₦airaland Forum

Trust no one. Not even your editor.



But if I don’t?

I become what I used to write against.

A man holding the truth—and doing nothing with it.


---

The phone rang at 3:11 a.m.

Unknown number.

I answered without speaking.

A pause. Then Betty’s voice, low and steady.

“You’ve received the file.”



I stayed silent.

“Femi… this is only the beginning. If you want out, say it now.”



She gave me five seconds.

I didn’t respond.

“Good,” she said, reading my silence. “Then start writing. But keep your drafts offline. Handwritten. Printed. Nothing digital. They’re watching all channels now.”



Click.

The line went dead.


---

And that was it.

No instructions. No help. Just a storm heading toward me—and one chance to ride it.

I looked at the flash drive again. Then at the wall where Solape’s framed scripture verse hung:

“The truth shall set you free.”

But no one ever talks about the cost.



---



I started getting home later.

Not by design—at least not at first—but because time bent strangely around her. What started as a lunch would blur into a long drive, a stop at a discreet gallery, or hours spent in her apartment’s dimly lit library, where she’d pour wine and speak in circles that felt like sermons.

Princess Betty had a way of rearranging my hours. My thoughts. The rhythm of my week.

She never asked where I needed to be. It was assumed that if she wanted my time, I’d offer it. And slowly… I did.

Our lunches happened in places that didn’t exist online—restaurants with no signage, no menus, just smiling men in black who called her Madam like it was a sacred title. I once saw a senator stand up from his table just so she could pass. Not greet her. Not shake her hand. Just stand. Like being in her presence demanded altitude.

Then came the gifts.

A new phone—untraceable, “for clean communication.” It rang only once a week, and only with her voice.
Tailored shirts appeared in a flat box one day. Charcoal, navy, soft whites. No labels. But the fabric melted against the skin.
An envelope followed—neatly folded, plain. Inside, cash. Stacked, clean. Unmarked.

She handed it to me like a document. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t refuse. I told myself it was temporary. A season. A means to an end.

But seasons bleed. And this one was seeping into everything.


In her hands was the card.

The black access card.

It must have slipped from my wallet as I was pulling out change near the shoe rack. Rookie mistake. Sloppy.

She held it like it might burn her.

When she looked up, her face was calm in the way still water is calm—right before something pulls you under.

“What’s this?” she asked.



My throat tightened. I hadn’t prepared for this version of the evening.

“It’s nothing,” I said too quickly. “A press pass. For an exclusive event in VI.”



I forced a smile.

She didn’t return it.

Her eyes didn’t leave mine. She studied me—not like someone guessing, but someone confirming.

“You’ve changed, Femi Allen.”



It was the first time she said it out loud.

Soft. Measured. But it cut like broken glass.

“Changed how?”



She shrugged, but the movement was brittle. Her voice cracked, barely holding itself together.

“You talk less. You come home late. You smell like wine and a perfume I don’t own.”



I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but the words knotted behind my teeth.

What could I tell her? That I was in a complicated, coded arrangement with a woman more powerful than half the state cabinet? That I’d stepped into a world where truth was currency and silence was survival?

There was no version of that truth that didn’t break her.

She stood then, slowly, like something had settled inside her. She walked past me toward the bedroom. Then stopped at the door.

She didn’t turn around when she asked:

“Are you seeing someone?”



The words hung in the air—too direct for lies, too fragile for the full truth.

I stood there.

Cowardly. Quiet.

The silence between us grew teeth.

“Femi,” she said again, and this time I heard the tears in her voice. “Are you?”



I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “I swear.”



It wasn’t a full lie. I wasn’t seeing Betty. Not in the way Solape meant.

But it wasn’t the truth either.

She didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way her shoulders sagged slightly. In the way her hand brushed her face before she disappeared into the room.

That night, when I slipped into bed beside her and reached for her waist, she turned away from me.

No words. No resistance.

Just distance.

A new, unfamiliar coldness had taken root between us—quiet, but growing. Like a draft through a window I didn’t know was open.

