Chapter 18: THE FARMHAND

His name was Samuel. Samuel Abati.

He was a farmhand in Ojo, a small town on the fringe of Lagos, where the sprawl of the city gave way to bush paths and farms that stretched as far as the eye could see. Ojo was quieter than the island, a world apart from the glass towers and honking cars of the city. Here, the rhythm of life was slower, dictated not by traffic lights or business deals, but by the rising of the sun and the falling of the moon.

Samuel’s life was simple, but it was his own. He lived in a modest compound with his parents, his wife Mariam, and his daughter Aisha. Their house

had peeling plaster walls, patched over with care, and

a roof that rattled whenever the wind grew strong, but it was filled with warmth.

He was a man of duty, bound to his family as tightly as the soil was bound to the roots of the cassava plants he tended. At thirty-five, his life had not been one of riches or fame, but of quiet consistency. Every weekday he rose before dawn, awakened by the crow of the neighbor’s rooster. He washed quickly, ate yam and palm oil or a steaming bowl of pap, and set out for the farm with a cutlass over his shoulder.

The farm itself was neither too near nor too far from home. It took him nearly forty minutes to walk there—a stretch long enough to make him sweat

before he even began work, but short enough that he

could be home before nightfall. Samuel enjoyed that walk. It gave him time to clear his thoughts, to greet fellow laborers on the path, to wave at women balancing basins of vegetables on their heads, to watch the world wake up.

The farm belonged to an elderly man, Chief Bada, who had grown too weak to oversee the daily work himself. He trusted Samuel more than anyone else. Whenever Chief spoke of him, his words were the same:

“That one, Samuel… he is dependable. A man you can leave your land with, and you will sleep well at night.”

Samuel was proud of that trust.

He was a good son—still caring for his aging parents who lived with him, making sure they never lacked yam or palm oil. A good husband—never raising his voice at Mariam, always finding a way to bring her something small from the market, even if it was no more than a spool of thread or a cob of roasted corn. And above all, he was a good father.

Aisha, his daughter, was ten. A lively child, curious, quick-witted, always asking questions about the world. She was the joy of his days. Every evening, as he returned from the farm, dusty and tired, she would run barefoot to the compound gate to meet him,

laughing, shouting “Papa! Papa!” before leaping into

his arms. Her laughter made him forget the weight of the hoe, the ache in his back, the sweat in his eyes.

In Samuel’s world, life was not perfect, but it was enough. He believed happiness was found in small things: in food on the table, in a wife’s smile, in the sound of his daughter’s laughter.

—

That evening, however, was not like the others.

The sun was lowering, turning the sky into a blaze of orange and purple. Samuel wiped sweat from his brow and slung his cutlass over his shoulder, already

thinking of home. He imagined Mariam stirring the

pot of egusi stew, imagined the look on Aisha’s face when she spotted him on the road. His steps quickened with anticipation.

Then he heard it.

A sound carried faintly on the wind. Not the rustle of palm leaves or the cry of a goat, but something sharper, broken. Sobs.

Samuel froze, his head turning toward the bush path. His ears strained. There it was again—thin, desperate, the unmistakable sound of a child crying. His heart clenched.

He stepped off the path, moving toward the sound. His boots crunched on the dry ground. The crying grew louder, clearer, a high-pitched wail that pierced the evening calm. Samuel’s chest grew tight. He gripped his cutlass tighter, unsure of what he was walking into.

And then he saw her.

A girl, kneeling in the dirt by the side of the narrow road. No more than fifteen. Her clothes were stained, her hands trembling as they clutched at the lifeless bodies lying beside her. A man and a woman, both riddled with bullet holes, blood darkening the soil beneath them.

Samuel’s breath caught. His stomach twisted. He had seen death before—on the farm, in accidents—but not like this. Not people executed and left to rot on the roadside.

The girl screamed again, her voice raw, her throat ragged from hours of crying.

For a long moment, Samuel stood frozen. His cutlass hung limp in his hand. Then he dropped it, lowering himself slowly to the ground.

“Child,” he said softly, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Child, it’s all right. I am here.”

The girl’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with terror, wild as if expecting another gunman. Her small frame shook uncontrollably. Samuel raised his hands slowly to show he meant no harm.

“My name is Samuel,” he said gently, pressing a hand to his chest. “I live here. I work nearby.

Please… let me help you.”

At first, she flinched at every word, too lost in fear to hear him. But after long minutes, her sobs slowed enough for him to step closer. Samuel’s heart broke at the sight. She was just a child—her knees scraped from the dirt, her hands stained with blood that

wasn’t hers, her eyes swollen from crying.

“Please,” Samuel whispered, crouching beside her. “You are safe now.”

He reached out slowly, lifting her into his arms. She resisted at first, stiff, trembling, but then her strength gave way. She clung to him, her face buried against his shirt, sobbing into the fabric.

Samuel held her tightly. The weight of her grief was heavier than her body.

—

By the time Samuel reached Ojo with the girl, night was falling. Neighbors looked on as he carried her

past, their faces curious, then horrified as word

spread. But it wasn’t gossip that carried the story. It was the news. Within hours, radio stations were reporting the murder of an influential couple on their way back from Ojo.

Samuel took the girl straight to the police station. The officers on duty looked up in surprise as he entered, carrying her. The girl’s face was streaked with tears, her eyes empty now, hollow.

Samuel set her down gently on a bench. She clutched the edge of his shirt until he whispered that he wasn’t leaving her.

The officers asked questions—who he was, where he had found her, what he had seen. Samuel told them

everything. His voice was steady, but his hands shook.

“I was coming back from the farm,” he said. “I heard her crying. When I went closer, I saw her parents… already dead. Shot many times. She was kneeling there, screaming. I could not leave her there. So I

carried her here.”

The officers wrote it down briskly, their pens scratching against paper. One of them looked up. “You said your name is Samuel Abati?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“And you live nearby?”

“Yes. I live with my family in Ojo. You can find me at the Abati compound. My number is here.” He reached into his pocket and slid a slip of paper across the desk.

The officer nodded, folding the paper into his pocket. His tone was flat, rehearsed. “We will be in contact. Thank you, Mr. Abati.”

Samuel frowned, unsettled by the lack of compassion in the man’s voice. He glanced at the girl—still trembling, still silent.

“What will happen to her?” he asked quietly.

“She will be looked after,” came the clipped reply.

Samuel hesitated, but said nothing more. He stood,

gently prying the girl’s fingers from his shirt. She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, desperate, as if she feared being abandoned again. Samuel bent low and whispered:

“You are safe now. They will take care of you. You are not alone.”

It was a promise he wanted to believe, even if he

wasn’t sure.

That night, Samuel walked home slowly, his cutlass

heavy on his shoulder, his mind replaying the girl’s

screams again and again. When Mariam met him at

the door, worry in her eyes, and asked what had delayed him, Samuel only shook his head and whispered:

“There is a girl… and she has lost everything.”

And somewhere in the city, five officers were called to a case that would follow Jemima for the rest of her