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BN Prose: The Liquidator by Grace Ogor

“I know you are a liquidator, and you are here to kill me.”



The man nursed his Cognac as he waited for his victim to arrive. He sat at the table at the far end of the pub where the rays of the disco light barely reached and had taken care to dress in order to blend with the crowd. The pressure on his right thigh was a constant reminder of the mission that only a revolver would do. After all, this was his only occupation. On his left-hand side, he heard her coming in from the back door that was slightly behind him. He only needed to tilt forty-five degrees to see who walked in through that door but he didn’t do that. 

This was her regular hangout spot and he had been visiting for a while on account of her but she would not know that. Her sing-song voice was paying compliments to the waitress who was picking up supplies at the abandoned bar somewhat behind him that served as the pub’s makeshift store. He liked this spot as it was the only place he could view the entire pub without being noticed. That door on the left side was rarely opened but then, she was friends with the owner and a major shareholder of the establishment. Her entrance almost took him by surprise because information reaching him said she’d be here an hour and a half later. He adjusted himself on his seat as the adrenaline coursed through him. Killing people did that for him. Judging from her voice, he could sense that she was walking closer to him. He placed a deceptively calm hand on the metallic bulge on his thigh and waited for her to pass him. 

“Hello sir, is this seat empty?” The sing-song voice stopped and asked politely. He looked up and everything in him froze for a second. He didn’t know why but was chalking it up to the proximity between them. He nodded in affirmation because having learned the act of dominance over his body, mind and emotions, he knew his voice would betray him if he spoke. He needed to create a distance between him and his prey. It would be easier if she took her chair away from his table to sit elsewhere. But that was not happening because she plopped on the seat beside him and sighed in relief as she took off her shoes beneath the table while mumbling her gratitude.

“Pheww, what women go through in the name of fashion,” she smiled. She had nondescript features with the gait of a toddler learning to walk. Quite gangly in her slight frame. But there was something about her voice. And her aura, he did not quite understand but intrigued him anyway. He decided to indulge her for a while before he put a bullet in between those droopy.

“What is it about fashion that makes women go all out for it?” He asked as he took another long gulp of his Cognac. He wished she was not sitting at his table but since she was here, he would take advantage of the opportunity. 

“Well, not all women,” she smiled again, making his heart constrict.

“So let’s ask directly. What is it about fashion that makes you go all out for it?”

“Because I like the feeling it gives me. The happiness I feel knowing I dress well. It makes up for my looks.” She answered.

“What about your looks?” He looked at her intently.

She threw her head back and laughed so hard he couldn’t help but smile. 

“You know it is unequivocally clear that I cannot for one day be called the most beautiful woman anywhere in the world.”

“You are beautiful.” He heard himself say.

“Nope, I look like a praying mantis and you know it.” His shock at her apt description caused her to laugh hard again and before he knew it, he was laughing hard too. All rules are out the window. 

The conversation moved from there to different topics and he couldn’t help but be sad that his client wanted to kill this vivacious spirit. He had done a background check on his client and had found out that he had hit hard rocks in recent times and his birth family and wife had refused him any form of support either in finances or otherwise. After all, her parents never approved of their relationship or marriage and his philandering ways had choked the life out of their fruitless three-year marriage. 

He adjusted his right foot as the pressure on his thigh felt more like a burden. The conversation swirled as they took more drinks and hearty laughter followed. Her intelligence and wit warmed the night and his heart. As the early hours of the morning crawled by, he knew his time was running up. He asked if she would follow him to his place. She looked at him with unreadable eyes and emotions ran across her face. 

She shook her head in the negative but stood up making him follow the same. He paid the waitress and followed her into the night. He felt pity that she thought he wanted to take her to his home to have his way with her. He asked how she would go home and she said she was lodged in a hotel on the next street. Of course, he knew that that was a last-minute change but he played along. 

They found themselves walking to the hotel, back to the pub, and back again to the hotel without the conversations ending. He wondered with a tinge of indignation how she was so carefree with a stranger. By the third time they were headed back to the hotel, he said jokingly but his heart knew he was serious:

“We won’t be walking back here again. So take in all the sights you want to see.”

She stopped and looked at him intently. He thought for a second, she wanted him to kiss her and then he got infuriated that she would kiss a stranger. Just as he was about to chide her, she said

“You are not allowed to kiss me.”


“Because the job doesn’t require it.”

“What job? You think I’m a player?” He chuckled.

“No.” Her eyes were dead serious. “I know you are a liquidator, and you are here to kill me.”

Her voice was so calm that he froze.

“Kill you?” He asked lamely, his heart picking a fast rhythm.

“Yes, that bulge on your pockets. The meetings with my husband at Clinea apartments. Not to mention the fact that you have been following me for three weeks.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“It’s okay if you kill me. I don’t have much to live for anyway. I failed in marriage and failed as a daughter.” Her voice broke and tears seemed to crack but fought them back. “At least if you kill me, you can use the money you are paid to pay for your daughter’s cancer treatment.”

A look quickly passed across his face. 

“How do I know so much?” She asked. “Of course, you know that I am the daughter of two DSS parents. The act of spying runs in my blood.” She looked at him ruefully. 

“If I give you the opportunity to live, would you take it?” He heard himself say again.

She opened her mouth to speak but held back her words for a while.

“Yes, I’d run and never look back,” she said.

“Run to where?” He asked. “Your husband may be the black sheep of his family, but he’s the son of the president. You can’t run for long in this country.”

“Try me.” She scoffed. “I have my visa ready. I could leave as soon as I take care of some things.”

“You have twenty-four hours to do that.”

“I only need eight hours.”

She only needed 45 minutes to get to her destination – the airport.



Photo by Joseph Eulo for Pexels

Grace Ogor would love to call herself an art enthusiast as her interests run through an array of different arts; music, fashion, writing, you name it! And yes, she loves to travel and hopes to inspire people.

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