Chapter Seven: The Trigger
The morning sun over Accra was slow to rise, its rays stretched like fingers hesitating to touch what lay ahead. In Taifa, the birds still sang, the taxis still honked, and the world spun as always—but in Abdul Ghaffar's life, something imperceptible had shifted.
He was sipping his usual bitter coffee at the balcony of his modest home—no mansion, no flashy ornaments, just cement walls and discipline. Across the table, Isaac scrolled silently on his phone. Serwaa, nursing a headache from a late committee meeting, hadn't said a word yet.
Then Isaac's fingers froze mid-scroll.
"Boss… you need to see this."
Abdul didn't flinch. Over the years, he had developed the stomach to handle viral slander, fake polls, and opposition rants. But Isaac's expression was not of panic—it was of someone staring into a collapsing roof and realizing he was inside the building.
Isaac handed over the phone.
BREAKING NEWS: MP Abdul Ghaffar Implicated in Multi-Million Cedi Procurement Fraud.
There was a shaky video playing—grainy footage of a man resembling Abdul receiving a folder from a figure with a blurred face. Below it, screenshots of supposed contracts and wire transfers flashed in red overlays.
Abdul set the phone down slowly.
Serwaa leaned forward. "Is this real?"
He shook his head. "I've never seen that building in my life."
The TV in the corner, still on mute, was flashing similar images. Serwaa grabbed the remote. She didn't need to unmute it—the scrolling headlines said everything.
'The People's Saint' or Corrupt Genius? Shocking New Evidence Emerges
Opposition Party Calls for Urgent Ethics Probe
Anonymous Sources Claim Ghaffar Used NGO to Launder Funds
Isaac swallowed hard. "This… this looks orchestrated."
Abdul stood. "Let them come."
And they did.
Within two hours, the Parliamentary Ethics Committee issued a formal statement. They were launching an urgent inquiry into the alleged misconduct of MP Abdul Ghaffar, concerning illegal procurement deals and possible misuse of public funds.
That same afternoon, he received a letter summoning him to appear before the committee in 48 hours.
Abdul didn't blink. "We'll face it."
But he didn't know this was only the first shot in a hundred-round war.
The Parliament chamber was unusually packed the day of the Ethics hearing. Not with press—those were banned—but with curious MPs, assistants, and party executives. Abdul walked in wearing his white kaftan, clean but wrinkled, as if he had slept in defiance.
Chairing the committee was Hon. Sarpong Addae—a man so old he had once served under three presidents, each time switching parties just before the elections. His smile never reached his eyes.
"Honourable Ghaffar," he began, "we are here not to accuse, but to understand."
Abdul nodded. "And I am here to explain."
He did. Clearly. With evidence. With integrity.
He debunked the first contract—proving it was never signed by his office.
He challenged the anonymous sources—pointing out that no official complaint had ever been filed.
He even showed receipts of his own finances—transparent, humble, unembellished.
The committee murmured. Addae shifted uncomfortably.
But just as Abdul was regaining ground, a junior clerk burst in and handed Addae a folder.
Addae opened it. His eyebrows lifted. Then he smiled—the first real one all day.
"Honourable members," he said, raising the document, "it appears a new development has surfaced."
He handed copies around. The room fell into uneasy silence as the papers reached each member.
A bank statement.
From a South African account.
Bearing Abdul's name.
Showing three large transfers—one matching the exact amount of a government project he had overseen six months prior.
Abdul stared at the paper in front of him.
"I've never even been to South Africa," he said slowly.
Addae didn't respond. The room didn't breathe.
Later that night, back at his home, Abdul met with his lawyer—Kojo Frempong, an aging, sharp-tongued attorney with a fondness for chewing kola nut during depositions.
"This account is fake," Kojo said after scanning the documents. "But it's professionally done. Not just some intern with Photoshop. This has intelligence fingerprints on it."
"Whose?" Isaac asked.
Kojo bit down on a kola nut. "Pick one. Your enemies are no longer just political—they're institutional."
Abdul nodded. "I'm not afraid."
Kojo looked at him. "You should be."
The next morning, the CID sent a formal invitation.
Not a warrant. Not yet. Just an "invitation to assist in investigations."
The letter was worded politely—almost too politely.
Inside, Abdul felt the gears of the state grinding to life. The slow, heavy machinery that crushes quietly, with the force of legality and the appearance of justice.
As he walked out of his house to meet the CID officers waiting outside, he caught sight of his daughter's drawing still pinned to the wall near the door. A stick figure of him with a cape and the words "My Hero" written in pink crayon.
He paused.
"Take it down," he told Serwaa gently.
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because I don't want her to remember me with wings," he said. "Not when they're about to bury me under concrete."