The Wazobian Man: Boko Haram

3.55 am Central Mosque, Maiduguri, Borno State, Nigeria.

The man in the prayer robe and turban makes no noise as I enter the room. He doesn’t even turn. I hate to think that I’m expected. I prefer instead to think that either he is deep in meditation and wishes not to be disturbed, or that he is supremely confident in the two dozen or so hand-picked mujahideen that constitute his security force. I drop a small pouch on the floor a few feet behind him, and slowly he raises himself from his bowed position to rest in a kneeling position. He is a devout man, and at this point it matters not that he is one of the ten most wanted men in the world, and that the CIA and Interpol have a $20 million price on his head. Sheikh Ibrahim Abdel Mahfouz is a devout man, and it is a sobering thought. But what in Zeus’ nonchalance is he doing here in Northern Nigeria?

Two weeks back, a very highly placed official in the Nigerian Government got a tip from a classified source high up in the American Government, that notorious Yemeni cleric and Al Qaeda top shot, Sheikh Ibrahim Abdel Mahfouz, would be coming to Western Africa, ostensibly to visit, and confer with some notable Islamic scholars and clerics. The real reason, however, was more disturbing. The acclaimed Islamic fundamentalist sect, Boko Haram, had finally gotten the attention of Al Qaeda, and the visit was to offer moral support, and lay the groundwork for future military support, training and equipment to further their cause. The source offered to send in a covert team of special operatives to deal decisively with the threat, but our highly placed official diplomatically turned down the offer. A U.S. navy warship or other indication of a military presence was likely to cause a ruckus, and besides, the sect was reputed to have sympathizers, supporters, and financiers high up in government.
More importantly, the Nigerian Government had an agenda. In the first fifteen years of the new millennium, insecurity was the major problem in Nigeria. Various tribal, ethnic, and religious militant groups held (or tried to hold) the nation to ransom, and threatened the stability of the Nigerian nation.
Then in 2016, things changed. A file clerk in Aso Rock, the nation’s seat of government, accidentally discovered some files pertaining to the formation of a top secret agency. The agency was to have carte blanche to use any and all means and methods available to it, to gather intelligence about, and ensure the survival of the nation by removing all internally or externally originating threats to national security. The zealous and excited clerk took the files to his superior, who promptly rebuffed him and warned him to do his job or lose it, citing the high unemployment figures in the country. Suitably chastised, the clerk returned to the monotony of his job.
Then one day, purely by chance, he entered an office early to arrange some documents for a meeting, and found himself alone with the President.
He stammered through his story, and two weeks after that, he found himself on a plane to the United States, destination: Langley, Virginia, the headquarters of the CIA. He spent six months there before leaving for Europe, and by the time he returned to Nigeria two years later, the agency was forming, with trainers, instructors and technical support staff borrowed from Germany, the United Kingdom, Israel, Japan, France, and Russia. Technically on various tours of duty, they had been drafted in to help facilitate the start of the agency. The field operatives were scattered in various training locations around the country, taking as much care as possible to minimize contact between agents. He resumed as its Operations Director, and two weeks later, without putting up a sign or taking an advert in a newspaper, the Nigerian Information Surveillance Technical Agency was in business. A legal and constitutional team was formed to bury the formation in the addendum to the by-law of some act or other, and funding was drawn from repatriated funds looted by a former military dictator, and spread through a number of parastatals that had always been in existence.
As he straightens slowly, I press the point of a knife into the back of his neck, and grab his mouth to ensure silence. I pull him to his feet, frisk him thoroughly, rip off his turban, and snap pictures of him with a microcam from my pouch. His eyes miss nothing, darting nervously toward the door, where the guard he is expecting is out cold from a rap to the head. As I bend to return the cam, he turns with surprising swiftness for a man his age, and makes for the door. Wrong move. In a trice, I pull my gun, and two bloody holes appear in his back. As I drag him back toward the pallet, I observe a flashing light on his wrist watch. Damn panic button. I drop him face up on the bed, and arrange the sheets such that he appears to be taking a nap. I see a chain round his neck, and on the chain I see, wonder of wonders, a USB flash drive.
