Prologue: The Last Talk

There are two hours left until the execution. I step into the hot, close-smelling cell—there’s that sour tang of soaked garri in the air, and if you listen close, you can catch the far-off voices of market women hawking their goods. The clang of my shoes echoes off cracked concrete as I prepare to give the condemned man his last talk before his final moments. The wall fan spins lazily overhead, doing little to ease the oppressive heat. The air pressed heavy, sharp like the smell of blood and old secrets.

The inmate glances up, his eyes hooded but alive with a sly light. “I’m about to be shot. Everything will turn to dust—such an ending just feels completely meaningless. But I still want to struggle a bit. Is there any way I can change this dull ending?”

“How about I tell you a story, Dr. Folarin.”

The sly smile on his face chills me to the bone, the way harmattan wind cuts through thin cloth. With just two hours left, does he still hope to overturn his fate? But in this place, hope can kill faster than any bullet.