Ibrahim felt a vibration against his leg, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the screen and then back at the officers standing in silence, their guns pointed at Malik laughing on the ground and bleeding into the sand.
Ibrahim turned round and walked away. He answered the call, listened to the voice on the other end, and nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He placed the device back in his pocket and returned to the line of officers, walked past them, and stood in front of Malik.
Ibrahim looked down at Malik laughing like he had lost his mind. He removed Malik’s phone from his pocket and threw it down at the laughing man. It missed Malik’s head. Ibrahim spat on the wounded man’s face, shutting him up.
‘We are leaving,’ Ibrahim said through gritted teeth. He turned to his officers. ‘We are leaving him here. Let’s go.’
They neither budged nor lowered their guns.
‘Get into the car. We are leaving. It is an order,’ Ibrahim shouted.
Hot-Temper stepped forward, his AK47 still trained on Malik who had gone silent and was watching with as much surprise as the other officers. ‘Oga, na who phone you?’ the sergeant asked.
‘It doesn’t matter. We are leaving him here. Let’s go.’
Hot-Temper jumped in front of Ibrahim and levelled his gun at his superior’s head.
‘Hot-Temper!’ Ibrahim shouted but the sergeant wasn’t looking at him. Ibrahim turned to see one of the officers pointing his weapon at the back of his head. Hot-Temper’s weapon was aimed at the man’s face. One by one the officers took sides with their weapons, Ibrahim in the middle, Malik behind them all, laughing maniacally.