The movement was swift and calculated, even better than they had rehearsed. One scooter came from the left side, the other from the right. The unsuspecting target was caught motionless and helpless in between the two. From the right side, the right-handed Adamu effected the one-time swing of the machete; its edges sharp enough to cut through bone and marrow. He had aimed for the elbow and after the slash, he sped off unsure if he had struck accurately. The piercing screams of terror and pain echoed behind him as he entered the darker streets of Asylum Down.

In a matter of seconds, the other scooter revved up behind him. Akrofi had delayed by seconds but the sound of his Lance Vintage 150 verified that he was right behind Adamu and this was comforting to the latter. He didn’t slow down or turn around to check. Any second wasted would work against a clean escape. Their excessively loud engines gradually drowned out all the screaming and shouting that pursued them. Silly Ghanaians, Adamu thought to himself.
He was moderately lean and this eased the weight on his Honda Reflex 250, making it speed easily. He made a quick right and sped further into the darkness before making a final left that led him straight to the familiar deserted dark spot under the bridge. He parked, turned his key and pulled it out of the ignition just as Akrofi rode in, only his bulky silhouette visible in the stark darkness.

“You get am?” Adamu enquired.

Akrofi did not reply. He turned off his engine, dipped his hand into his right pocket and pulled out a tiny torchlight. He flicked the white light on the severed arm in his left hand, the blood still dripping steadily unto the ground. He traced the light over the lifeless bloody member from where it was amputated just below the elbow, to the fist that miraculously still held on to the shiny metallic rectangle.

Akrofi smiled and said softly, “I-phone”.