And I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was the cost of the life I’d stepped into. Not drama. Not destruction.

Just the slow, unbearable loss of the person who once saw me completely—and now barely knew who I was.

Stealthily, he climbed the stairs down and went to her room. He turned the knob and   it opened. He had earlier told her he would be coming and she should not lock the door.

  He entered her room and closed the door gently behind him. Sename was sleeping on her bed, oblivious of his presence. She was in the night gown given to her by madam. Seeing her body increased his heart- beat. He gently tapped her on the lap. She woke up and looked at him dreamingly.

  'Oga, you don come?' She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  'Lower your voice!' He had to chide her. 'Of course, I don come.'

  The fastness with which he removed his nightwear was a record one.

  'O ya, o ya, remove this thing you're wearing.' To him, there was no time to waste.

  She looked at him critically.

  'What're you waiting for? O ya now!' There was urgency in his tone.

  'Oga, before we go do am, there is something you go do.' She was calm but assertive.

  'What's that?' He stared at her.

  'I need phone.'

  'Is that all? No problem.' He grinned sheepishly.

  'Then I go send money to my mother. She no well.'

  'Oh, sorry about that. Don't worry, I will give you some money for her.' He held her nightgown and helped to remove it.

  She relaxed and smiled. He could have his fill now.



This Saturday evening, Lanrewould be rounding off his seven days of fasting and prayers. He had faith and believed in Christ. He also believed in the efficacy of fasting and praying. One of his colleagues at work had derogatorily dismissed his efforts as hunger strike, but Lanrewould not be deterred by such an ungodly comment.

  He became a devoted Christian about three years ago. Then, he was very sick and at the point of death. He would have died if not for divine intervention. He knew that very well. In that debilitating illness, he had seen death coming. It was not a pleasant experience but he thanked God for everything. Today, that experience had become a testimony and one that he would never forget.

  It was not for lack of a partner that he had remained single. No, far from it. There were many ladies of interest, one of which he could have easily married. There were Nike, Bimpe, Sola, Uchechi, among others. Even in the school where he presently taught, Ngozi, the CRK teacher and Becky, the Home Economics teacher could easily fit in to what he had in mind. What then was he waiting for?

  The answer was simple. He was waiting for divine guidance. He would not just jump at the nearest lady as a life partner. Rather, he wanted God to pick the partner for him. Lanrebelieved that indeed, marriage should be for better or for worse. There should be no room for divorce, he always said.

  There should be no gambling about it either. That was why he had been waiting on the Lord in this regard. The fasting was over now, and he was waiting for an answer. He would have actually preferred an instant answer, but then, man proposes, God disposes.

  After breaking his fasting with pap and moinmoin, he sipped orange juice and sat comfortably in his cozy sitting room. The television was on, but his mind was not there. Rather, he was thinking about who would join him as his life partner in his home. He prayed for the umpteenth time for a speedy answer. He was still ruminating over the issue when he slept off.

  He was cultivating the land. The soil was dry and hard but he was trying his best to till it. His intention was to get water from the nearby stream and use it to irrigate the soil after the cultivation.

  He was hard-working, no doubt. Just keep working diligently, he told himself. There would be reward for your hard labor. Remember nothing good comes easy. He thought about what he would plant on the farm. Apart from the cash crops, he would also plant fruits and vegetables. He and his family would have a good time. He believed in taking good care of his wife and children. Yes, they would all enjoy the fruits of his labor.

  There is a better place you can cultivate, a voice told him. He stopped his work and looked around. He didn't see anyone. He wanted to continue his work, but the voice repeated itself. He stopped again.

  Why don't you look beyond where you are? Look at where your wife is standing.

  Truly, about one hundred meter away, his wife stood on a grassland that was lush. From afar, she smiled at him and beckoned. Lanresmiled and went to meet her.

  'My darling husband, don't you think this place is better?' She spoke more on the viability of the place she preferred.

  'It is.' He nodded his agreement. 'This place is indeed much better.' He patted his wife and she laughed.

I tried to keep my voice neutral. “It’s strange... hearing all this now.”

