Security officers were everywhere in different uniforms, yet despite it being a Sunday evening in February, she still recognized his face. In panic, with her body trembling and shivering, she rushed at him, trying to grab the collar of his large robe, shouting:
"It’s him, by God it’s him! I said I would recognize him!"
Frightened, the man who was about to get into his car stepped back, staring at her intently, unable to figure out who she was or what she wanted.
"Who is she?" he muttered to himself, glancing sideways.
She kept screaming: "Yes, it’s you, a wicked tyrant, you will pay, you humiliated me!"
Her words caught the journalists’ attention, who turned back to her, questioning: "Do you know him? What’s your connection with him?" Before she could answer, someone ordered: "Arrest her, take her away!"
The man leaned on his car, exhaling, and asked his aide: "Who is she? Do I know her? Why does she act like she knows me?"
The aide responded seriously:
"Sir, she definitely knows you. Even in death she would never forget your face. Her being alive means many truths could be uncovered. Do not let journalists or even your securities talk to her. This is a personal crisis that will stain your image."
In shock, the man stared at his aide for long seconds, then bit his lip and asked: "So where do I know her from? Why should she be my problem?"
"Sir, she’s the one you ordered to be brought to you, the one you raped back then…"
"Enough!" he shouted, feeling dizziness overwhelm him. Looking at the crowd, he forced a smile, then turned back to the woman, frowning deeply: "And she’s still alive? Then erase this mess—make it as if it never happened."
The aide asked: "But what should be done to her?"
"Inject her with the madness drug—the one given monthly or yearly—then take her to prison. Life imprisonment until she dies. After the madness, she’ll forget everything. She’s just a poor woman; who cares if she lives or dies? Even death will come for her anyway."
He entered his car, leaving her trembling by the door where she had been kept. Her eyes fixed on his photograph, anger boiling in her heart. Suddenly the door opened, and a man in a white coat with his face covered stepped in, holding a huge syringe filled with blood-red liquid. Terrified, she staggered back, but he grabbed her roughly, threw her onto the carpet, and without hesitation, injected the needle into her spinal cord.
Her screams filled the room as she writhed, her eyes rolling, her body stiffening. She banged her head against the wall until blood started dripping from her nose and mouth—proof that the injection had taken full effect, erasing her mind and destroying her body.
SP Gali and the Silent Prisoner
They moved quickly through a long, dark corridor, the place so narrow it felt like a dungeon. Their leader checked his watch, frowning, then signaled for the guard to open a heavy iron door. Covering his nose from the stench, SP Gali ordered his men:
"Wait here. If there’s trouble, I’ll signal you. I know he can’t do anything."
Nodding, the team stood guard while SP Gali crouched and entered the cell. Inside, a man sat motionless, head bent, fists clenched around an object he had refused to release since his arrest years ago.
"Hey, you!" SP Gali called, kicking the ground near him. But the man didn’t move—like a statue.
Sighing, SP Gali lowered his voice:
"You’re breaking my spirit. You’ve made us suffer for three years, refusing to speak. Why don’t you just confess to killing your wife that night? Accept your crime in court and the punishment will fit the injustice you caused. Stop torturing us all."
Still, the man remained silent, his head down.
SP Gali reached for the object in his hand—suddenly, the man jerked up, eyes blazing red, glaring so fiercely that Gali’s heart skipped. His face was covered in thick hair, making his features unrecognizable, and his body trembled as if ready to strike.
Checking the time, SP Gali muttered: "Scorpio."
The man snapped his head up, fixing him with a deadly stare. Gali warned:
"If I find out you are Scorpio…"
The man bared his teeth and stood: "I will torment your life. Better you call me a wife-killer than Scorpio. What is your real name?"
Before Gali could move, the prisoner grabbed his head, slamming it against the wall, groaning violently.
"Team!" Gali shouted. His men rushed in, wrestling with the man. He fought like a beast, breaking one officer’s arm, slamming others into the walls. Eventually, they chained him tightly from head to foot.
At the CID headquarters, he sat chained while multiple investigative units—Legal, Anti-Trafficking, Medical, NDLEA, Federal Investigation Department—watched him closely. Though they had tortured him for years, his body bore no scars beyond burns on his hands and feet. He looked like a madman, darkened and wild, yet he had never uttered a single word.
"Why won’t he speak? We need his voice," one agent asked.
SP Gali said quietly: "I suspect it has to do with his wife."
They reviewed his case: he and his wife had been classmates since 15, lovers throughout school. Why, after years together, did he kill her on their wedding night? Evidence tied him to the crime, yet nothing made sense.
In his silence, he suddenly heard her voice—"Bestie." Memories of schooldays flooded him: her bringing him food, declaring her love, begging him to marry her at 15. He had rejected her, calling her childish, but she had cried, insisting she was his destiny.
The memory tormented him; he shook violently as if hearing her laughter in his ears. Just then, he was shoved into a vehicle bound for Kuto prison. But before they could proceed, a shocking order came: he was to be released.
SP Gali protested: "But what about his wife’s death? Her parents?!"
The superior barked: "Follow orders. Release him."
Reluctantly, Gali unchained him. As he left, the prisoner grabbed Gali’s pen and scribbled one word on his palm: SCORPIO—before walking away, breathing in the air of freedom.
Meanwhile, in Kano, inside a family compound, three women were fighting barehanded in the courtyard. Each had her chest tied with cloth, a pot of food boiling on the fire beside them.
The noise of their quarrel and insults filled the house, so loud that Malam, who was teaching the Almajirai outside, heard it clearly. Angrily, he grabbed his whip, put aside his writing board, and marched inside to confront them.
