CLAWS AND LAWS

The air in the cell was thick with tension, its silence only broken by the raspy voice of Owuye, the infamous drunk investigator. He stood at the gate of Akintola's cell, leaning heavily on the bars, his breath reeking of cheap gin and secrets. Akintola sat on the cold bench inside, his mind buried in a whirlwind of despair and confusion.

His thoughts spiraled as he stared at the cracked floor beneath him. The allegations against him were damning, and the walls of the prison seemed to close in tighter with every passing second. He clenched his fists, anger surging through him—not just at his predicament but at the loss of his mentor, Chief Ajumobi, who had been savagely killed in the werewolf attack at the police station just nights ago.

Yet, despite his inner turmoil, Akintola couldn't ignore Owuye's voice. The man had been narrating a tale, his words laced with mystery and a depth of knowledge that both intrigued and unsettled Akintola. For years, he had admired Owuye from afar, his legendary skills as an investigator overshadowed only by his fall from grace—a man once celebrated, now broken and drowning in liquor. Akintola had often thought about seeking Owuye's counsel, especially after stumbling upon the cursed file that led him and Adejoke, his beloved girlfriend, into this hellish ordeal.

But this was not how he imagined their meeting would unfold. Instead of finding a mentor, he had found a kindred spirit trapped behind bars, a man who shared his scars—scars inflicted by the same twisted world of werewolves and conspiracies.

Owuye's voice cut through Akintola's thoughts like a blade. "You asked how my tale could help you out of this mess, didn't you?" he said, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Akintola.

Akintola straightened, his voice hoarse but steady. "Yes. I don't see how stories will save me or Adejoke. I need answers. I need a way out."

Owuye chuckled darkly, the sound filled with a bitter edge. "Answers? Oh, you'll get your answers. But let me ask you this first: did you know that Agbaje was a werewolf—a white one at that?"

Akintola hesitated, the memory of Agbaje's transformation flashing vividly in his mind. "Yes," he admitted. "I knew. I saw him… in action."

Owuye nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Good. That's a start. Now, to your question—how this tale can help you. The story I told you, about the three brothers, isn't just a tale. It's your story, Akintola. You, Agbaje, and the late Chief Ajumobi are bound by fate, just like those brothers."

Akintola frowned, confusion etched across his face. "What are you saying?"

Owuye leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you really think it's a coincidence that you were there the night a red werewolf was attacked by a league of white ones, with Agbaje leading the assault? No. Fate pulled you there. Just as fate has been pulling you toward the truth all along. You've always known deep down what the attackers were—werewolves. And now, with the white wolf dead, all that remains is the red werewolf. You."

The words hit Akintola like a thunderclap. He stared at Owuye, his heart racing. "What are you saying? I'm… I'm not…"

"Yes, you are," Owuye interrupted, his voice firm. "You're a werewolf, Akintola. So is Adejoke. And so is her sister, Sade. You've been living in denial, but you can't run from the truth any longer."

Akintola shook his head, his mind reeling. "No… this can't be. I have parents. A family. How can I be a werewolf?"

Owuye smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Ah, that's the real question, isn't it? How do wolves from another kingdom end up with human parents? If I were you, I'd demand answers. Don't you want to know the truth?"

Akintola clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "If it gets me out of this place and helps me protect Adejoke, then yes. Tell me everything."

Owuye leaned back, his voice taking on a somber tone as he resumed his story. "Very well. Let's continue where I left off. But brace yourself, Akintola. The truth isn't for the faint of heart…"

And with that, Owuye began to weave a tale that would unravel the very fabric of Akintola's existence, revealing secrets that would change everything he thought he knew about himself, his love, and the deadly game they were now caught in.

The air was heavy with the hum of life in Abeokuta, where modernity blended seamlessly with age-old traditions. It was a city of bustling markets, quiet alleys, and secrets hidden in plain sight. It was here, in the heart of this vibrant kingdom, that three children—Akintola, Agbaje, and Ajumobi—were given new lives.

They had no memory of the world they came from, no recollection of the kingdom of werewolves or the war that had torn it apart. Whatever they were before had been buried deep, locked away by magic and time. To them, they were human, as ordinary as the people who loved them. But fate, as it always does, had other plans.

