The Handshake of Saudi Arabia

It was a grand event in Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia. Dignitaries from around the world gathered in a majestic hall adorned with golden arches and towering pillars. The atmosphere was electric with conversations of power, strategy, and alliances. Among the notable figures was the enigmatic Nigerian president, General Sani Abacha, a man who held his nation under firm control, yet tonight, he appeared relaxed—perhaps even at ease. He exchanged pleasantries with kings, sheikhs, and military generals, his face stoic but his voice strong.

The gathering was meant to strengthen bonds between nations, to share ideas, and chart the future course of global power. Abacha, known for his ruthless rule, found himself deep in conversations with influential men—heads of state, military officers, and wealthy magnates. There was an aura of invincibility around him, for he believed that his grip on power was unshakable.

As the night went on, the conversations shifted from strategies of governance to more personal reflections. Abacha listened as men spoke of their nations, their families, their ambitions. He nodded, absorbing their words, but his thoughts were fixed on Nigeria and the next steps he would take to ensure his control.

Unbeknownst to him, fate had other plans. As the night wore on, a man approached—dressed in flowing robes, his face partially obscured by shadows. He was not known to Abacha, yet he carried himself with an air of authority, as though he belonged among the world's elite. Without hesitation, the mysterious figure extended his hand to the Nigerian president.

Abacha, in the spirit of diplomacy and respect, accepted the handshake. As their hands clasped, Abacha felt an unsettling sensation—a coldness that seemed to seep from the stranger's palm into his own. It was brief, just a moment, but enough to make Abacha glance at the man with suspicion.

The stranger said nothing, only smiled faintly before moving away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he had come.

Abacha thought little of it at first, continuing to engage in discussions. But as the night progressed, he began to feel a strange tingling in his hand—the very hand that had met the stranger's. He glanced down and noticed his skin had started to discolor, turning a sickly green. Panic began to set in, but he concealed it, unwilling to show weakness among such powerful men.

By the time the gathering came to a close, Abacha’s hand had begun to ache, and the skin looked as though it was decaying, the flesh seemingly rotting before his eyes. He hurriedly left the hall, instructing his aides to take him to the nearest private medical facility.

In the days that followed, no cure could be found for the affliction that had taken hold of him. The decay spread rapidly from his hand, up his arm, and through his body. His once-iron grip on Nigeria slipped as his health deteriorated. He became weak, bedridden, his mind clouded by pain and fever. Doctors were baffled, unable to explain the sudden onset of his illness, but whispers of dark forces and curses began to circulate.

The man who had once ruled with an iron fist, feared by his people and respected by his peers, was now a shadow of himself. His children, his legacy—everything he had built—began to crumble as his body wasted away. It was clear to those around him that this was no ordinary sickness; it was a curse born from that fateful handshake.

As he lay on his deathbed, Abacha realized that the end had come—not just for his presidency, but for his life as a father and leader. The handshake that had sealed his fate was the final act in a life marked by power and control, a reminder that even the most powerful men could fall to forces beyond their understanding.

And so, the Handshake of Saudi Arabia became a tale whispered in corridors of power, a cautionary story of pride, fate, and the unexpected end of a ruler who thought himself untouchable.