Parliament was electric. Not in the way it should be—debates, lawmaking, nation-building—but in the way that a crowd swells before a public execution. It was less a chamber of honor now, more a coliseum.
Everyone wanted to see how far Abdul Ghaffar would fall.
Outside, the air buzzed with journalists and digital commentators, each rehearsing soundbites.
Inside, Kojo Frempong adjusted his collar and whispered to Abdul, "You have ten minutes. Use them wisely."
Abdul rose when called. His suspension was the agenda, his reputation the target.
He began slowly. No fire. No slogans.
"I stand before this house not just as an accused, but as a symbol of how fragile our democracy truly is."
Murmurs.
He continued. "When truth can be auctioned, when justice can be scripted, and when loyalty is determined by silence… then we have not built a nation. We've built a theatre."
Several MPs shifted in their seats. Some shook their heads, others looked away.
Kojo watched their reactions closely. "They're scared," he whispered. "You're scratching their masks."
But then came the counterstrike.
Hon. Oppong-Yeboah, a loyalist of the ruling bloc, stood up slowly with a smirk that oozed bad news.
"Mr. Speaker, with permission, I present to this house newly submitted audio recordings—full-length, uncut—revealed by an anonymous whistleblower just this morning."
The Speaker nodded solemnly. "Proceed."
The chamber's speakers crackled to life.
What followed was a conversation—undeniably Abdul's voice—discussing "percentage arrangements," "coded procurement channels," and the phrase that landed like a bullet:
> "As long as we clean the surface, no one will question the pipes."
A collective gasp swept the room.
Abdul's face didn't change. Kojo, however, leaned in. "That's not the full context. That clip—"
"I know," Abdul said. "It was part of a speech I gave at a procurement reform seminar two years ago."
But no one in the room cared about context.
They only cared that the voice matched.
Two hours later, the Speaker called for a vote.
Motion: To suspend Abdul Ghaffar indefinitely from Parliament pending full judicial review.
In favor: 213.
Opposed: 5.
Abstained: 22.
The gavel fell like thunder. The Speaker's voice cracked slightly as he said, "Motion passed."
Abdul didn't move. He stared at the floor for several seconds, then stood, nodded once to the Speaker, and walked out. No dramatics. No outburst. Just silence.
It was worse than shouting. It was dignity unbroken.
Outside, a crowd of supporters and reporters swarmed him.
"Did you take the money, Honourable?"
"Will you fight the case?"
"Is the People's Bloc finished?"
"Is this the end?"
Abdul said nothing. Not because he had no answers—because the questions weren't meant for answers. They were meant for noise.
Only one person called him by name—softly, from the edge of the gathering.
"Abdul."
He turned.
It was Ama, his wife.
She hadn't attended any of the hearings. She hadn't returned calls.
She stood in a plain dress, eyes glassy but determined. In her hand, she held a white envelope.
"I've filed the divorce papers," she said quietly. "It's already at the court."
Isaac, who had just reached Abdul's side, froze mid-step.
Abdul blinked, once. Then nodded. "Alright."
Ama didn't cry. "I just can't let this break our daughter too."
And with that, she left.
Kojo stepped forward. "We can contest it."
"No," Abdul said. "Let her go."
The next morning, Kojo appeared on JoyNews to attempt damage control. He explained the doctored evidence, the spliced audios, the suspicious timing of the leaks.
He made some progress.
A public poll shifted slightly. Support for Abdul ticked up from 12% to 19% overnight. Several activists started posting threads dissecting the inconsistencies.
A flicker of hope returned.
That flicker didn't last long.
Three days later, the Prosecution stunned the nation.
They produced a witness.
A former special assistant to Abdul.
Name: Kweku Sampson.
Position: Logistics aide for community development contracts.
Claim: "I personally witnessed Abdul sign off inflated invoices. I delivered cash to an unregistered office in Labone. I accompanied him on an unlogged trip to Kenya where meetings were held with third-party financiers."
The media exploded.
"Insider Confirms Ghaffar's Guilt!"
"'He Paid Me To Stay Quiet,' Aide Reveals"
"Is This The Smoking Gun?"
Kojo threw a remote at his office wall. "This boy was fired for misconduct! He stole from Abdul!"
Serwaa checked the records. "He signed an NDA. He has a criminal record. How did they get him cleared as a witness?"
Kojo stood up slowly. "Because they don't need truth. They need theatre. And Kweku's their lead actor."
Abdul sat by the window, staring at the city lights. He looked like a man already halfway buried—but breathing.
Isaac's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and frowned.
"It's from someone at the DPP's office," he said. "Anonymous number. All it says is..."
He paused, rereading.
"'Next evidence drop scheduled for Monday. Worse than anything so far. Watch who visits the judge this weekend.'"
Kojo took the phone and read it again.
A new silence fell over the room—thicker than the rest.
Then Abdul finally spoke.
"Let them drop whatever they want."
"Why?" Serwaa asked, her voice almost breaking.
Abdul looked up.
Because for the first time in weeks, he was smiling.
> "Because I think... they just made a mistake."