The Peugeot 504 hissed and grumbled as it made its way down the cracked tar road. The sun had not yet risen, but a pale orange streak was beginning to unfurl in the east like an ancestral cloth, heavy with prophecy.
Kola sat hunched in the back seat, arms wrapped around himself, as if his body were trying to keep his spirit from spilling out. His clothes reeked of sweat and soil, and the wrapper Halima had given him was now torn at the seam, flapping loosely like a dying banner.
Father Mbakwe glanced at him through the rearview mirror, brow creased with worry. “You haven’t said a word since we left that place,” he said gently. “And your eyes, my son… they look like they’ve seen spirits.”
Kola looked up, lips trembling. “I’ve seen worse.”
The priest turned his eyes back to the road. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Kola hesitated. In truth, he didn’t know where to begin. Would he say he had gone for a job interview and ended up in a kidnapping gone wrong? That he had fought his way out with blood on his hands and ghosts trailing behind him? That he had been saved by a village girl who spoke like a griot and moved like a whisper? Who would believe it?
“I was kidnapped,” he finally said. “In Abuja. On my way to an interview. We were about sixteen. Only I escaped.”
The priest whistled softly, crossing himself. “God of mercy.”
Kola leaned forward. “But the police think I’m one of them. The kidnappers. I took a gun. I killed… I didn’t have a choice.”
Father Mbakwe nodded slowly, as if weighing the confession against the silence of dawn. “I believe you. God sees the heart. But this country, eh? It does not always see clearly. Where are you headed now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Ogbomosho. Maybe Lagos. I just need to disappear for a while.”
The priest nodded again. Then he smiled faintly. “You’re in luck. I’m heading to Ibadan for a clergy retreat. I’ll drop you at a safe point. But until then, you must not leave this car. There are checkpoints ahead.”
The road was long, dotted with silent villages and shrines tucked beneath palm trees. They passed markets just waking up, women setting down baskets of peppers, children yawning beneath rusty zinc roofs. Each checkpoint brought new tension, new questions. But Father Mbakwe had a way of disarming suspicion—with his calm voice, his crisp soutane, and the large Bible always lying open on the dashboard.
At the fourth checkpoint, an officer peered into the back seat. “Who be that?”
“Ah, that’s my nephew,” the priest replied smoothly. “Sick boy. I’m taking him to a specialist in Ibadan. We suspect liver issues.”
The officer nodded sympathetically. “Sorry oh. Make una go.”
As they drove past, Kola stared at the priest with new respect.
“You’re a good liar for a man of God,” he said.
Father Mbakwe chuckled. “Even Jesus hid sometimes. Wisdom is not sin.”
They arrived in Ibadan by late afternoon. The city buzzed with noise and life. Hawkers weaved between cars, shouting about gala and cold malt. Music blared from keke napeps. Ibadan was chaos wearing a face of familiarity.
The priest parked in front of a run-down compound off Sango Road. It had peeling paint and a sagging fence, but the spirit of safety clung to it like incense.
“This place belongs to a retired nun,” the priest said. “You can stay here for two nights. After that, you must move. The police will come knocking soon.”
Kola nodded. “Thank you, Father. I owe you my life.”
“No, you owe God. Just make sure you don’t waste the second chance He’s given you.”
As the priest drove off, Kola entered the house. Inside was dim, smelled of Dettol and old rosaries. The nun, a tiny woman with sharp eyes and a voice like dry okro, said nothing, just pointed to a room and handed him a plate of rice.
….
Twice The Devil is a short novel in process by Fortune Omosola.
The story develops around Kola, a nerd raised in the gritty slums of Malete by his single mother but chooses not to succumb to the choking grip of poverty. Instead, he sets his eyes on the intricate world of tech, determined to carve a future far removed from his troubled beginnings.
