At 12 midnight, the chairman calls the Council of Basirat to order.

“Allahu Akbar!” he intones reverently.

“Allahu Akbar!” respond members with equal reverence.

“Saalam Alaikum!”

“Wa-Alaikum Assalaam!”

Council members settle down for the meeting, their eyes fixed on the chairman. For security reasons, the council never meets in the same venue twice; it is considered too risky, given the clandestine nature of the organisation and the activities it engages in world-wide. Tonight, the council is meeting in the presidential suite of Crescent Palace Hotel, Deira, Dubai, a seven-star hotel that has an indoor swimming pool and other swank amenities that the rich and the mighty crave. Beyond its excellent facilities, the hotel is considered ideal for the meeting because it is just fifteen kilometres from the Dubai International Airport. The seven council members arrived separately and settled in their rooms without making any effort to contact one another. On arrival, each member reports by phone to the secretary who coordinates all council activities. By ten minutes to midnight, they all gathered in the presidential suite and after a short exchange of pleasantries, everyone settled in their allotted places on seven single couches placed in a circle on the rich Persian rug. Nothing is ever served at council meetings apart from water, a bottle of which is placed on a stool beside each couch.

Sheik Abdulkareem Abdulazeez looks round the circle, taking mental notes of the other six council members sitting quietly like angels on their couches. The chairman smiles inwardly at the simile, knowing full well that to the ordinary man, Christian or Muslim, council activities are more satanic than angelic. His smile broadens when he notes the rich clothes and heavy turbans worn by each council member; he knows that each one, including himself is a front for other men considered too powerful and too valuable to attend such meetings physically. The logic is that even if the Council of Basirat is busted by Interpol or other security apparatuses of legitimate governments, the real powers behind the council will go unscathed and would continue their Allah-ordained activities of planting Islam all over the world by any means imaginable. In essence, all of them are really expendable; they represent interests far bigger than their façade of wealth and power. Abdulazeez himself represents the major financier of the Council, a fellow Qatari billionaire with more money than his great grandchildren could ever finish no matter how spendthrift they are. He is a committed jihadi who has given his enormous resources to the propagation of Islam, by any means imaginable.

“The meeting is hereby called to order,” says Sheik Abdulazeez gravely. “We really have a crisis on our hands and we must solve the problem tonight. Otherwise, we may be heading for a bigger crisis that may jeopardise our operations. Over to you, secretary.”

“Good evening, brothers in Islam,” begins the secretary, a short man from Abu Dhabi representing the owner of an oil prospecting firm in the United Arab Republic, a jihadi committed to the propagation of Islam worldwide, by any means imaginable. “The news from Sambisa is very bad. The last consignment of arms sent to Shekau never got there. What is worse is the fear that it may have ended up in the hands of a rival group, the Al Banawi faction of Boko Haram.”

“How’s that possible?” asks Yahaya Mohammed, a fiftyish Omani who represents an Omani oil magnate, a jihadi committed to the propagation of Islam worldwide, by any means imaginable.

“We don’t know yet,” answers the secretary. “But we are investigating and …”

“Excuse me, chairman,” cuts in Bala Ibn Yesufu, a Nigerian representing a consortium of emirs, military officers and business men in the country. All eyes turn to the regal figure as he begins to speak in his characteristic British public school accent. “We have a bigger and more threatening problem than the issue of a missing consignment of arms!”

“What problem can be greater than the disappearance of a three-million-dollar cache of arms and ammunition, Yesufu?” interjects Major Ahmed Hamid, a retired, highly educated soldier from Medina representing a Saudi prince on the council. He is impatient with most civilians and it often shows in his barks when “bloody civilians” put their bloody noses in matters military.

“The kind of problem that’ll not only expose this council, but unmask our esteemed principals as well!”

A tremor of fear shakes the room violently.

“Explain!” shouts Abdumalik from Yemen, Ahmet from Turkey and Anwar from Egypt at the same time. The trio is usually reserved and reticent at meetings, making minimal but often cogent contributions at crucial moments. Now they are all shaking with fear as are other members.

“Yes, explain, Yesufu,” says the chairman, sitting up straighter in his couch.

“According to a reliable source in Sambisa, one of the girls who mysteriously escaped from Sambisa forest about two years ago stole some papers from late Shekau, very vital and sensitive papers that must not fall into the wrong hands!”

“What is in those papers?” asks the chairman.

“The names of all sponsors of Boko Haram and their contributions with dates and amounts donated!”

“Impossible!” shouts the chairman, trembling with fear.

“It’s most likely true, Chairman,” insists Yesufu calmly.

The chairman whips out a satellite phone from the folds of his clothes and dials a series of numbers rapidly. Immediately, his principal picks it up at the other end. A brief conversation ensues between the two of them, with the remaining members of the council looking fixedly on the chairman’s face. He slowly puts down the phone,

“My principal says it is likely to be true, but Shekau didn’t make any noise about it to save his face!”

“How could Shekau have been so careless?” says Major Hamid angrily. “This is the problem in dealing with amateurs!”

“Why did he even keep any records at all?” observes the Yemeni, trembling at the prospect of imminent exposure and incarceration.

“Calm down, gentlemen, calm down!” pleads the chairman. His authoritative voice immediately restores order in the suite. “The question is: what do we do about the papers?”

“Go after it, of course!” shouts Anwar, imagining the hangman’s noose encircling his long thin neck.

“How do you mean, Anwar?”

A babble of voices rises in response to the question. The chairman manages to restore order once again. In the end, it is decided that the whereabouts of those girls should be found. They should be interrogated by all means lawful and/or unlawful. The papers should be retrieved from them and brought to the council. To this end, a private investigator should be sought who would go after the girls and collect the papers from whoever has it. No amount is to be spared in the retrieval of the Chibok papers. The meeting breaks up around one thirty in the morning and council members hurry to take the next flight out of Dubai to apprise their principals of the latest development. None is happy to be the bearer of such frightening news,