twice.
“Who is this?” a firm voice answered.
“Sir, my name is Junior Police Officer Ibe from DPO Charles’ division.
I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but my life is in danger.”
There was a slight pause.
“Speak clearly.
Where are you?”
Ibe lowered his voice.
“At the station, sir.
They organized a party for me with cake and wine.
I had a dream last night that someone close poisoned me.
So I asked the DPO and the officers to taste the cake first.
They refused.
After they carried the food into the DPO’s office, they began discussing how to eliminate me tonight and make it look like armed robbery.”
The ACP’s voice changed.
“Do you have proof?”
“Yes, sir.
My phone recorded it.”
“Do not send it on ordinary message.
Do not confront them.
Do not go home.
Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay where there are witnesses.
Keep your phone hidden.
I am sending men from outside your division.
If anyone orders you to leave with them, refuse politely and make noise.”
Ibe swallowed.
“Sir, they may be looking for me already.”
“Then stop hiding in a place where they can trap you,” ACP Okoro said.
“Walk to the public counter now.
Stand where civilians can see you.
Put your phone on silent and keep the line open.”
Ibe did exactly as he was told.
When he came out of the restroom, he almost collided with Officer Nnamdi, one of the men who had followed DPO Charles into the office.
Nnamdi smiled too quickly.
“Ibe, where did you go? DPO is calling you.”
Ibe looked at him and made his face blank.
“I went to ease myself.”
“Come.”
“I am coming.
Let me check one complainant at the counter first.”
Nnamdi’s eyes narrowed.
“The DPO said now.”
The two civilians on the bench looked up.
Ibe lifted his voice a little.
“Officer Nnamdi, please, I will come.
The woman has been waiting since morning.
Let me attend to her first.”
The woman on the bench, who had come to report a missing phone, shifted uneasily.
The man beside her stared at Nnamdi.
Nnamdi’s smile faded.
“You are behaving somehow today,” he muttered.
“No, sir,” Ibe said.
“I am only doing my duty.”
Nnamdi stood there for a moment, then walked away.
Ibe moved behind the counter, opened an old complaint register, and pretended to write.
His phone stayed hidden under the register, still connected to ACP Okoro’s line.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Every sound felt too loud: the ceiling fan groaning above him, the tapping of boots in the corridor, the distant cough of a detainee, the radio static from the duty desk.
At last, DPO Charles came out.
He had arranged his face into anger, but Ibe could see panic beneath it.
“Ibe,” he said.
“Sir.”
“My office.
Now.”
Ibe stood slowly.
“Sir, with respect, I am attending to complainants.”
The DPO stepped closer.
“Are you disobeying a superior officer?”
The woman on the bench clutched her handbag.
The man beside her leaned forward.
Ibe kept his voice steady.
“No, sir.
I will come after I finish writing their statement.”
DPO Charles stared at him.
For a second, the station yard became completely still.
Then Charles smiled.
It was worse than anger.
“Very good.
