It was not rain.
It was deliberate.
Human.
Slowly, he lifted his head. The sound came from deeper in the forest.
Every instinct told him to stay where he was, to ignore it, to survive the night as he always had.
But curiosity—and something stronger—pulled at him.
He stepped out into the rain. The cold bit his skin. Branches scratched his arms as he moved deeper through the trees. Mud clung to his feet, making each step heavier.
The sound grew clearer.
Thud.
Pause.
Thud.
Someone was digging.
Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the forest for one ghostly second.
Mustafa froze.
He was close.
Then he heard a voice.
“Hurry up. We don’t have all night.”
His body went rigid. He crouched behind thick bushes, barely breathing.
Another man replied, colder and calmer.
“He’s not going anywhere. Just keep digging.”
Two men.
Mustafa swallowed hard and inched closer through the wet undergrowth.
Another flash of lightning revealed them.
Two figures stood in a clearing beside a lantern. Both wore dark, expensive clothes that did not belong in that muddy place. One man drove a shovel into the earth. The other stood with folded arms, watching calmly.
Then Mustafa saw the hole.
Deep.
Too deep.
A grave.
His chest tightened.
He should have run.
But then he heard a sound.
A groan.
At the edge of the clearing, half hidden by shadow, someone lay on the ground. The man’s chest rose slowly, painfully.
He was alive.
Mustafa’s breath caught.
They were digging a grave for a man who was still alive.
Lightning flashed again, brighter this time, and the man’s face became visible.
Mustafa’s eyes widened.
Chief Oladipo Bologan.
Everyone knew him. Even boys on the street knew him. His face appeared on billboards, posters, and buses. People spoke his name with respect, fear, and importance. He was rich, powerful, untouchable.
And now he lay in the mud like nothing.
The man with the shovel stopped.
“That’s deep enough,” he muttered.
The other man nodded and stepped closer to the body.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Let’s finish this.”
Finish this.
The words struck Mustafa like a blow.
He wanted to run. Every part of him screamed to leave. This was not his world. These were not his problems. If they saw him, he would disappear too.
He began to move backward.
Then Chief Oladipo’s fingers twitched against the wet ground.
A weak, desperate movement.
A silent plea.
Mustafa froze.
His mother’s voice rose inside him.
No matter how hard the world becomes, never let it harden your heart.
The men grabbed Chief Oladipo by the arms and legs, lifting him toward the open grave. His head rolled to the side. Rain washed over his face, mixing with something darker.
He groaned again.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
Mustafa trembled. If he stayed, he could die. If he left, the man would die.
There was no safe choice.
Only a right one.
