The armed robbers climbed through the high fence of No. 50 Ziks Avenue and jumped inside its premises. Musa, a long-nosed Hausa gateman, wasn’t at the gate. He had travelled last week to cast his vote, Hausa chaps liked travelling on time during election periods. Only the Igbo’s in Hausa land stayed, slept, woke up, pitched high tents and often ended up killed. The compound was calm save for a dog on a leash barking, stretching its jaw wide. Scorpion, Jericho and Spider were the three able-bodied, but hungry youths from the slums who had gotten information that the owner of the house, Chief Izegbe, had made a huge withdrawal of countless Naira notes at the bank earlier the day, despite the scarcity of cash that had ridden the economy for two weeks. Chief Izegbe, a man with a bushy moustache and scanty eyebrows, was one of the wealthy businessmen in Enugu metropolis. His wealth spoke for him. And he wasn’t one of those rich men who got their monies in an illegal manner. He toiled and hustled for his cash since his youth. His long years of importing electronic goods and countless consignments from China into the country were paying him off. In fact, his daughter, Mirabel, would always call him a business tycoon. Chief Izegbe had a distended stomach. He walked like one who was pregnant. His late wife, Rebeca had often teased him, when she was heavy with Mirabel’s pregnancy, saying that the nurses at the hospital might be confused on who was due for delivery between her and Chief. Because Chief’s large stomach could be compared to hers. The armed robbers shuffled their feet to the entrance door, the crickets chirping as if they were in a nocturnal contest. Scorpion, tall and with the face of a horse, pulled his mask firm on his face. Jericho the one with slender fingers like toothpicks, tightened his hand gloves, stretching it so his fingers looked like chopsticks. Spider, short and tepid, was running around like a cockroach, surveying the crew, making sure their guns and every other thing were intact. The plan was to go in, extort the money from Chief and scram. Boom! Boom!! The knock on the door sounded. Chief, who was sitting on the sofa in his agbada, flipping through the pages of his favourite newspapers: the daily sun, called on Chioma, the plump chef, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Soon, the dark-skinned chef showed up by the door. The eyes of the guns the robbers held gazing at her. Frightened, she shrieked, “Chim ooo.” She shouted, bending on the floor. Chief stood up, the guns pointed at him too. “Shhhhhhh. Lie down!” Scorpion ordered. Chief’s stomach was plastered on the floor as if he was sailing on cold water. Jericho stamped his foot on his back and he huffed. “We come in peace. We no go hurt any of you if una comply. Wey the money?” Spider’s voice melted into Chief’s ears. “Which money?” Chief said. “You dey ask me which money? You want make I waste your life?” Jericho threatened. “No, no,” Chief replied, shivering. “I’ll give you anything you want.” “Oya na, tell us where the money dey make we begin dey go.” Jericho lit a cigarette, each of the crew came forward to light their sticks. Jericho takes a whiff before he continued. “You know say town don red like this. The boys need to feel all right. POS dey collect 3k charge to withdraw 10k. Filling stations dey sell half liter fuel for the money wey suppose buy full liter. Wetin boys wan do? Boys gatz survive, shey you understand. Abi no be so?” Chioma was lying silent beside Chief. Jericho moved his leg on Chief’s body and Chief was roused. His brains seemed to have gone on an exile. “I say no be so?” Jericho repeated. “Na so, na so.” Chief said without bating an eyelid. A figure swished on the staircase. Spider was the first to notice. “Who be dat?” Spider asked. “Una get any other person with una for this house?” Scorpion asked, pointing his chopstick fingers at Chioma and Chief. “Ye—ess, Yes.” Chioma replied in quivering lips. “Who be that?!” Jericho’s voice rose. It didn’t sound twice before Mirabel came to the staircase, a piece of cloth tied around her face. It was her mother’s hair-tie, the one she wore the night she died during childbirth. “I’m the one.” Mirabel glided down the staircase, her legs moving slowly like a cat. “And who are you?” Spider asked, walking close to her. Mirabel was a smart kid. In her results in school, her teachers would always comment that she was as shrewd as a serpent, yet as slow as a cat. She knew exactly how to meander her way through thick and thin, how to push and pull her way out during difficult situations. Mirabel had once left her class boy in an unfathomable maze. One morning, the boy had stolen her pen. Since stealing was a law against the school, the proprietor sounded a note of warning to everyone, more directly to the boy in Mirabel’s class, who Mirabel had somehow found out had stolen her pen. After the warning, the boy didn’t budge. He was being hideous about the pen. The proprietor granted a search warrant to all teachers if the thief did not deliver the pen after school. The morning of the next day when the search was to commence, Mirabel endeavoured to come to class early. She sat bending her head on the desk, surveying the whole class through her eyes, waiting for her class members to arrive. The boy entered and saw the class was empty except for a class girl who was bending her head on the desk and, he thought she wasn’t watching, she could be dozing off or something. He stealthily withdrew Mirabel’s pen from his bag and stuck it inside a hole on the wall