I was never a fan of harmattan.

It was the most pointless season ever. Sure, the wind was cool and cold, but it was also dry. And the dust, how could I forget about the dust? My nose wasn't built to withstand dry air and dust at the same time.

As if on cue, I sneezed with my whole body, startling the bystanders and passersby. The wind suddenly picked up and I wasn't ready for it. I shivered and adjusted my hoodie, along with my jacket. 

A brown, worn-out piece of paper drifted lazily in the air. It caught my attention momentarily. It was a poster. A wanted poster. The person wore what looked like a ghoulish white mask with purple tribal marks.

Underneath the photo read: "Wanted: Olórò. Reward if caught: ₦10,000,000."

Most people wouldn't have been able to read the contents of that paper, but I did with relative ease. A sniper's eye remains sharp.

The wind picked up once again and blew the wanted poster away from my line of sight. That was the first time I saw the city clearly at night. It was one of those rare evenings where there was electricity and everyone was in high spirits. The shops lining the roadside either had yellow/orange bulbs or fluorescent white lights illuminating the bustling sidewalks. There was a bit of traffic, causing horns and curses to blend together into a giant headache.

I walked by a group of kids clustered in front of a small, yet loud, television. Surprisingly, they were watching Primetime News, of all things.

Only one person made kids watch the news: Olórò.

The newscaster was reading out the latest atrocities committed by the notorious serial killer.

He just murdered a high ranking politician, his wife and three kids in cold blood.

That was his third attack in 2 weeks, and his 24th since his emergence one year ago.

I emotionlessly walked away and pulled my hood further over my head. Has it really been one year? I had too much blood on my hands that my sacrifices started to get jumbled up.

I didn't blame the kids for booing and jeering when the picture of Olórò came up. The press and media had done a good job of painting me as the villain. Control the news, control the people.

I didn't care about public approval. I had no use for it. If they saw me as Robin Hood, good for them. If they saw me as a notorious armed robber, all the same. If they saw me as a serial killer, they weren't far off.

I was all of those things, and at the same time, I was none of those things. I'm just a widower, mourning the loss of my family the only way I know how: vengeance.

I got to the end of the street and it was less crowded. The air previously reeked of garbage, sewage and roadside treats, but now, the calming scent of honey and vanilla floated around. I made a right and ahead of me was a large iron gate. Behind said gate was an ultramodern duplex. It looked out of place, surrounded by dilapidated bungalows and wooden huts. It stuck out like a sore thumb.

I knew it was all a farce. The owner of the home, just like his now-deceased colleagues, loved surrounding themselves with the less privileged. It helped cover up all their shady dealings, because they had the general populace on their side.

That was how they made their wealth. That was how they built their dynasty: Fowóṣeré Inc. It roughly translates to using money to play.

The company's front was helping those in need of financial aid. They built affordable houses for them, along with state-of-the-art social amenities.

No one knew how they made their money, and no one cared, since they were helping the poor and needy.

I found out their method of income generation the hard way. It cost me my wife and children. Just like dominos, every other part of my life came crashing down.

I was discharged dishonorably from the military (Those guys didn't know when to shut their mouths, so I chose to shut it for them). I lost my home. I couldn't get a job. I spiralled out of control.

All because of them!

The mask gave me purpose. It gave me a reason to not put a bullet in my brain. It gave me an identity. It was a medium for me to channel my rage!

I inhaled the dry evening air one last time. I reached into the pocket of my dark jacket and removed the mask. As I've been doing for a year, I wore the masquerade-esque mask. I was no more! In my place stood Olórò, for one last time.

Two armed security men flanked the gate. Their master just went past them into his home, meaning the giant floodlights would soon be turned on.

Olórò had a minute, maybe two, to get past them without alerting the entire squad in the vicinity.

Luckily, infiltration and assassination was his bread and butter back in the military force. Sniping was more of a hobby.

Olórò reached for his back and got his favorite toy: a pistol and a silencer. He quickened his steps and he attached the silencer to the gun. Before the security men could discern who was approaching them, he took aim and blew their brains out.

