The transition was no longer a protocol; it was a reality. May 29, 1999, dawned with a clarity that felt almost alien to the citizens of Nigeria. The air in Abuja was not thick with the usual tension of a looming coup or the oppressive silence of a dictator's whim. Instead, Eagle Square was a sea of vibrant colors green and white flags fluttering against a sky that had finally cleared of the harmattan dust. As the new civilian president stepped toward the podium to take the oath of office, the world watched a nation attempting to heal. But beneath the celebrations, in the places where the sunlight didn't reach, the true legacy of the WATCHMEN was being laid to rest.
Silas Okoro stood on the periphery of the crowd, wearing a simple linen shirt and trousers. He looked like any other retiree from the civil service, his face a map of lived history that no one cared to read. He had no medal on his chest, no seat in the VIP stand, and his name appeared in no official program. To the new administration, he was a ghost they hoped would stay in the shadows. To the remnants of the NSDI, he was the man who had burned their world down. He watched the inauguration not with triumph, but with the quiet, wary hope of a gardener who had just planted a seed in rocky soil.
[SCENE START]
EXTERIOR: EAGLE SQUARE, ABUJA - DAY
The roar of the crowd is deafening as the oath is administered. AMAKA stands beside SILAS, her eyes shielded by dark glasses.
AMAKA: The international monitors are calling it a miracle. They say the Lugard Leak did more to dismantle the military's grip than twenty years of diplomacy ever could.
SILAS
A miracle is a divine intervention, Amaka. This was an extraction. We took the poison out, but the patient still has to learn how to walk again.
AMAKA: The new Director of State Security approached me this morning. He wanted to know if the 'Originals' had any more files. He was polite, but his eyes were already looking for the leverage.
SILAS: (A thin smile). What did you tell him?
AMAKA: I told him that the only thing left of the WATCHMEN was a pile of ash in a Lagos basement. I told him that if he wanted to protect the country, he should try following the law instead of the shadows.
SILAS: (Nodding). Good. The moment the law becomes strong enough that it doesn't need us, that's the moment we've truly succeeded.
[SCENE END]
The celebration in Abuja continued into the night, but Silas had one final duty to perform a duty that required him to return to the place where it all began. He took the night bus back to Lagos, traveling through the heart of the country he had spent his life watching. He saw the lights of the small villages, the bustling markets that never seemed to sleep, and the young people who moved with a freedom that his generation had never known. The Tredex City money, now flowing into micro-grants for clinics and schools, was already beginning to change the landscape. The iron was gone; the Iroko was growing.
He arrived at the Lagos docks in the early hours of the morning. The warehouse that had housed the 1914 headquarters was now a condemned ruin, cordoned off by yellow tape. The NSDI had tried to excavate it, looking for the lost gold, but they had found only flooded limestone and empty cedar chests. Silas slipped past the guards with the ease of a man who knew every loose board and blind spot in the district.
[SCENE START]
INTERIOR: RUINED LIMESTONE HEADQUARTERS - PRE-DAWN
The basement is half-submerged in brackish water. The mahogany desks are rotting, and the smell of salt is overwhelming. SILAS wade through the knee-deep water toward the central pillar.
He reaches into a hidden cavity in the stone, pulling out a small, waterproof tin. Inside is a single sheet of parchment the original 1914 charter signed by Lugard and the five founding families. He doesn't read it. He knows the words by heart: To watch when the law sleeps. To strike when the rot begins. To vanish when the light returns.
SILAS: (Whispering to the empty room). The light is here, Frederick. It's time to vanish.
He strikes a match and touches it to the parchment. The flame is small but bright in the damp darkness. He watches as the last physical evidence of the WATCHMEN's authority turns to black flakes and falls into the water.
[SCENE END]
As the sun began to rise over the Atlantic, Silas climbed back to the surface. He stood on the edge of the pier, looking out at the shipping lanes where the merchant ships still bobbed like vultures, just as they had in 1914. But the vultures were different now; they were being watched by a public that had found its voice.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver whistle. He held it for a long moment, feeling the cool metal against his palm. It was the last link to a century of just but brutal action. He thought of Murtala Muhammed trapped in the Ikoyi traffic, of Abacha's cold hand at the airport, and of Hamza slumped against a limestone pillar. He thought of the split the NSDI's broad, corrupt force versus the Originals lethal purity. Both were gone now, swallowed by the very history they had tried to manipulate.
With a flick of his wrist, Silas tossed the whistle into the deep, dark water of the harbor. There was no splash, just a quiet ripple that was immediately lost in the swell of the tide.
[SCENE START]
EXTERIOR: LAGOS DOCKS - DAY
A young boy, perhaps twelve years old, is sitting on the edge of the pier, fishing with a hand-line. He looks up as SILAS walks past.
BOY: Did you lose something, Baba?
SILAS: (Pausing, a genuine smile reaching his eyes)
No, son. I just gave something back to the sea.
BOY: Is it valuable?
SILAS: Only to people who are afraid of the dark. You keep your eyes on that line. The fish are biting today.
[SCENE END]
Silas walked away from the docks and toward the bustling center of Marina. He merged with the crowd of office workers, street hawkers, and students. He was no longer a sentinel. He was no longer an operative. He was a citizen of a nation that was finally, painfully, being born.
The Tredex Enigma was silent. The Lugard Ledger was a public record. The WATCHMEN were a memory. But as Silas turned a corner, he saw a young woman in a police uniform standing guard at a bank entrance. She stood tall, her eyes scanning the crowd with a vigilant, protective gaze that had nothing to do with secrecy and everything to do with service.
Silas nodded to himself. The mandate hadn't died; it had simply moved from the shadows to the light. The soul of the nation was no longer something to be guarded by a few; it was something to be lived by the many. For the first time since 1914, the watcher could finally rest.
THE END