“I know,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You were probably angry with me. Maybe you still are.”

I looked away, not immediately answering.

“I was,” I said at last. “Very. You didn’t just leave. You erased me from your life without warning. Without closure.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I didn’t know how else to do it. I thought I was doing the right thing—starting over, moving forward. But now I realize I just ran away.”

There was a silence between us, not awkward, but thick with unspoken emotions and shared history.

“I’m not here to pick up where we left off,” she added, as if sensing my hesitation. “I’m not here to make demands or complicate your life. I just... I wanted to see you. To know you’re okay. Maybe say sorry.”

Her voice caught on that last word. It wasn’t dramatic. It was genuine.

I looked at her, studying her face—the same face I had once memorized like scripture. Time had changed her in small ways, but the essence remained.

“Well,” I said, breaking the silence with a soft smile. “Thanks for saying that. It means more than you know.”

She smiled back. “You always did have a soft heart, Dave.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just learned how unpredictable life can be.”

She nodded, then reached for a biscuit and bit into it slowly, almost thoughtfully.

“So,” she said after a beat. “What about you? Anyone special in your life now?”

I hesitated.

Now wasn’t exactly the best time to talk about Damilola, or the mess with Ms. Kay’s missing bra, or how my life currently felt like a Nigerian soap opera with an unstable plotline.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “There is someone. It's… complicated.”

She gave a knowing smile. “It always is.”

"It's okay," I said in a way to console her. "In life, we stumble and move on again. I know God has a purpose for everything. I'm sure your real man will still come your way."

"Dave, that's ...why I'm here. I've come to plead and to ask that we continue from where we stopped. Please, Dave, forgive me."
I forced a smile. "I've forgiven you. After all, to err is human and to forgive divine. However, it will not be possible for us to continue from where we stopped for the simple reason that I'm in a relationship with another lady. You don't expect that I will be without a lover for the past two years, do you?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't. But since she has broken up with you, is she not a past issue?"

I looked confused. "Broken up with who?"

Now, she too looked slightly confused. "Hasn't she broken up with you?"

"Says who? There's no such thing, my dear."

She smiled wanly. "Come on, Dave. Be sincere. She broke up with you over the allegation of your infidelity."

I was amazed. "Where did hear you such story? There's no such thing!"

"Let's try to be sincere to each other. Your ex called Tope that she has got a good proof of your unDamilolafulness and that it was all over between the two of you."

"Tope told you that my girlfriend said all these?" I asked testily.

"Yes. Is it not true?"

I wasn't happy with what Tope did, but I tried not to show it. When Damilola called him about what she saw in my room and her decision to severe the relationship, was Tope, as a friend, not supposed to call me and asked about what went wrong? He didn' do that. Rather, he informed Funmi that the coast was clear for her.

"Well, it was true that my girlfriend, Damilola, and I had altercation this morning. It was only a minor issue which I believe would be settled soonest."

Funmi disagreed. "A minor issue, yet she vowed that the relationship is over?"

I grimaced. "Anyway, there's no need we argue over that. The fact still remains that you can't just walk in now and expect that our relationship will go on like before."

"I understand, Dave. You need time to make some adjustment. I'll wait. Can we, at least, be friends, for now?"

“Be careful what you dig up, Femi. Some truths are too heavy to carry alone.”

And then she was gone.


---

I sat there long after she left, the paper still folded in my hand, the whisky untouched now.

Around me, The Jewel Club carried on—quiet power trading hands in nods, in silences, in glances.

I looked down at the coordinates again.

Something was happening.

And I had crossed the point of no return.



***


The envelope came on a Wednesday.

No stamp. No courier mark. Just slid under my apartment door sometime between 3:00 and 3:40 p.m.—the window I used the downstairs kiosk for bread and the dry cleaner for my shirts.

Cream paper again. Always cream.

Inside, a name I recognized immediately:

Alhaji Sani Dikko – Lagos Inland Revenue Service (LIRS)
– Unreported offshore accounts
– 3 audio files (2 hrs total)
– Surveillance folder: “Rooster/Port”
– Trust no one. Not even your editor.