I relieve him of the burden, and as I head for the door, it opens, and a tall man in black with aquiline features enters. I attack head first, butting him viciously in the nose, but it barely slows him down. There is a flash in his eyes, a hint of the bloodlust which, combined with religious fervor and the right amount of faith, makes killers and suicide bombers of the most placid men. He slashes viciously, chopping left and right in quick strokes that leave me in n doubt as to his skill and competence. Paces apart, he advances, hands held out in front of him in the traditional stance that is typical of many martial arts. He is probably well trained in several forms of hand to hand combat, but deep in the marshy wetlands of Bayelsa, there are places where the children learn to swim before they learn to crawl, and to wrestle before they learn to walk. It is the traditional wrestling for which the Ijaw are famous. I run toward him, head slightly lowered, and the twin chops he aims at my head and neck glance off my shoulders. I cannonball into him, and there is a small thrill of satisfaction at the whoosh of air leaving his lungs. As I grab him around the midsection, his legs are kicking furiously, and his arms are slamming savage blows into my back and torso. I ram him into the wall, and the assault drops in intensity.
I throw him to the floor, bending forward as I do so, and his head connects with the floor with a thud. As he struggles to regain his feet, I drop like a stone on his chest, grab his head, and the sharp crack I hear as I twist assures me there is one less terrorist for the free world to worry about. Just then, my earpiece crackles with static, and the voice of Major Stephen whispers in my ear.
‘Kedu?’ this is his signal to ask if I’m he may speak freely, if I’m under duress of any sort, or in an unsecure location.
‘Odi mma’. I give him the all clear. I give him a brief situation report, and ask for technical assistance to facilitate an escape. He chuckles and replies, ‘ask Mephistopheles. A crackle of static, and I’m on my own once again.
He constantly refers to my wrist computer as the demon Mephistopheles from Faustus {Marlowe, Mann, whoever else}, partly because it can do some pretty awesome stuff, and also (I think) because he believes field operatives like myself are in the devil’s business of shooting and looting, or stealing, killing, and destruction. The actual device strapped to my wrist is an almost replica of a BlackBerry phone, except that it has no visible screen, and no apparent battery. RIM would probably sue the Nigerian government if they see it, but I don’t think it will happen soon. The device provides real time audio and video, and can do almost anything a field agent can possibly desire. It can’t walk into a room full of bad guys and kick all their butts though, sadly. And it has all sorts of security features. I place my gloved thumb on the secure port, and the tiny sensor in my glove aligns with the one on the port.
The scratch resistant screen lights up, and I see positions of hostiles marked by red dots on the display. I note the positions of the hostiles relative to the green dot on the screen, which represents my location, and remove my thumb, turning off the screen. It is just one benefit of having satellites in space. As I leave the room, I see a guard, and I freeze in place, the suit I’m wearing has its pouches and packs designed to provide a disruptive silhouette, and if I stay very still, I can escape detection in the dark. It’s matt black, skin tight, and made of Graytex, a rather tough material that is the very latest in protective gear. It protects against small arms fire at a distance, but El Gray Inc., the developers, have made no promises as to its efficacy against close range fire. I suppose the idea is that I’ll be able to attack first or remain unseen, if it comes to that, so I guess I work with what I’m given. As the guard walks by, I slither along the shadows and head for the car park.
I’m almost there, when my breath is knocked from me as though by a huge punch, and I fall to the ground. Hard. I crawl towards the nearest vehicle, a black Mitsubishi Montero with tinted glass, and I give myself a once- over. The guys at el gray never said it was gonna hurt like this, but I’ll live. I pull out my knife, and gently make my way among the cars. As I creep between two cars, I catch sight of the guard who shot me, he is dressed in a caftan, gun in hand, and I thank my stars that he is not one of the special ones guarding the cleric. He crouches low, flashlight in hand, and checks under cars. I slink up to him from behind, and clamp a gloved hand around his mouth. His teeth clamp down on the hand, and I drive the knife into his chest, ensuring that he’ll never speak again.
Immediately there are cries of alarm, and I can guess that the bodies have been found. A shrill, piercing whistle splits the night air, and the patter of running feet indicates that the guards are assembling. The car is still there, thankfully, and I press the little button concealed near the boot and unlock it. The cleric has probably failed to show up for the morning prayers, I start the engine, and the sweet little VW Golf 2 purrs to life. I drive through the courtyard, heading for the gate, and the guard at the first gate flags me down.

