A fierce and terrifying storm enveloped the entire Gembu-Mambilla region, covering every direction—east, west, north, and south. It blended with the darkness of night and the heavy clouds of the rainy season. Nothing stirred in the region except for thunderclaps and endless lightning strikes, accompanied by a biting, icy wind.
At that hour, around one o’clock in the night, every inhabitant of the area was deep in sleep.
Then, a stunningly beautiful and extremely expensive car burst into the scene. Its speed was so wild it seemed ready to take off into the sky. The driver was in a life-or-death flight, no longer aware of how he was steering. His whole body trembled—not from the cold air outside nor from the car’s AC—but from the fear of losing his life. Sweat poured from his forehead despite the chill.
Behind him loomed a towering trailer, pursuing him relentlessly, determined to crush him. No matter where he turned, the trailer followed.
In terror, he wiped the sweat from his brow and clutched the child on his lap tightly, his body shaking at the perilous speed. They approached the winding snake-like road along the great cliff of the Gembu ravine, connected to the rivers of Numan, Adamawa, Dadin Kowa in Gombe, and Binuiye.
Panicked, he pulled out his phone and made a trembling call—his voice unsteady, filled with the tone of farewell and final instructions.
As they neared Rugar Rumo, the trailer caught up. With ruthless force, the driver rammed the smaller car, shoving it toward the deep ravine. The car crashed against a tree first, then, with another push, plunged into the abyss with a thunderous splash.
The deafening sound startled the villagers of Rugar Rumo from their sleep. They knew instantly: whoever fell into that river had entered their grave.
The trailer driver, laughing wickedly, sped off into Gembu, phone pressed to his ear.
“Sir, it’s done. He’s gone. Now I’ll head into Gembu to finish his wife and children.”
His “Sir” responded with victorious laughter:
“Good. Finish them. The remaining two million naira will be yours.”
With eagerness, the driver replied, “Right away,” and cut the call, vanishing into the stormy night.
Twenty-Two Years Later – Kano State
Silence filled the hall of Arewa 24 TV headquarters in Kano city. Staff members sat around a large table with more than fifty seats, each place set with Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and Chii Exotic, alongside clear glass cups. At the head, the Managing Director began outlining new changes to their operations for the coming year.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Who is handling BaÆ™on Mako (Guest of the Week)?”
Calmly, Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata raised her head and answered in her gentle, composed voice, “I’m here, Sir.”
Her poise made many turn to look at her. Indeed, her composure was why she had been entrusted with the program, which involved interviewing eminent personalities to inspire youth by sharing their struggles and successes.
But today, the MD’s words carried a sting.
“Jannart, the program has weakened. Your security restrictions prevent you from freely reaching distinguished guests. Instead, episodes keep repeating old interviews. We’ve been given two options: either you secure our next guest, or we replace you.”
Jannart lowered her head, heart heavy at the thought of losing the only work that brought her joy and freedom. Beside her, Aisha Lawal gently squeezed her hand in support, while Salman, across from her, shut his eyes anxiously.
The MD continued, “This time, the name of the guest has been given to us. He alone can raise the program’s value. If you can’t reach him, we’ll assign someone else.”
With effort, Jannart lifted her head and answered, “In shaa Allah, I can.”
He pressed further: “Good. You have ten days. Otherwise, Asiya will take over.”
Asiya, eager for her downfall, leaned forward. “Sir, who is he?”
The MD’s voice grew solemn:
“Dr. Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-nasara.”
Gasps filled the hall. Aisha stammered, “Sir… but Dr. Rayyern…”
He silenced her: “Yes, I know. He is unlike any man. Even the BBC never secured an interview with him. If we succeed, Arewa 24 will be the first to reveal his face and words across Africa. Jannart, can you do it, or should we give it to Asiya?”
“I can,” she whispered firmly.
Relieved, Salman exhaled. Aisha did too. But Asiya’s eyes burned with envy.
The MD handed Jannart a thin file: only his name, companies, hospitals, and his foundation. No phone number, no photo, no address.
Confused, she asked, “No contact details at all?”
Another senior staffer explained: even with his number, no call would connect unless he had saved the caller’s contact. He never answered immediately—at best, one left a voicemail. His work burden, inherited from his father, was immense. His rarity made him special.
Heartened but determined, Jannart requested a lead. Hajia Rabi’ah, smiling, shared a contact: Mahmoud, a relative of Rayyern’s PA. Jannart saved the number at once.
The meeting closed near six o’clock.