At the bottom: coordinates—this time pointing to a locked mailbox in Dolphin Estate.

No instructions. No signature. Just the facts.

But facts, I was beginning to learn, were rarely ever simple.


---

I sat with the envelope in my lap for over an hour.

Alhaji Dikko wasn’t just anyone. He was one of the untouchables—a quiet titan in Lagos politics. A man who never gave interviews. Never showed emotion. He controlled revenue collection with the precision of a man counting other people’s heartbeats.

I’d written about him before—but from afar. Safe pieces. Public record. Quotes from press releases. The sort of journalism that wins awards but never changes anything.

But this?

This was a kill shot.

If it was real.

And if it was traceable… it could kill me too.


---

Dolphin Estate – Thursday Evening

I waited until just after sunset.

I parked two streets away and walked in. No cameras. No one loitering. I kept my cap low, my steps casual. The mailbox was wedged between an abandoned salon and an empty-looking flat. I reached in, found a thick padded envelope at the back, and walked away without pausing.

Back home, I opened it.

Inside:

A flash drive

A printed list of transaction dates and account codes

A photograph: grainy, night-vision, showing Alhaji Dikko entering what looked like a private jet hangar


The flash drive contained three audio files—recorded calls.

The first voice was unmistakable: Dikko.

The second: A woman. British accent. Precise. Cold.

Dikko: “The Swiss end needs to be routed through the South African front. I can’t afford direct movement anymore.”
Woman: “Understood. But the funds need to clear before the 29th, or London will ask questions.”



The third voice—on file two—sounded almost familiar.

Almost.

It wasn’t just corruption.

It was transnational laundering. The kind of story that took down governments in other countries.

Here? It could take down me.


---

The Dilemma

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the danger—but because of the decision.

Do I break the story?

Or do I play the game?

If I publish, I put a target on my back. I risk Solape. I risk my colleagues. And Betty’s note had been clear:

Trust no one. Not even your editor.

Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”

I slid into the seat across from her. The booth was rounded, cocooned by velvet walls. No one could hear us. That was the point.“I wasn’t sure if I’d come,” I admitted.

“You came,” she said, sipping her drink. “That’s what matters.”

She placed her glass down and leaned in, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and strategy.“You look good in this world.”

"I don’t know what this world is yet.”

“You will.”---

We didn’t talk business at first.We talked stories.She told me about her grandmother in Abeokuta who used to run a market stall but kept the ledger like a banker. I told her about my uncle in Ilorin who taught me to listen more than I speak.

We shared laughter, small details, a dance of histories neither of us trusted anyone else with.Then the mood shifted.Her voice dropped a key.

"Femi… everything you think you know about how this city works is only the first layer. Journalism lives on the surface. But access… lives beneath.”

I didn’t speak. I sipped the whisky, feeling it burn low and clean.“You’ll be contacted soon,” she said, calmly. “A story will come your way. A real one. But it won’t come through normal channels. And it won’t be clean.”

“What kind of story?”

“The kind that changes lives. Or ruins them.”

She reached into her clutch and slid a folded slip of paper across the table.

Cream again. Handwritten. Coordinates and a name.“You’ll know what to do when it arrives.”

Then she stood, smooth and tall, finishing her drink in one elegant motion.She didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch me.But before she turned to leave, she paused and said:

"Be careful what you dig up, Femi. Some truths are too heavy to carry alone.”

And then she was gone.

I had to say it. “So... what brings you here, really?”

She turned to me slowly, her eyes sharp now. She was no longer smiling.

“Can’t an old friend stop by to say hello?”

“Sure,” I said carefully. “But this doesn’t feel like a ‘hello’ visit.”

She smiled again—this time smaller, tighter. “Maybe I missed you.”

My stomach twisted. This wasn’t just social.

I glanced at the white polythene bag on the edge of the bed—empty. Innocent-looking. Silent.

There were too many unknowns now. A missing bra. A surprise ex. A suspicious coincidence.