By the time he was in the lush green compound, the floodlights illuminated the surroundings. Good thing he hid the dead bodies before he advanced.

Olórò was swift and lethal! He ate and left no crumbs. He knew taking out the entire security squad was a tall order, even for him, so he isolated a good number of them and picked them off one by one. They didn't know what hit them.

The last thing they saw was a white mask's maniacal grin or three purple lines vertically drawn down both cheeks of a blank mask.

Olórò crouched by the wooden double door entrance and surveyed the environment one last time. No one was close by. He knew from his research that his target didn't like having guards in his home. He was a sitting duck for Olórò.

He calmly pushed the door open and couldn't believe his luck. His target was at the foot of a spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. His target wasn't alone. His wife and twin daughters were by his side.

I found that troubling. Olórò did not. He never did. That's why a trail of bodies followed him wherever he went. I was compassionate. Olórò was ruthless. I was merciful. Olórò got the job done.

Before they could scream, Olórò pointed the gun at them and slowly brought a finger to his hidden lips. He gestured to the right with his gun. That was the well-furnished living room.

"Don't even think about calling for help. No one's coming. They're already dead," Olórò warned. It was only half true, but his target and his family didn't know that. The wife and daughters were already shivering and crying profusely.

Those tears were wasted on him. He was too far gone.

His target pleaded with him to have mercy. How many times did Olórò hear those words? "Please, sir! I-I b-beg you! Is it money y-you want? I'll give you! I have money! Please!"

Olórò was tired. He just wanted to finish the job and finally rest. Besides, he didn't want his target's money.

With a sigh, I used my free hand to take off the mask. It dropped to the tiled floor and the clank echoed around the living room, drowning their collective audible gasps. No one had ever seen what was behind Olórò's mask!

The wife and daughters didn't know who I was, but I expected my target to. I looked into his eyes and behind the gripping, pants-shitting fear, I saw recognition.

"Oh, so you do remember me," I smiled wryly.

"Y-you? You're behind all this? You're Olórò?!" From the veins starting to pop around his fat neck, I could tell he was angry. I quickly reminded him who was in control by casually shooting a vase mere inches away from his leg. That action earned shrieks of terror from the homeowners.

"H-Honey! You know Olórò?" His wife asked hysterically. Fear was making her lose her mind.

"Know me?" I laughed. "Your husband created me, madam."

"I-I did no such thing!" my target refuted. I trained the gun straight to his forehead and asked, "Will you tell them or should I?"

"Daddy… What is he talking about?"

"Well, little girl, you want to know who your daddy really is. He's a homewrecker, a murderer, a snake, a wolf in sheep's clothing. He's one of the nine shareholders of Fowóṣeré Inc. and they're all oppressors. They claim the lands of people in offshore settlements who can't fight them, and then use those lands to build houses for the needy. Am I lying?"

He remained quiet and gritted his teeth.

"I was fighting for my country, this country, when I got the news that unknown gunmen attacked my community and killed everyone there, including my wife and my children. That's what you do to the people who refuse to release their homes to you, right? You have them killed!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Olórò," he denied weakly.

From the look his wife gave him, I could tell she was aware to a certain degree. It didn't matter what he said. We both knew the truth, and my mind was made up. 

Olórò already took out the remaining 8 shareholders and their families. He was the only one left. Olórò didn't want to scare them all off, that was why he found a few corrupt politicians to sacrifice as well, just to confuse his main targets.

I knew the shattering vase and the resulting screams would alert the remaining security personnel and I wasn't wrong. From the corner of my eye, I could see them making a beeline for the entrance.

I dropped the gun and slowly unzipped my jacket. Their pleas fell on deaf ears. I couldn't hear them. All I heard was the joyous laughter of Mayowa, Bolu and Yemi. I couldn't wait to be with them again.

They screamed in abject terror when they saw the explosives strapped to my torso.

I removed the detonator from my other pocket. The security men just kicked the door open.

I took a deep breath and sneezed.

Man, I was never a fan of harmattan.

Click…