I am a THIEF, we are THIEVES (Part I)
The midday Lagos sun beat down mercilessly on Fatima's back as she shuffled in the queue of First National Bank. Sweat trickled down her temples, blurring the vision of the flickering ceiling fan. She clutched the worn leather satchel in her lap, its contents heavier than textbooks. Today wasn't about deposits; it was about a different kind of withdrawal.
Fatima wasn't your typical bank robber. Despair, not greed, had driven her to this. Her younger brother, Sodiq, lay critically ill in a hospital, ravaged by a mystery illness the family couldn't afford to treat. Their meager savings were a distant memory, devoured by the relentless cost of medication. The doctor's words echoed in her head – "experimental treatment, very expensive."
A bead of sweat splashed onto the worn photograph peeking out of her satchel. It was a picture of Sodiq, all smiles and bright eyes, holding a kite that danced on the wind. He was her sunshine, her reason for living. Tears welled up in Fatima's eyes, blurring the image further.
Suddenly, the bank doors burst open, startling everyone. Three figures, clad in black and wielding automatic weapons, stormed in. The leader, a tall, imposing man with a scarred face, barked orders. Panic erupted. People screamed and scrambled for cover, some diving under desks, others huddled together, whimpering.
Fatima froze, momentarily paralyzed by fear. Then, a strange calmness washed over her. This chaos, this terror, was nothing compared to the fear gnawing at her soul for Sodiq's life. In that split second, her desperation transcended fear.
One of the robbers, a jittery young man with a nervous twitch, approached a teller. He shoved a duffel bag at her, his voice cracking, "Fill it! Fast!"
The calm Fatima had never known surged through her. She rose from her seat, the satchel clutched tightly. "Hey!" she shouted, her voice surprisingly firm, drawing everyone's attention.
The robbers whipped around, startled. The scarred leader, whose name tag identified him as Mr. Benson – a sickening irony – narrowed his eyes at her. "What's that, lady?"
Fatima took a deep breath. "This," she said, hefting the satchel, "is also going in the bag."
The robbers exchanged bewildered glances. Benson scoffed. "What are you, crazy? We only take cash."
"This," Fatima pressed, her voice unwavering, "is worth more than all the cash in this bank."
Intrigued, albeit still irritated, Benson approached her. Fatima cautiously met him halfway. Slowly, she unlatched the satchel, revealing its contents. Nestled inside, wrapped in a faded cloth, was a dusty, ornately carved wooden mask.
Benson's eyes widened in recognition. It wasn't just any mask; it was a priceless artifact, the Ifa mask of the Yoruba people, rumored to hold incredible power. It had been stolen from a museum years ago, and its whereabouts remained a mystery.
"You..." Benson stammered, his voice rough with disbelief. "How?"
Fatima explained her situation, the desperation for her brother's life. The mask, a family heirloom passed down through generations, was their only valuable possession. She pleaded with Benson, offering him a trade – the mask for the money they needed to save Sodiq.
The room held its breath. The other robbers, initially skeptical, were captivated by the raw emotion in Fatima's voice. Even the nervous young man seemed moved.
Benson, however, remained a tough nut to crack. He weighed the mask in his hands, the glint of its gold accents catching the light. He could sell it for a fortune. Yet, a flicker of something akin to pity crossed his scarred face as he looked at Fatima's tear-streaked eyes.
The tension stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic whimpers from a corner. Finally, Benson spoke. "Alright," he rasped, surprising everyone. "We'll take the mask."
Relief washed over Fatima. It wasn't what she had planned, but it was a chance. A chance for Sodiq.
The rest of the robbery unfolded in a blur. The robbers gathered the cash, herded the hostages, and surprisingly, helped Fatima carry the mask with utmost care. As they prepared to leave, Benson, with an unexpected gentleness, handed her a small stack of bills from the stolen loot. "For the hospital," he muttered, before turning and disappearing out the door.
The police arrived within minutes, the bank a beehive of activity. Fatima, shaken but resolute, recounted her story. There was skepticism, of course, but the officers, touched by her desperation and the mask's historical significance, promised to investigate.
TO BE CONTINUED...........
