The Lagos Directive

Location – Ijebu Remo:-

The sun was barely up when the knock came.

Three short, sharp taps, precise. Not local. Not familiar.

Ogun wiped his hands on a rag, eyes narrowing. He’d been up since five, rewiring a junction box that had sparked out in the compound behind his workshop. Makx hadn’t moved until the knock. Now, the dog stood by the door, ears perked, tail still, muscles drawn tight like coiled wire.

Ogun opened it slow.

A young woman stood there. Worn jeans, plain T-shirt, dust on her face. Her eyes didn’t blink much.

“You’re Ogun Wale-Thomas?” she asked.

Ogun just stared. “What do you want?”

She held out a small, dented metal box, military issue. Old. The kind used to store classified gear or encrypted drives. No markings. No label.

“This was left at a checkpoint in Kaduna two nights ago,” she said. “Addressed to you.”

He didn’t reach for it. “Who sent you?”

“I’m not here to explain. I was told to deliver. They said you would understand.”

Makx let out a low growl. She never growled unless something was wrong.

“Leave the box. Go,” Ogun said.

She set it down carefully and backed away without another word.

Ogun didn’t move until she turned the corner.

Then he picked up the box and took it inside.

He opened it on the workbench beneath his soldering tools. Inside was a black phone, off-grid model, the kind you couldn’t trace. Wrapped around it was a single note, written in a tight, familiar script.

“They’re active again. I can’t stop them. Only you can.”

No name. No codeword. But he knew who wrote it.

The handwriting was unmistakable. The last time he saw it was six years ago. Its owner was fading fast. He was pressing a bloodied hand to his stomach. “Go,” he’d said. “Don’t wait for me.” But ghosts don’t write notes.

Ogun powered on the phone. No name, no number, just a lone, pulsing dot on a map, waiting. It wasn’t a message. It was a summons.

Somewhere deep in Surulere, Lagos.

He stared at it for a long second.

Then he stood.

Makx was already by the door.