And deep down, I could feel it.

Something wasn't adding up.


“Here we are,” I said with a small smile as I returned to the sitting area, balancing the bottles of malt and the biscuits carefully in my hands. I placed them on the center table with a light clink and walked over to the fridge to grab the bottle opener.

“Thank you, Dave,” Funmi said softly, leaning back into the sofa, her arms stretched across the backrest with an air of casual ease. “I know you’re always a darling.”

Her voice carried that familiar teasing lilt, the kind she used back in the days when we were together—back when everything was simpler and more intense. But now, those words felt heavier, layered with history, regret, and perhaps a touch of longing.

I returned to the center table and sat beside her on the sofa, trying to keep my posture neutral. I didn’t want to lean too far in and send the wrong signal, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued either. The mystery of her sudden appearance, the long silence between us, the ghost of our past relationship—it all made the air between us thrum with a quiet tension.

I uncapped her bottle and handed it to her, watching as she took a slow sip.

“I know you’re curious about a lot of things,” she said, turning her head to look directly at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”

I nodded once, tight-lipped. She was right. I had a million questions swirling in my mind, each one sharper than the last: Why now? Why here? What does she want?

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees as she held the cold drink in her hand.

“It was Tope who gave me your address,” she said, watching me closely.

I raised my eyebrows, though I wasn’t truly surprised. I had suspected as much from the moment I opened the door and saw her standing there. Tope had always been our mutual link, our bridge even after the relationship had ended. We’d all gone way back to university days, and I knew Tope could never fully pick a side—especially when someone leaned on him hard enough.

“Figured as much,” I said calmly.

She gave a short nod. “I first reached out to him weeks ago. I asked for your address then, but he kept hesitating. I could sense he was torn. I begged him not to tell you I had contacted him—I wanted it to be a surprise. You know me.” Her lips curled into a small smile. “I’ve always liked my entrances.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled dryly. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”

She laughed—genuinely, this time. “True.”

There was a small silence as we both took sips from our drinks. The biscuits remained untouched on the table between us, like witnesses to a conversation that was just beginning to unspool.

“Finally, this afternoon,” she continued, “he gave in and sent me the location. And well... here I am, with your surprise visit.”

“A surprise, alright,” I said, cracking a grin. “The kind that leaves you blinking in confusion for minutes.”

She smiled again, but this time it faded quickly. I noticed how her shoulders dropped a little, and the light in her eyes dimmed as she took another, deeper sip of her malt.

“I thought by now you’d be happily married in America,” I said gently, not without some curiosity—and yes, a hint of old resentment.

Funmi sighed heavily, her expression turning somber.

“That was the plan,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “But life had other ideas.”

I didn’t interrupt. I just waited.

“The guy,” she continued, slowly, “was a scam. Everything he promised me... was a lie. I found out late last year that he was already married. Had a whole family over there in the U.S. All the visits, all the video calls—it was all a show. A performance he gave to string me along.”

My eyebrows lifted slightly. I hadn’t expected that. Not from the confident, take-no-nonsense Funmi I once knew.

“That must’ve been hard to take,” I said quietly.

She nodded. “It was humiliating. But more than that, it was... disappointing. I gave up so much. I cut ties. I bet my future on a mirage.” She exhaled and looked at me, her eyes glistening slightly—not with tears, but with that familiar fire of a woman who hated being made a fool of. “Well. Better late than never, right? I walked away before it was too late.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing everything.

So that was it. The great American-based Nigerian dream had collapsed. And with it, perhaps, the fantasy that made her walk away from me in the first place. It stung, even now, to think about how quickly she had chosen him over me. One minute we were dreaming of the future together, and the next, she was gone. Just a text and silence. And now, years later, the circle had turned.

I tried to keep my voice neutral. “It’s strange... hearing all this now.”

“I know,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You were probably angry with me. Maybe you still are.”

I looked away, not immediately answering.

Biyi looked like he could not really understand the import of what she was saying.

‘Divorce him,’ he blurted out. ‘Divorce him. Tell him your real husband – your real love – has come to take you away.’

