The one-sided smile on his face disappeared as he sneezed and sputtered a generous amount of phlegm. Then it returned, twice as cold.
The turn-out had been massive, with women in golden heels, bust-revealing attires, head gears of varying radii, and men in brightly colored agbadas and babarigas. The highlife music blaring from the speakers was deafening but the guests could not be bothered, their chattering and exaggerated laughter still managing to find its way to audibility.
A fleet of cars littered the arena, inside and out. Security men, armed to the teeth, took their positions with murderous countenances. They seemed highly paid to have shown that much commitment. Today, the Chairman had been sworn in, and it was time to make merry.
The celebrant sat, smiling and waving, his heavy bulk filling the chair like a bag of rice. His face was plastered with triumph and satisfaction. After the numerous exchanges of fine wads of cash from hand to hand, he had won.
‘Strike when he stands.’
The words replayed in Akan’s head and he knew better than to allow for mistakes.
Soon enough, the music subsided and the guests settled down for the party to commence. The chairman arose and began to address his guests. His gesticulations were animated and constantly replied by sycophantic applause. He was raising his glass for a toast when the shot was fired –straight into his heart.
As he stumbled into unconsciousness, his fat body swaying uncontrollably, pandemonium broke lose. Women screamed, men yelled, security men spoke into transceivers, running, ducking and backing out orders. Journalists scooted all over the place fishing for tag-lines to grace their morning papers.
Akan, aka No-Mercy sneezed again, this time swallowing the resulting mucus. He waited till the new chairman’s body was wheeled away into the ambulance. Then he smiled, pressed the speed-dial, and spoke through clenched teeth: