BACK TO PRESENT DAY.
OIL MILL MARKET, PORT HARCOURT.
Wednesday in the metropolitan city of Port Harcourt hosted the usual hustle bustle of a midweek day. Private vehicles, taxis, buses and trucks laden with an overload of goods plied the tarred roads. Traffic was at its peak and not even the sweating, arm-flapping traffic wardens could tame it.
The sun was up, spreading its orange-yellow, blazing-hot, stinging rays on everything below. But this did not deter the traders and buyers who were trading in the crowded Wednesday market popularly known as Oil Mill Market.
Traders were ready to sell various goods in surplus quantities. The colorful, eye-catching wares displayed on counters, stalls and trays were luring the eager buyers to buy them. Wheelbarrow-pushers and load-carriers made their services available for the buyers who had purchased bulky goods too heavy to be borne by the hands of a single, worn-out person.
The Oil Mill market was like every other typical Nigerian market. Dirt and debris littered the ground. Dirty, stinky water puddles dotted many parts of the market. The straight walkways could barely accommodate more than two persons at the same time. A deafening noise filled the hot air.
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The market hooligans bounced around in gangs, doing their own share of the work by being nuisances. They took advantage of their victims' vulnerabilities by picking pockets, threatening passers-by, snatching traders'
goods without paying, and perpetrating other petty crimes.
Different associations, both approved and non-approved by the local government, moved around the market asking traders to pay various tax fees and handing both valid and invalid tax tickets to the traders who had no option but to flow with the system if they expected to make any profit in peace today.
Those 'associations' also had the audacity to ask buyers who had purchased bulky goods to pay for the land space on which they had dropped their goods.
Although she was a buyer, Mrs Righteous Green had just received her second ticket for the day, all because of her pile of goods which now sat in nylons and cartons on the baking sand.
She had been searching frantically for a load carrier to help take her goods to her car for close to twenty minutes.
It seemed as if those load bearers had gone on break because none was in sight. And no, she couldn't bear to pay for a third ticket in one day.
Plus, she was dying to escape the scorching sun. Her high-heeled sandals were hurting her feet. She could feel the blisters forming already. She couldn't wait to get into her car and rip off the tightening necessity from her throbbing feet.
Amid many other markets in town, Oil Mill market was her first choice for shopping. Here she found all she needed to buy and restock her family supplies. Apart from clothes, shoes, jewelry, body and hair cream, which she usually bought from a fancy supermarket adjacent her neighborhood, this was where she came twice a month
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to get groceries, kitchen utensils, electronic appliances and many more. It was closer to her house and she could conveniently bargain prices to the barest minimum and get quality goods at the cheapest rates.
Clutching her handbag—which enclosed her purse, credit cards, phones and other accessories—very tightly to herself, her eyes kept scanning the length and breadth of the lightly-crowded area where she stood for a load carrier, one who seemed healthy enough to carry her load for a fair price. She couldn't afford to lose a dime further to those ravaging money-suckers that claimed to be dishing out tickets for orderliness. Truth be told, it wasn't as if she didn't have money to bar off their undue pestering, but she wasn't in a good mood to deal with any drama.
At the moment, she was extremely irritable—something that became second nature with her after the unexpected blindness that almost shut down her daughter's life five years ago. Mrs Righteous had become more sensitive and emotionally exhausted ever since the unfortunate incident. Before heading for the market today, she had been depressed. Now that her depressed state was coupled with her tiredness and irritation, she was afraid that she would slap the next person that dared to bring any ticket to her.
She heaved a sigh of relief when she finally spotted a male load-carrier striding a few meters to her far left. She immediately ran after the man, not minding the pain that shot through her pulsing ankles and soles, shouting and waving above the market din in order that she might grab his attention before another frustrated prospect did.
She finally got through to him, panting. Without even proceeding with the usual bargaining spree with the man, she asked him to take her load to the trunk of her car. She led the way to where she had parked her Camry, limping on her sore feet. The man followed her, slowed down by the weight of the goods he balanced, both on the wooden tray on his head and his free left hand.
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After her groceries had been fully secured in the trunk of her car, she paid the man his fee. She slipped in and buckled her seat belt across her torso. Only then did she let out a deep sigh. Finally, the torture was over. For now.
She inserted her key into the ignition and twisted it once. The car coughed to life. She maneuvered her Camry out of the crammed parking space after she had also paid the fee for the parking slot her car had occupied.
As she drove out of the market entrance and slipped into the Aba Express road, all her thoughts slowly latched onto her numerous challenges, both past and present. She was absolutely oblivious to the black Mercedes-Benz that was steadily trailing her.
The driver of that innocuous-looking Mercedes was a much-wanted personnel in the country, known by his first name, feared for his nickname.
Not much was known about him, only that he was a deadly, yet almost invisible, criminal. The leader of one of the top syndicates in the country—Alpha Shadows. A crime syndicate that wasn't as famous as the Russian mafia but almost as deadly.
His name?
Savior. Alias Tiger.
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