'Are you serious?’ Again, she felt like laughing. He made it sound so simple as if he was instructing her to listen to R & B music. No way.

‘Biyi, you have to be realistic. I’ve been married for about two years now and I must confess that my husband and I love each other. So, you need to be realistic.’

'It can’t be,’ he spluttered. ‘You can’t be in love with him, or any man, for god’s sake.’

His tone was caustic.Now, she was getting exasperated. ‘That’s one fact you have to live with. Princess, I promised you love and unaffected affection. I promised to love you forever. I still stand by my promises and I’m here to manifest them. You always professed your love for me, too, and I believed you. I still do, so I don’t believe you’re in love with any other man.’

Now, he sounded like a desperate lover. 

‘Listen, Biyi, why’re you complicating issues? I was in love with you, but it didn’t work out. Let’s leave this love thing behind us. It’s gone and we have to face the new reality. That reality is the fact that I’m married. Go ahead and find yourself a new babe. I understand South African ladies are very beautiful.’

'No one can replace the love I have for you,’ he stated. His voice rose slightly ‘I love you and I’m not going to lose you.’ 

'Lower your voice,’ she chided him. A couple by a table not far from theirs had paused in their conversation and was staring at them.

Biyi glared around and continued, but this time in a controlled voice. ‘Julie, I’m sorry for the long loss of communication. Why can’t you forgive me?’

‘I have forgiven you. What is gone is gone, that’s the fact. You must also face the fact that I’m the wife of someone else, now.’

'You mean you don’t want me again?’

She became impatient and annoyed. ‘What’s gone over you, for God’s sake? Can’t you face a very simple fact?’

He became silent, brooding. Julie was thoughtful too. Her mind went over his asinine suggestion: divorce him. What a crazy thing to contemplate! He must be crazy to think that she would now jump to her feet, hug him and be so overly joyful over his proposal.

‘So, how are things in South Africa?’ she asked, just for the sake of saying something. The silence had become unnerving.

He grinned. ‘The place is cool. You need to see our little home in S.A. You’ll love it.’

'When are you going back?’

'You mean when are we going back? It all depends on you. A couple of weeks should be enough to arrange everything and be ready. What d’you think?’

She felt dizzy. Something struck her mind and she stood up. ‘I wish you the best of luck during your stay.’

He hurriedly stood up too. ‘Where’re you going, Princess?’

'Home.’ Her answer was tart. ‘Goodbye, Biyi.’

‘Hey, not so fast. We’re still talking.’

She was now totally repulsed by his presence and the only thing she needed now was to get away. She snatched her hand from his and hurried out of the bar. She didn’t look back to see that he remained on the same spot, mouth ajar, looking stunned by her behavior and the abruptness.

She didn’t want to see him again.Still flustered, she swiftly opened the door of her car and gunned it out of the premises. She checked the rear mirror to see if she was being followed. She had read a lot about being followed, trailed or stalked. Now, it was ironic that she found herself in a situation where one of these was happening to her.

Life was whimsical, wasn’t it?In her amateurish mind, she decided that no suspicious motorist or vehicle was trailing her. Was she very harsh on him? Was she very unfeeling, or had she acted the right way by being frank with him? Her mind weighed his words and her responses. She justified her actions.

She was right in treating him the way she had done.For God’s sake, he was as crazy as his proposition. He must be batty to think that he would jump at his offer. She didn’t drive home straight.

She had some shopping to do. Besides, her very good friend, Nike would be celebrating her birthday the following week and Julie would like to buy a little, nice and befitting present for her.It didn’t take her long to complete her shopping and she soon driving home. She hoped she had got rid of Biyi for good. But she was wrong.

Her phone rang and he was the one on the line.

'Why did you walk out on me?’ he demanded, sounding angry. 

‘What is it you want?’ she parried, matching his tone.

Maria didn't know that would be the last time she would be seeing me in that house, for a long time. She waved back at me.














Part Three










If anyone had predicted on Saturday morning that I would soon leave the employ of Ms. Morgan,


I would not have believed it. Here I was, out of her employment and out of job.