Description
The Accusation and the Injection
Security officers were everywhere in different uniforms, yet despite it being a Sunday evening in February, she still recognized his face. In panic, with her body trembling and shivering, she rushed at him, trying to grab the collar of his large robe, shouting:
"It’s him, by God it’s him! I said I would recognize him!"
Frightened, the man who was about to get into his car stepped back, staring at her intently, unable to figure out who she was or what she wanted.
"Who is she?" he muttered to himself, glancing sideways.
She kept screaming: "Yes, it’s you, a wicked tyrant, you will pay, you humiliated me!"
Her words caught the journalists’ attention, who turned back to her, questioning: "Do you know him? What’s your connection with him?" Before she could answer, someone ordered: "Arrest her, take her away!"
The man leaned on his car, exhaling, and asked his aide: "Who is she? Do I know her? Why does she act like she knows me?"
The aide responded seriously:
"Sir, she definitely knows you. Even in death she would never forget your face. Her being alive means many truths could be uncovered. Do not let journalists or even your securities talk to her. This is a personal crisis that will stain your image."
In shock, the man stared at his aide for long seconds, then bit his lip and asked: "So where do I know her from? Why should she be my problem?"
"Sir, she’s the one you ordered to be brought to you, the one you raped back then…"
"Enough!" he shouted, feeling dizziness overwhelm him. Looking at the crowd, he forced a smile, then turned back to the woman, frowning deeply: "And she’s still alive? Then erase this mess—make it as if it never happened."
The aide asked: "But what should be done to her?"
"Inject her with the madness drug—the one given monthly or yearly—then take her to prison. Life imprisonment until she dies. After the madness, she’ll forget everything. She’s just a poor woman; who cares if she lives or dies? Even death will come for her anyway."
He entered his car, leaving her trembling by the door where she had been kept. Her eyes fixed on his photograph, anger boiling in her heart. Suddenly the door opened, and a man in a white coat with his face covered stepped in, holding a huge syringe filled with blood-red liquid. Terrified, she staggered back, but he grabbed her roughly, threw her onto the carpet, and without hesitation, injected the needle into her spinal cord.
Her screams filled the room as she writhed, her eyes rolling, her body stiffening. She banged her head against the wall until blood started dripping from her nose and mouth—proof that the injection had taken full effect, erasing her mind and destroying her body.
SP Gali and the Silent Prisoner
They moved quickly through a long, dark corridor, the place so narrow it felt like a dungeon. Their leader checked his watch, frowning, then signaled for the guard to open a heavy iron door. Covering his nose from the stench, SP Gali ordered his men:
"Wait here. If there’s trouble, I’ll signal you. I know he can’t do anything."
Nodding, the team stood guard while SP Gali crouched and entered the cell. Inside, a man sat motionless, head bent, fists clenched around an object he had refused to release since his arrest years ago.
"Hey, you!" SP Gali called, kicking the ground near him. But the man didn’t move—like a statue.
Sighing, SP Gali lowered his voice:
"You’re breaking my spirit. You’ve made us suffer for three years, refusing to speak. Why don’t you just confess to killing your wife that night? Accept your crime in court and the punishment will fit the injustice you caused. Stop torturing us all."
Still, the man remained silent, his head down.
SP Gali reached for the object in his hand—suddenly, the man jerked up, eyes blazing red, glaring so fiercely that Gali’s heart skipped. His face was covered in thick hair, making his features unrecognizable, and his body trembled as if ready to strike.
Checking the time, SP Gali muttered: "Scorpio."
The man snapped his head up, fixing him with a deadly stare. Gali warned:
"If I find out you are Scorpio…"
The man bared his teeth and stood: "I will torment your life. Better you call me a wife-killer than Scorpio. What is your real name?"
Before Gali could move, the prisoner grabbed his head, slamming it against the wall, groaning violently.
"Team!" Gali shouted. His men rushed in, wrestling with the man. He fought like a beast, breaking one officer’s arm, slamming others into the walls. Eventually, they chained him tightly from head to foot.
At the CID headquarters, he sat chained while multiple investigative units—Legal, Anti-Trafficking, Medical, NDLEA, Federal Investigation Department—watched him closely. Though they had tortured him for years, his body bore no scars beyond burns on his hands and feet. He looked like a madman, darkened and wild, yet he had never uttered a single word.
"Why won’t he speak? We need his voice," one agent asked.
SP Gali said quietly: "I suspect it has to do with his wife."
They reviewed his case: he and his wife had been classmates since 15, lovers throughout school. Why, after years together, did he kill her on their wedding night? Evidence tied him to the crime, yet nothing made sense.
In his silence, he suddenly heard her voice—"Bestie." Memories of schooldays flooded him: her bringing him food, declaring her love, begging him to marry her at 15. He had rejected her, calling her childish, but she had cried, insisting she was his destiny.
The memory tormented him; he shook violently as if hearing her laughter in his ears. Just then, he was shoved into a vehicle bound for Kuto prison. But before they could proceed, a shocking order came: he was to be released.
SP Gali protested: "But what about his wife’s death? Her parents?!"
The superior barked: "Follow orders. Release him."
Reluctantly, Gali unchained him. As he left, the prisoner grabbed Gali’s pen and scribbled one word on his palm: SCORPIO—before walking away, breathing in the air of freedom.
Meanwhile, in Kano, inside a family compound, three women were fighting barehanded in the courtyard. Each had her chest tied with cloth, a pot of food boiling on the fire beside them.
The noise of their quarrel and insults filled the house, so loud that Malam, who was teaching the Almajirai outside, heard it clearly. Angrily, he grabbed his whip, put aside his writing board, and marched inside to confront them.