Akintola's Adoption

A cool evening breeze swept through the city as Reverend Tayo and his wife, Folake, drove down a quiet road after an evening prayer meeting. Folake had been silent most of the ride, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"God will answer us, my dear," Reverend Tayo said, placing a hand on hers.

She forced a small smile but said nothing. The ache of childlessness had weighed on her for years, and though her faith was strong, her heart longed for the sound of a child's laughter in their home.

As they approached a narrow bridge, Folake gasped. "Stop the car!"

Reverend Tayo hit the brakes, the car skidding to a halt. There, by the roadside, was a boy, no older than five, shivering and barefoot. His clothes were tattered, and his eyes—large, dark, and filled with fear—looked up at them as though they were the answer to a prayer he hadn't dared to say aloud.

Folake stepped out cautiously, her maternal instinct overriding her fear. "What's your name?" she asked softly.

The boy didn't answer. He only stared, clutching a small, frayed piece of cloth in his hands.

Reverend Tayo joined her, his gaze narrowing. "Are you lost, son?"

Still no answer.

Folake knelt before the boy, her heart breaking at the sight of him. "You don't have to be afraid. We'll take care of you."

It was as if those words unlocked something in him. The boy nodded, his small frame trembling. He didn't speak, but when Folake reached out her hand, he took it.

They took him home that night, naming him Akintola after Reverend Tayo's late father. Over the years, Akintola grew into a quiet, thoughtful young man. He had no memories of where he came from, but the love of his adoptive parents filled the void. Still, there were moments—fleeting flashes of something wild and untamed within him—that he couldn't explain.

Agbaje's Adoption

In the bustling Ita Oshin market, a commotion had gathered a small crowd. It was a hot afternoon, and vendors were shouting over one another, trying to outdo the chaos. But the real spectacle was a boy—scrappy, dirty, and defiant—who was being dragged out of a shop by an irate shopkeeper.

"This one's a thief!" the shopkeeper bellowed. "Caught him trying to steal bread!"

The boy fought back, his sharp, piercing eyes glaring at everyone around him. "I didn't steal! I was hungry!"

The crowd murmured, some sympathetic, others judgmental. Among them was a woman named Ronke, a widow who sold fruit at the market. She had been watching the boy for days, noticing how he lingered near her stall, his eyes darting to and fro like a predator assessing his prey.

"Let the boy go," Ronke said, stepping forward.

The shopkeeper turned to her, incredulous. "Do you know what you're saying? He's a thief!"

"He's a child," Ronke said firmly. "And if he was stealing, it's because he had no one to feed him. I'll take responsibility for him."

The boy stared at her, his defiance melting into confusion. "Why would you do that?" he asked, his voice low.

Ronke crouched to his level, her eyes soft but serious. "Because no child should have to fight alone."

And just like that, Agbaje became hers. He resisted at first, distrustful and stubborn, but Ronke's patience wore down his defenses. She gave him a home, a name, and a chance to start over.

But deep down, Agbaje always felt like he didn't quite belong. He was faster, stronger, and sharper than the other kids, and though he couldn't explain it, he sometimes felt like there was something lurking just beneath his skin, waiting to break free.

Ajumobi's Adoption

It was late at night when Professor Adebayo and his wife, Yetunde, heard a knock on their door. They lived on the outskirts of Abeokuta, their home a quiet refuge filled with books and the hum of academic life.

"Who could it be at this hour?" Yetunde asked, frowning as Adebayo opened the door.

On the porch stood a man, his face shadowed by the dim light of the streetlamp. In his arms was a sleeping boy, wrapped in an old blanket.

"I found him by the river," the man said, his voice rough. "I can't take care of him. But I thought… maybe you could."

Before they could ask any questions, the man handed the boy over and disappeared into the night.

The boy stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at Yetunde and Adebayo, his gaze calm and steady.

"Do you have a name?" Yetunde asked.

The boy shook his head.

Adebayo smiled gently. "Then we'll call you Ajumobi. It means 'my joy is restored.'"

From that night on, Ajumobi became part of their family. He was a quiet, studious child, soaking up the knowledge that filled their home. But there were times when he would stare out the window at the full moon, a strange longing in his eyes that he couldn't explain.

Years passed, and the three boys grew into young men, each carving out a life in Abeokuta, unaware of the invisible threads that connected them. They thought their parents were their own, believed the lives they were living were theirs.

But fate, as it always does, was preparing to reveal the truth. And when it did, nothing would ever be the same again.