I would have to think of what to do. Right now, so many ideas were coming but I wanted to take my time. I had saved enough money and I could conveniently feed and clothe myself for months.


I drove back home. Then I decided to send messages to the supervisors and managers at the stores that I had resigned. Some of them called me back, wondering why I had taken that


sudden decision. I told them I had left for personal reason and would not disclose anything further. Some didn't even bother to call me. It was some days to the new year. I would wait till January before making a move.


I didn't hear anything from Ms. Morgan, or her daughter, and I didn't care to do so. Such was life.


I started the new year on a slow note. By the middle of January, I decided to be doing some foreign exchange and other online trading at home. The money to make might not be much at


the beginning, but I was sure things would pick up as time went on. In February, I realized that the money I was making was not bad. I stayed more at home now with my eyes glued to the tab,


phone or computer monitor. I marked one year remembrance of Busola in solemnness. How times fly! So, it was already a year that my better half departed this world. Hmn...


Towards the end of February, I got a surprise call from Amanda, Ms. Morgan's personal assistant.

"Hello, Amanda. Long time no see. How're you?"


"Not fine. I need to see you. Please where can I see you?"


"Any problem?"


"Well, yes. That's why I need to see you. I believe you can help me solve the problem."


Problem? Now, what kind of problem was that? "Well, I work at home for now. I'm at home."


"Please give me your address. I will come around."


I gave her my address, still wondering what the problem could be. About an hour later, Amanda knocked at our gate. I went downstairs to open it for. She gave me a brief hug. I took her upstairs to my flat.


I ushered Amanda into my sitting room. "It's a nice place you have here, Tayo," she commented.

Not a scoop.

A reality.

A choice.

And maybe… a trap.



---


The street outside was unmarked.

No signboard. No valet stand. Just a single door tucked between a shuttered furniture store and a dark, glassy law firm that looked closed even when it wasn’t. I’d passed the place a hundred times and never once noticed it.

Tonight, I did.

I wore a charcoal blazer. No tie. The kind of look that said “journalist off-duty,” which was code for: don’t ask questions, I won’t answer them.

My hand hovered as I pulled the black access card from my wallet. It felt heavier in my hand tonight—like it knew what it meant. I pressed it to the slim panel beside the door.

A faint click.

Then the door slid inward—no creak, no drama. Just smooth, silent permission.

Inside, the air shifted.


---

The club didn’t look like a club.
Not in the way Lagos nightlife understood it.

There was no pounding music. No neon lights. No sticky cocktails or men trying too hard.

Instead, it felt like the inside of a private library redesigned by a billionaire architect with something to hide. Walls paneled in dark wood, lit by warm, golden sconces. Velvet chairs arranged in tight, intimate clusters. A smell of aged whisky and sandalwood hung in the air, like the place had been waiting years for me to arrive.

A woman in black greeted me. No name tag. No words. Just a glance at the card in my hand and a small nod.

She led me through a narrow hall into the lounge.

At least thirty people were inside, scattered in murmuring groups. Some wore agbadas tailored to perfection. Others were in foreign suits with no visible branding, the kind you couldn’t buy—you inherited. I recognized a media mogul, two former ministers, and a woman I was almost certain headed one of the country’s covert financial intelligence units. But no one made eye contact. Everyone was looking at no one, and noticing everything.

A waiter glided up, silver tray balanced with exactness. “Welcome, Mr. Femi.”

He didn’t ask what I wanted. He handed me a glass already poured—neat, amber, and expensive.

“Princess Betty is expecting you. Would you like to join her now?”

I nodded, my throat dry.


---

She sat in the corner booth, alone.

Not isolated—deliberately placed. Like a queen in a game where everyone else had to keep moving. She wore black tonight. Not mourning black. Power black. Silk, tailored sharp at the shoulders. Her hair was down this time, a cascade of soft curls resting just below her collarbone. Around her neck, a single gold chain glinted under the low light.

She looked up as I approached, and smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”