Opportunity, they say, comes once in a lifetime. And when it does, you grab it. Senator and presidential aspirant Akaha Ivom was not going to let his pass by no matter what. Among the presidential aspirants, he was with the better chance until funds ran out in the middle of campaign and he had to make the deplorable but only decision of killing his wife.
“I know we anticipated this, but it was not to be this quick,” his campaign manager said. “You know the setback about the fundraising: the death of Chief Zik Anyanwu. Now his estate has denied he made a promise to donate three hundred million naira to the campaign team.”
Little was realized from the fundraising. He was to make history as the first Tivman to become President. The crowd was with him. No one was willing to lend him such money. The only option now was to take the one that rightfully belonged to him. It was a difficult decision. But if he was to become the first Tiv President, strike a balance in the leadership circle and rebrand the country the way he had promised, it was worth the sacrifice. It was worth killing his wife, who had not really supported his ambition, to inherit $5,000,000 in cash. He had told her that after eight years as a senator, he would leave active politics. But it was sixteen now.
For any other person, an assassin was not hard to find, but this was a murder that must not look like murder. It was to be a natural death.
“I have money,” he said to his campaign manager. “But it requires a human sacrifice.”
The campaign manager jumped out of his chair. “I can’t be party to any ritual murder. I am not going to any witch doctor…”
“Nobody is going to a witch doctor, Peter,” the senator said in a tone that sounded too polite for the kind of conversation. “I am inheriting the money.”
“Who are you killing to inherit this money?”
The senator paused.
“My wife.”
“No, no!”
“I am making you minister after this. This campaign would fail and I will go back to the senate as a life senator. You will have nothing. Simply get over it. I am not asking you to kill anybody. I am doing it myself. And if being the first Tivman to become the President of this country does not mean anything to you,” the senator went on, and now the words came out forcefully and a plump finger from his large arm was sticking repeatedly in the campaign manager’s face, “it means the whole world to me.”
“This is a bad idea.”
The senator wheeled his three-hundred-pound bulk on one heel and barked, “If you vomit over five hundred million where you stand then it’s a bad idea.”
A week later, the death of his wife in her sleep was reported as a heart attack. He compounded it with a tearful press conference, joined in by millions of supporters across the country. A month later after he had buried his wife and mourned her for another week, his campaign regained its momentum.
The elections came. And passed.
Senator-For-Life and presidential aspirant Akaha Ivom was already jubilating with his team when the victory news came in. They were gathered in a large room that had been stuffed with tension before the results began coming in. Now they were throwing themselves at each other, screaming and slapping their backs in celebration.
When the door opened, none of them noticed until the leader of the intruders, a tall man in suit spoke.
“I am sorry to intrude, gentlemen and ladies, but we want a word with the President-elect.”
The man walked up to Akaha Ivom and said with a badge stuck in the senator’s face:
“Detective Dennis Duke. You are under arrest for the murder of your wife four months ago. You have the right to remain silent as anything you say will be used against you in the court of law.”
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