The first time Abdul Ghaffar sat on a national morning show, the host spent ten minutes questioning his age before asking a single thing about his work.
"So, Honorable Ghaffar," the host chuckled, adjusting his expensive tie, "You're only twenty-two. Shouldn't you still be in school or… I don't know, chasing girls?"
The studio laughed. The producer smiled. Abdul didn't.
He looked directly at the host, calm and composed.
"If I were chasing girls, nobody would ask questions. But because I'm chasing change, suddenly I'm too young."
Silence.
The host shifted, trying to recover. "I mean… of course, it's admirable. But you must admit, your style is... unconventional."
"If convention worked, we wouldn't be where we are," Abdul replied. "Floods still kill people every year, yet every year we set up a new committee. If that's the convention, I prefer to remain unconventional."
That interview went viral by afternoon. It wasn't just what he said. It was how he said it—bold, sharp, with a touch of humor that slapped without drawing blood.
Clips of his words were shared in group chats, played in taxis, even turned into memes by university students.
One read:
"Abdul Ghaffar: The only politician who speaks like he's not trying to lie."
But popularity was a dangerous thing. It brought admiration from the people—and ammunition for his enemies.
That week, an anonymous blogger posted a thread accusing Abdul of using foreign donors to enrich himself. Screenshots of vague receipts, cropped WhatsApp chats, and an edited voice recording began to circulate.
By evening, hashtags like #GhaffarExposed and #BridgeMoneyScam were trending.
Isaac called him in panic. "Bro, you see what's happening? People dey talk say you thief donation money!"
Abdul had seen it. His phone wouldn't stop vibrating. Messages, calls, even an invitation from a radio station for a "clarification interview."
He did none of that.
Instead, he released a video from his office.
Calm, composed, tired—but honest.
"I've seen the lies going around," he began. "And I'm not surprised. This is what the system does. It attacks the credibility of anyone it cannot control. But I didn't enter politics to defend myself. I came to defend the people."
He went on to share full, verifiable financial reports of all donations, including receipts, donor details, and bank statements. He mentioned the schools they renovated, the bridges repaired, the sanitation projects completed—with photos, names, dates.
Then he smiled gently and said, "Now, if after seeing all this, you still want to believe the lies… then maybe the truth is not your problem. You just don't want change."
By morning, the smear campaign had backfired. The video had crossed a million views. Even popular musicians reposted it with the caption "This boy dey school the system."
But the party wasn't clapping.
At the next internal strategy meeting, Abdul's name was brought up again—not with applause, but irritation.
"He's making us look lazy," one councilman hissed.
"He's popular, yes," another added, "but that popularity could spin into rebellion if we're not careful."
Some argued he should be expelled for insubordination.
But the party's general secretary shook his head.
"No. We don't fight fire with fire," he said calmly. "We suffocate it. We ignore him, deny him funding, isolate him from the machine. And we wait. Starvation is more effective than a sword."
That same week, all allocations to Abdul's district office were mysteriously delayed. Invitations to state events "forgot" his name. His interview requests from national stations were "declined without explanation."
He knew what it was.
They wouldn't touch him directly—they'd just dim the spotlight.
But Abdul had grown up in the dark.
He doubled down on digital content. Created a podcast. Invited youth leaders from other districts. Discussed corruption, incompetence, and ideas—real ideas. Within a month, "The People's Mic" had 200,000 weekly listeners.
And then came the moment no one expected.
A by-election was announced in the next region after the sudden resignation of an MP. The two main parties scrambled to select candidates.
But one night, a group of students, market women, and youth leaders from that region publicly petitioned Abdul to contest.
"Come stand for us," their statement read. "If our parties won't give us honest leaders, we'll borrow one."
The party's executives panicked. If Abdul crossed into parliamentary politics this early, he would grow too big, too fast.
They called him again—this time, nicer.
"Comrade Ghaffar, let's talk," the Regional Chairman said on a call. "We want to support your next move. But don't be in a hurry. Power is a journey. Don't jump the ladder."
Abdul smiled into the phone.
"Sir, with all due respect… if the ladder is broken, sometimes you jump."
The call ended there.
Later that night, Isaac visited him with grilled chicken and sobolo.
"You dey craze," he said, handing Abdul a plate. "But the people dey feel you. You no fit stop now."
Abdul sat at the edge of his bed, chewing quietly.
"I'm not trying to be a star, Isaac. I'm trying to break the ceiling so others can walk in."
Isaac nodded. "I know. That be why they scared."
Outside, the wind blew hard through the narrow alleys of the city. Posters flapped. Dust danced.
Inside, Abdul opened a brown envelope: his nomination form for the by-election.
He filled it out, signed it, and whispered to no one in particular:
"Let the ballot speak again."