It was a kind of catastrophic disaster, violent and pitch-dark, that laid siege to almost the entire Gembu–Mambila area, advancing from one section to another—east and west, south and north—all at once.
It merged with the darkness of night, thickened by the gloom of the rainy season.
Because of that, nothing could be heard moving in the region except continuous thunderclaps and deafening roars that showed no sign of stopping, along with a fierce, icy wind that kept blowing relentlessly.
At such a moment, all human beings were indoors, deep asleep, since it was already past one o’clock in the night.
A beautiful car—extraordinarily elegant and outrageously expensive, clearly showing that its owner was no ordinary person—suddenly burst onto the scene.
It was speeding wildly, as if it might take off into the air.
It was the kind of speed meant to save one’s life; that was why even the driver himself no longer knew exactly how he was driving.
His whole body was trembling. Despite the harsh cold of the environment and the chill from the car’s air conditioner, he was drenched in cold sweat—born of fear, seeing clear signs that he was on the brink of parting with worldly life.
As he drove, he kept turning to look at a huge articulated trailer chasing him closely from behind.
Its intention was clear—to run over him and crush him. He realized this because wherever he turned, the trailer followed right behind him.
In extreme panic, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and wrapped one arm tightly around the child sitting on his lap, shaking violently at the terrifying speed they were moving.
Just then, they reached the top of a massive mountain overlooking the deep, treacherous gorge of the Gembu River, which connects with rivers stretching toward Numan in Adamawa, Dadin Kowa in Gombe, and beyond.
The road there twisted like the movement of a snake—zigzagging dangerously.
He pulled out his phone from his pocket and started speaking to the person who had called him. His voice shook, sounding like a farewell to the world—words of last will, trust, and goodbye.
They were approaching Rugar Rumo, located down the road near the edge of the gorge.
At that very moment, the trailer finally caught up with him.
With ruthless intent, he slammed the accelerator, forcing the car violently toward a pit connected to the great rivers below—a depth far beyond human imagination.
You could hear a long, horrifying screech: k’uuuuuuhhhh!
The car made a dreadful crashing sound.
It paused briefly on the slope because it struck a tree, preventing it from plunging straight in.
With force, he pushed again as the tree gave way under the smaller car.
He shoved it once more, and it slid fully into the pit.
You could hear: fuuuuuuhhh—zinɗim!
It plunged into the water.
The sound of the fall woke most of the people of Rugar Rumo.
They lamented in sorrow, knowing that whoever had fallen in had surely fallen into his grave.
As for the trailer driver, he let out a wicked, chilling laugh and drove on through the town—there was no reason to linger in such a place.
Driving on, with his phone pressed to his ear, he said:
“Sir, I’m done with him. He no longer exists in this world.
He has said goodbye to life. Now I’m heading into Gembu, and we will go and kill his wife and children as well.”
He paused briefly, listening to the sir’s victorious laughter, then heard him say:
“Kill them.
The remaining two million will be handed over to you.”
Delighted, the trailer driver replied,
“Right away.”
He ended the call and drove toward Gembu, swallowed by the dark, rainy night.
After some years—about twenty-two (22) years later.
Kano State.
The conference hall of Arewa 24 TV staff in Kano city was silent. Employees sat on fine chairs arranged around a large table that could seat over fifty people.
In front of everyone were chilled bottles of Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and Chivita Exotic, along with glass cups neatly placed to the sides.
Each person also had a microphone stand in front of them.
On the right side sat the senior staff.
On the left were their subordinates.
At the back sat the junior workers.
Their chief executive was explaining the new work structure they planned to introduce for the coming year.
He adjusted his posture and glanced to his right, cleared his throat slightly, and said,
“Who is in charge of the Guest of the Week program?”
Calmly, Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata raised her head and, in her soft, composed voice, replied,
“I’m here, sir.”
The sweetness of her voice made most of the people present turn to look at her.
Indeed, her calm demeanor was one of the main reasons she had been entrusted with the program. High-profile, respected personalities were often invited, and they needed someone with poise who could honor and handle such distinguished guests properly.
Carefully, the boss continued:
“The Guest of the Week program has a great mission—to bring in prominent people, discuss with them, and let them share their successes and the challenges they faced, so that our rising youth will understand.
They should take lessons to build the foundation blocks of their lives in ways that will improve them, protect themselves from moral decay, pursue education and skills, so that one day they may become role models and inspirations for others.”
He paused briefly and took a sip of the exotic juice in front of him.
Meanwhile, Jannart gently placed her white fingers—decorated with red henna—on the microphone, moving them slightly up and down as everyone else remained silent.
Calmly, he continued:
“But now, I’m sorry to say, Jannart, the program has become very weak.
The excessive caution you operate with has made it hard for you to freely invite prominent, reputable personalities who would truly captivate the audience.
That’s why, on most days, the program ends up being a repeat of a previous episode.
Because of this, we received instructions from above.
We were given two options.”
Quickly, Jannart closed her eyes and lowered her head, already understanding where his words were heading.
She realized she was about to be dismissed from the job—the only place where she found happiness. It was the only environment where she felt free, laughed, and truly lived, without an escort, without Yah Junaidu constantly around her.
Slowly, she adjusted the earpiece that amplified her hearing. As she gently bit her lower lip, her beautiful dimple showed, and her red lips glistened slightly from the moisture.
Softly, A’isha Lawal, seated beside her, reached out and held her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze in encouragement.
Meanwhile, Salman, sitting opposite her, closed his eyes tightly.
