By the end of his first year in office, Abdul Ghaffar had become a paradox—loved by the public, feared by the politicians, and barely tolerated by his own party. The people saw a young man who responded to calls at midnight, who waded through floodwaters to inspect broken drains, who spent his weekends repainting school walls. But to his party executives, he was something else entirely.
They called him reckless. Untrained. A boy with too much mouth and not enough manners.
What hurt most was that some of those voices came from comrades he once admired—people who had once whispered change but now defended the very system they used to curse.
The party's regional WhatsApp group, once a quiet space for announcements, had now become a warzone. Abdul barely posted, but his name was there every day.
> "This boy dey form star boy too much."
"He dey make the rest of we look like we dey sleep."
"Who send am to do that TV interview?"
"The boy dey ride popularity like campaign horse. E no go end well."
He read it all silently. He never replied.
But he took notes.
When a neighborhood market caught fire and dozens of traders lost everything, Abdul mobilized his following once again. He created a donation drive online, pulled in GHC 20,000 within five days, and personally helped distribute funds and supplies. His actions made the national news—again. His face appeared on radio stations, online newspapers, and TikTok reels. A charity in Canada reached out to support his next project.
That's when the real knives came out.
One morning, as he stepped into his office, his secretary—who barely liked him but had grown to respect him—met him with a concerned look.
"You need to see this," she said, handing him a letter stamped with the party emblem.
It was an official query from the regional leadership.
> Dear Hon. Abdul Ghaffar,
You are hereby invited to a disciplinary hearing regarding your recent independent actions which undermine party coordination and reflect negatively on party image. Your conduct has raised concerns over loyalty, respect for procedure, and disregard for the chain of command.
Date: Friday, 3 p.m.
Venue: Regional Party Office.
Abdul read it three times. Then he folded it neatly and put it in his pocket.
At the hearing, he walked into the room in a simple white shirt, jeans, and dusty shoes. The hall was full. Seated at the head of the table was the Regional Chairman, flanked by executives, council elders, and one or two "big men" who rarely showed up to anything unless it involved money or scandal.
The chairman gestured to a seat.
"You've been busy," he said dryly.
"I've been working," Abdul replied calmly.
"You've been making noise. Taking glory. Fundraising without party oversight. Taking interviews without clearance. Are you bigger than the party?"
"No," Abdul said. "But I'm not smaller than the people."
The room stirred.
One elder banged the table. "You dey disrespect!"
Another leaned in. "What do you think this is? Some social media campaign? This is politics. Real politics."
Abdul held their gaze. "Real politics is supposed to solve real problems. What we've been doing is theatre. Expensive theatre. And I didn't join the party to play a role. I joined to change the script."
Murmurs. Raised eyebrows.
The Chairman stood. "You're clever with words, I'll give you that. But cleverness won't save you in this game. This is a long road. A hard road. We can help you rise—or we can let you fall. Your choice."
There it was. The offer beneath the scolding. The unspoken bribe wrapped in a threat.
He bowed slightly. "With all due respect, sir… if rising means becoming blind, I'll walk with open eyes even if it means crawling."
The silence was long and uncomfortable.
He was dismissed without a punishment—but also without applause. It was a warning. A quiet marker drawn in the sand.
Later that night, Isaac called him again.
"So you go there and insult dem for demma face?" he asked, half amused, half panicked.
"I spoke the truth," Abdul said, sipping cold water.
"Hmm. This your stubborn heart go get you in trouble one day."
Abdul laughed softly. "That day go come. But not today."
Despite the threats, Abdul's influence grew. Young people from other districts began messaging him, asking how they could contest local elections too. Teachers invited him to schools to speak. Even some frustrated party members started quoting his posts anonymously.
But not all attention was welcome.
One evening, as he walked home from a sanitation project meeting, a black car slowed beside him. The windows were tinted. No number plate. The engine purred like a beast waiting to bite.
The driver's window rolled down just enough for a voice to whisper, "Mind your lane, small boy. Or you go disappear like tweet."
Then the car sped off.
Abdul stood still for a moment. Not out of fear—but recognition. He had officially graduated. He was now dangerous enough to threaten. Dangerous enough to watch.
He walked the rest of the way home without looking back.
Inside his apartment, he sat at his desk and opened his laptop.
He didn't write a post.
He opened a new file instead.
"Blueprint for National Renewal — Phase 1: Grassroots Reform"
He wasn't going to fight the system with just slogans. Not anymore.
Now, he would do it with plans.