EFCC headquarters carried the electric hum of institutional power

The air in the EFCC headquarters carried the electric hum of institutional power as FIRS Chairman Zach Adedeji crossed the threshold, his delegation moving with the quiet purpose of men who'd wrestled numbers into submission. Outside, Abuja's September heat pressed against tinted windows; inside, leather chairs sighed under the weight of consequential conversations. 

Adedeji's gaze locked onto EFCC's Ola Olukoyede. "When the President praised us last week," he began, voice low but resonant in the polished conference room, "it felt incomplete. Like applauding only the surgeon when the anesthesiologist holds the patient's breath steady." Around them, data screens flickered—charts of recovered billions, maps of frozen assets. "Your raids on phantom companies, the offshore trails you unraveled... that's what filled our coffers by August. Not magic. Enforcement." 

Olukoyede leaned forward, fingertips pressed together. A case file sat partially open before him—details of a textile tycoon's double-ledger scheme, now evidence in the Appeal Court's landmark tax fraud ruling. "Compliance needs teeth, Zach," he countered softly. "When your officers knock, they're accountants. When ours knock?" He didn't smile. "They see handcuffs." 

The unspoken tension thrummed beneath courtesies: FIRS calculating revenue streams like an intricate watchmaker; EFCC swinging a sledgehammer at vault doors. Adedeji's next move was chess, not camaraderie. "We're redesigning the expenditure framework," he said, sliding a tablet across the mahogany. "Transparency builds trust. Trust builds voluntary compliance. But first—" he tapped the screen, where real-time budget allocations bloomed like fractal flowers, "—we need you to guard the plumbing. No leaks. No backflows." 

Olukoyede's nod was a blade's edge. "Every naira spent on a phantom hospital," he said, "is a naira stolen twice. Once from the treasury. Once from the mother who bleeds out in a clinic without walls." He paused, recalling the appellate judges' gavels affirming his mandate. "We'll audit the spenders. Not just the earners." 

As they rose, hands clasped in a grip that fused ledgers and warrants, junior aides exchanged glances. Outside, rain began sheeting down on Abuja—a violent, purifying downpour. Two agencies, one target: the ghosts in Nigeria's treasury. And the ghosts, just then, felt the first chill.