He removed a seriously wrinkled five hundred naira note from his back pocket and handed it to the tricycle driver.

The driver bent down, lifted the rug covering the base of his vehicle and shoved the money under, making no move to look for change.

'Mallam how about my change'. He asked impatiently. He did not particularly like the place he was heading to and the Napep man wasn't making it any easier.

'Which change now oga? Do you know the price of fuel now? I have 12 mouths to feed most of whom are in school. My rent will soon expire. This is...'

This Napep man was really going to have it, he thought.

'Mallam i am not interested in your life history. You think you are the only one facing hardship, or is it that only you has mouths to feed?. If i had money to buy Napep now do you think i would have needed your services?'.

He concluded his sudden ouburst. Then extends his hand, the sign that he still was waiting for his change.

The driver perplexed by the young man's reaction reached into his pocket without further argument and brought out a more wrinkled two hundred naira note that was barely held by a tape in the middle.

The young man collected it and tucked it back in his back pocket. The driver looked at him with a faint sign of pity then cocked his head towards the building where the young man was heading to.

'May Allah be with them' he prayed simply.

The young man nodded and muttered an 'Amin' then clutched a green food flask that was resting on the back seat of the vehicle before he turned and headed towards the dreadful building located opposite the Palace of the Kano Emirate.

Why would anyone locate such a historic and majestic building as a Palace of one of the oldest and strongest kingdoms in Nigeria beside a high walled fortress that spelled doom. He thought as he made his way towards the doom.

It was ironic really, how both structures held such great power but where one was a place many were aspiring to reside in or even get to visit, the other was where every sane person would never want to consider staying in.

He raised his eyes towards the Palace and was greeted by a rather large gun beckoning on him to make one false move, and it would be his last.

He shifted his gaze to the ground, picked up his pace and started praying for the encounter to be short.

At the main gate, he was being checked thoroughly then motioned towards the next stop.

After he was checked more times than he had been in a long while, he was finally shown to an average sized rectangular room. The visiting room.
He placed the food warmer which had been opened so much that the food was warm on the faded wooden table in front of him and laced his fingers on top of it waiting for person he was there for.

After what seemed like an hour, he heard his name being called.
'Ibrahim'. His body shoots up in response.

'Abba' he nods in a show of respect then extends his hand to shake his Father's hand.

His fathers palm was coarse, the skin of his hand felt leathery and hard.

Ibrahim knew that he would retain the feeling of his Fathers tired palms as it pricked his soft one.

His Father analysed him and nodded in approval then motioned for him to seat as a host would do to a guest in his mansion. In this case, mansion of terror.

He glanced briefly at the security who accompanied his father, only then realising that his father was receiving benefits accrued to criminals because he was one, a criminal.

Beads of sweat formed on his dark skin and he couldn't say what made him sweat, the heat in the room, or the room itself.

Ibrahim had tried to ignore the fear and pain etched on his fathers face which his father had unsuccesfully tried to mask with forced nonchalance. It caused his fear to rise too.

When his mother had told him to go visit his father in prison earlier that day, Ibrahim had come up with every excuse possible to dissuade her, or at least stall the meeting but she had insisted.
And when she had broken down crying, claiming that he was trying to disassociate himself from his own father just because his father had the misfortune of being imprisoned, he had had no choice than to go.

But as he sat down opposite the man who looked like a badly beaten reflection of his former self, he wished he hadn't obliged.

'How is your Mother?'.
Even his voice was rougher than it was before he left.

'She is good. Very good'.
Ibrahim nodded his head severally. Then added 'She sends her warm regards and apologies for not coming'.

His father nods once in acknowledgment.
'And the children?' He asked hesitantly.

It was like his father was scared of the response to the questions he was asking. Scared the answers might be Umma seeks for a divorce or the kids do not consider you a father anymore, probably.
But they all where in together. When their father left for prison, part of them all left never to be set free again.

'The lawyer came to see me two days ago.'.

Ibrahim sat upright, his heart pounding with hope. If there was anyone that believed that his father had an iota of innocence in his bag no matter how glaringly open the evidences against him where, it was their fathers lawyer. She served as a rope of hope they held when all others decided to cut theirs.
Surely she must have brought good news.

His father cleared his throat once avoiding all eye contact with his son and Ibrahims hope deflated, but not by much.

'She says they had looked for more evidence to exonerate me but all were against my case, the witnesses were too many and their testimonies matched. I had no valid defense, that was how she put it.'

He smiled bitterly and shook his head.
'No defense? When does a person need to defend his actions?' He asked rhetorically. 'When he does something wrong, right'.

Ibrahim nodded regarding his father incredulously. The wild look of hopelessness in his fathers eyes were becoming more prominent the more his ill-worn facade slipped off.

His father was hinting at something and Ibrahim was trying to grasp meaning of it.

'Ibrahim trust no one in this world' his father said abruptly, cutting off his chain of thoughts.
'They are all hypocrites all bunch of them. No one has your best interest at heart except yourself. No one is trying to help you make it in this life, they may pretend to but they never really.
No matter how much you think you know a person, he is never to be trusted.
There are somethings that you have to keep to yourself in order to protect yourself, not even your mother must know, no matter how big it is, it has to be a secret of the heart only'.

He seemed to have zoned out as he was saying that, it was like he wasn't addressing Ibrahim but was reprimanding himself.

Trust no one, secret of the heart, keep it to yourself? Was his father sending a message to him?.

His fathers next words confirmed that 'In this country my son, if you do not keep your mouth shut no matter the injustice, you will end up like me'.

'Abba what are you trying to say? Are you saying you are innocent?'.

His father raised eyes filled with hurt at him.

'You never believed my innocence?'.
And that was all Ibrahim needed to hear.

'Abba you need to explain to me everything that has happened'.

A look of fear crossed his fathers face. 'The less you know my son, the safer you are, the safer all of you are. If she couldn't help me then neither can you'.

Before his father could explain any further, their conversation was cut short by the warden. His fathers last words before he was scouted off was.

'They will kill me in two months time Ibrahim. Do not tell your mother yet and do not trust anyone'.

This chapter was written by Hansatuu with permission given to Project Nigeria to publish it.

Hansatuu is the author of Burnt Clay, a Nigerian based Wattpad romance book that aims at intimating people with the colourful way of life of her people.

She is currently in a University over there. She loves meeting new people.