‘Tsiya, tsiya, ina za aka?’ Stop, stop, where are you going?
‘BabaYamutu!’ The old man is dead!
Screaming, he runs into the gatehouse, and the other men inside start wailing as they hear the news. As I approach the second gate, he emerges from the small shed and points
Tsiya! Adamu, tareshi,hana shi tafiyan! Stop, Adamu, don’t let him get away!

The guard at the second gate, a gateman, really, stands in front of the gate and stretches out his hands, trying to signal me to stop. I step harder on the gas pedal, and the Golf 2 smacks into him, knocking him to the ground and running him over. The night around me explodes in a blistering hail of automatic fire. Silently I whisper thanks to the wizards at the agency who thought it ft to make the car bullet proof. A glance in my rearview mirror tells me I have company, so I pull into traffic to put as much distance as possible between me and my new friends. I tap the small buzzer on my wrist, and almost immediately the voice of Major Stephen whispers in my ear.
Bawo ni?
I dispense with protocol, and ask for assistance to get to the nearest safe point.
“Just calm down, in about twelve minutes a satellite will be over the area, and ………..”
‘- I don’t have that time, I’m weaving through traffic, and I’m being shot at, civilian casualties will be horrible! I’m trying to-‘ I face the road just in time to avoid careening off the road. I steer towards the central business district, hoping that the men chasing me will be less inclined to open fire in densely crowded areas. As I take a turn, I take time out to observe the cars in pursuit. I think I’m being tailed by three cars, a black Nissan Murano and two Audi A4 station wagons. I deftly maneuver the small car through the traffic, using the small size of the vehicle to squeeze through gaps they can’t follow through. I spy a filling station in the distance, and head straight for it. I spy the driver of one of the cars glowering furiously, but I’m betting on the off chance that the men will not open fire at a fuel station, plus the fact that the traffic makes it hard for long-bodied cars to switch lanes. I drive straight through, leaving the Conoil attendant very surprised, and I head back to the expressway. Soon I’m on the highway leading to Damaturu, the capital of Yobe state.

My wrist-com beeps, and I quickly access the directions. It’s good to have the necessary technology; it’s just something of a pity that most of the satellite based technology will not be available for mass consumption. Following directions, I park the car along the express road and head into the bushes. My wait is not long, a van bearing the colors of the Chad basin national park pulls up and a man emerges and begins to tinker with the back door. Taking my cue, I don the civilian clothes I collected from the car, and step out into the road. I catch sight of my bullet riddled tires, and I wonder what would have happened if they had failed me. As I approach the van, the man opens the door, and I get in. Almost at once, a figure in paint spattered clothes leaves the front seat. I crane my neck, but the figure is out of sight. The windows are glass only on the outside, the inside of the van is bullet proof steel. The agent, a fat, sweaty man, who is probably wearing a fat suit of some sort, smiles at me and hands me a bottle of NIFOR palm wine.
‘I’m Osas
I’m Osas too.’
Real names are too risky to be used in our line of work. Thirty minutes later, I’m heading for Lagos aboard a private plane painted in the colors of a popular church in Nigeria. As for the car, I can only guess that it will be sprayed a different color, and returned to one of the several ‘safe houses’ scattered all over Nigeria. I am able to enter my house at Oworonshoki just in time to catch the final recap of the headlines at the end of the news: Popular Yemeni cleric killed in Maiduguri, while visiting Nigeria for consultations with Islamic scholars. I don’t get a mention in the news, not that I expect to. Outside of my department, the people who are aware of my existence number less than ten. I am Chimezie Oluwole Bar’kindo, and I am the Wazobian Man.

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