“Fake prophet!”

“Foolish liar! Aboa!”

“Kwasia fraudster!”

“Ofui! Using God to trick people!”

“Use your prophetic powers make we see, eh! Sia!”

Amos tried his best to curl up and shield himself from the onslaught.

It was fruitless, as fists, feet and hard items continued to rain down on him with brute force.

Outside, neighbors screamed. Someone shouted for help. But no one dared come closer, lest these beasts descend upon them.

It was a horrific night.

A night of excruciating pain, violent rage, and chaos.

Sigh. They came for Amos too. They certainly reaped what they sowed, misusing the gift of God so badly. Let’s see how this ends…