As they left, Asiya glared at Jannart with undisguised hatred, flanked by her escorts. Aisha Lawal called softly after her:
Description
The Deadly Night in Gembu
A fierce and terrifying storm enveloped the entire Gembu-Mambilla region, covering every direction—east, west, north, and south. It blended with the darkness of night and the heavy clouds of the rainy season. Nothing stirred in the region except for thunderclaps and endless lightning strikes, accompanied by a biting, icy wind.
At that hour, around one o’clock in the night, every inhabitant of the area was deep in sleep.
Then, a stunningly beautiful and extremely expensive car burst into the scene. Its speed was so wild it seemed ready to take off into the sky. The driver was in a life-or-death flight, no longer aware of how he was steering. His whole body trembled—not from the cold air outside nor from the car’s AC—but from the fear of losing his life. Sweat poured from his forehead despite the chill.
Behind him loomed a towering trailer, pursuing him relentlessly, determined to crush him. No matter where he turned, the trailer followed.
In terror, he wiped the sweat from his brow and clutched the child on his lap tightly, his body shaking at the perilous speed. They approached the winding snake-like road along the great cliff of the Gembu ravine, connected to the rivers of Numan, Adamawa, Dadin Kowa in Gombe, and Binuiye.
Panicked, he pulled out his phone and made a trembling call—his voice unsteady, filled with the tone of farewell and final instructions.
As they neared Rugar Rumo, the trailer caught up. With ruthless force, the driver rammed the smaller car, shoving it toward the deep ravine. The car crashed against a tree first, then, with another push, plunged into the abyss with a thunderous splash.
The deafening sound startled the villagers of Rugar Rumo from their sleep. They knew instantly: whoever fell into that river had entered their grave.
The trailer driver, laughing wickedly, sped off into Gembu, phone pressed to his ear.
“Sir, it’s done. He’s gone. Now I’ll head into Gembu to finish his wife and children.”
His “Sir” responded with victorious laughter:
“Good. Finish them. The remaining two million naira will be yours.”
With eagerness, the driver replied, “Right away,” and cut the call, vanishing into the stormy night.
Twenty-Two Years Later – Kano State
Silence filled the hall of Arewa 24 TV headquarters in Kano city. Staff members sat around a large table with more than fifty seats, each place set with Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and Chii Exotic, alongside clear glass cups. At the head, the Managing Director began outlining new changes to their operations for the coming year.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Who is handling BaÆ™on Mako (Guest of the Week)?”
Calmly, Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata raised her head and answered in her gentle, composed voice, “I’m here, Sir.”
Her poise made many turn to look at her. Indeed, her composure was why she had been entrusted with the program, which involved interviewing eminent personalities to inspire youth by sharing their struggles and successes.
But today, the MD’s words carried a sting.
“Jannart, the program has weakened. Your security restrictions prevent you from freely reaching distinguished guests. Instead, episodes keep repeating old interviews. We’ve been given two options: either you secure our next guest, or we replace you.”
Jannart lowered her head, heart heavy at the thought of losing the only work that brought her joy and freedom. Beside her, Aisha Lawal gently squeezed her hand in support, while Salman, across from her, shut his eyes anxiously.
The MD continued, “This time, the name of the guest has been given to us. He alone can raise the program’s value. If you can’t reach him, we’ll assign someone else.”
With effort, Jannart lifted her head and answered, “In shaa Allah, I can.”
He pressed further: “Good. You have ten days. Otherwise, Asiya will take over.”
Asiya, eager for her downfall, leaned forward. “Sir, who is he?”
The MD’s voice grew solemn:
“Dr. Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-nasara.”
Gasps filled the hall. Aisha stammered, “Sir… but Dr. Rayyern…”
He silenced her: “Yes, I know. He is unlike any man. Even the BBC never secured an interview with him. If we succeed, Arewa 24 will be the first to reveal his face and words across Africa. Jannart, can you do it, or should we give it to Asiya?”
“I can,” she whispered firmly.
Relieved, Salman exhaled. Aisha did too. But Asiya’s eyes burned with envy.
The MD handed Jannart a thin file: only his name, companies, hospitals, and his foundation. No phone number, no photo, no address.
Confused, she asked, “No contact details at all?”
Another senior staffer explained: even with his number, no call would connect unless he had saved the caller’s contact. He never answered immediately—at best, one left a voicemail. His work burden, inherited from his father, was immense. His rarity made him special.
Heartened but determined, Jannart requested a lead. Hajia Rabi’ah, smiling, shared a contact: Mahmoud, a relative of Rayyern’s PA. Jannart saved the number at once.
The meeting closed near six o’clock.
As they left, Asiya glared at Jannart with undisguised hatred, flanked by her escorts. Aisha Lawal called softly after her:
“Jannart! Jannart!!”