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It was a kind of catastrophic disaster, violent and pitch-dark, that laid siege to almost the entire Gembu–Mambila area, advancing from one section to another—east and west, south and north—all at once.
It merged with the darkness of night, thickened by the gloom of the rainy season.
Because of that, nothing could be heard moving in the region except continuous thunderclaps and deafening roars that showed no sign of stopping, along with a fierce, icy wind that kept blowing relentlessly.
At such a moment, all human beings were indoors, deep asleep, since it was already past one o’clock in the night.
A beautiful car—extraordinarily elegant and outrageously expensive, clearly showing that its owner was no ordinary person—suddenly burst onto the scene.
It was speeding wildly, as if it might take off into the air.
It was the kind of speed meant to save one’s life; that was why even the driver himself no longer knew exactly how he was driving.
His whole body was trembling. Despite the harsh cold of the environment and the chill from the car’s air conditioner, he was drenched in cold sweat—born of fear, seeing clear signs that he was on the brink of parting with worldly life.
As he drove, he kept turning to look at a huge articulated trailer chasing him closely from behind.
Its intention was clear—to run over him and crush him. He realized this because wherever he turned, the trailer followed right behind him.
In extreme panic, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and wrapped one arm tightly around the child sitting on his lap, shaking violently at the terrifying speed they were moving.
Just then, they reached the top of a massive mountain overlooking the deep, treacherous gorge of the Gembu River, which connects with rivers stretching toward Numan in Adamawa, Dadin Kowa in Gombe, and beyond.
The road there twisted like the movement of a snake—zigzagging dangerously.
He pulled out his phone from his pocket and started speaking to the person who had called him. His voice shook, sounding like a farewell to the world—words of last will, trust, and goodbye.
They were approaching Rugar Rumo, located down the road near the edge of the gorge.
At that very moment, the trailer finally caught up with him.
With ruthless intent, he slammed the accelerator, forcing the car violently toward a pit connected to the great rivers below—a depth far beyond human imagination.
You could hear a long, horrifying screech: k’uuuuuuhhhh!
The car made a dreadful crashing sound.
It paused briefly on the slope because it struck a tree, preventing it from plunging straight in.
With force, he pushed again as the tree gave way under the smaller car.
He shoved it once more, and it slid fully into the pit.
You could hear: fuuuuuuhhh—zinɗim!
It plunged into the water.
The sound of the fall woke most of the people of Rugar Rumo.
They lamented in sorrow, knowing that whoever had fallen in had surely fallen into his grave.
As for the trailer driver, he let out a wicked, chilling laugh and drove on through the town—there was no reason to linger in such a place.
Driving on, with his phone pressed to his ear, he said:
“Sir, I’m done with him. He no longer exists in this world.
He has said goodbye to life. Now I’m heading into Gembu, and we will go and kill his wife and children as well.”
He paused briefly, listening to the sir’s victorious laughter, then heard him say:
“Kill them.
The remaining two million will be handed over to you.”
Delighted, the trailer driver replied,
“Right away.”
He ended the call and drove toward Gembu, swallowed by the dark, rainy night.
After some years—about twenty-two (22) years later.
Kano State.
The conference hall of Arewa 24 TV staff in Kano city was silent. Employees sat on fine chairs arranged around a large table that could seat over fifty people.
In front of everyone were chilled bottles of Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and Chivita Exotic, along with glass cups neatly placed to the sides.
Each person also had a microphone stand in front of them.
On the right side sat the senior staff.
On the left were their subordinates.
At the back sat the junior workers.
Their chief executive was explaining the new work structure they planned to introduce for the coming year.
He adjusted his posture and glanced to his right, cleared his throat slightly, and said,
“Who is in charge of the Guest of the Week program?”
Calmly, Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata raised her head and, in her soft, composed voice, replied,
“I’m here, sir.”
The sweetness of her voice made most of the people present turn to look at her.
Indeed, her calm demeanor was one of the main reasons she had been entrusted with the program. High-profile, respected personalities were often invited, and they needed someone with poise who could honor and handle such distinguished guests properly.
Carefully, the boss continued:
“The Guest of the Week program has a great mission—to bring in prominent people, discuss with them, and let them share their successes and the challenges they faced, so that our rising youth will understand.
They should take lessons to build the foundation blocks of their lives in ways that will improve them, protect themselves from moral decay, pursue education and skills, so that one day they may become role models and inspirations for others.”
He paused briefly and took a sip of the exotic juice in front of him.
Meanwhile, Jannart gently placed her white fingers—decorated with red henna—on the microphone, moving them slightly up and down as everyone else remained silent.
Calmly, he continued:
“But now, I’m sorry to say, Jannart, the program has become very weak.
The excessive caution you operate with has made it hard for you to freely invite prominent, reputable personalities who would truly captivate the audience.
That’s why, on most days, the program ends up being a repeat of a previous episode.
Because of this, we received instructions from above.
We were given two options.”
Quickly, Jannart closed her eyes and lowered her head, already understanding where his words were heading.
She realized she was about to be dismissed from the job—the only place where she found happiness. It was the only environment where she felt free, laughed, and truly lived, without an escort, without Yah Junaidu constantly around her.
Slowly, she adjusted the earpiece that amplified her hearing. As she gently bit her lower lip, her beautiful dimple showed, and her red lips glistened slightly from the moisture.
Softly, A’isha Lawal, seated beside her, reached out and held her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze in encouragement.
Meanwhile, Salman, sitting opposite her, closed his eyes tightly.