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Epilogue

I watched her for what felt like an eternity, though time refused to behave like something measurable in her presence. The room carried a peculiar stillness, the kind that settles only when someone else is quietly in control. She stood a few steps away from me, the dim light casting movements on her face that changed each time I blinked. Every shift of shadow made it seem as though she was wearing different expressions, though her actual face remained unreadable.

Her fingers touched the strap of her gown, but it was not the gesture that held me. It was her eyes. They were steady, unwavering, calm in a way that unsettled more than it comforted. There was no seduction in them. No teasing. Only a deep, reflective study. I had seen mirrors that were more merciful than the stare she offered me.

She lowered the strap slightly, not with the theatrics I expected but with a quietness that was almost ceremonial. Yet even that meant little compared to the weight of her gaze. She was not showing me anything. She was revealing something about the moment itself, something abstract and impossible to catch with ordinary thought.

Then she paused.

The silence grew dense. Her eyes held mine firmly, without a trace of hurry. That pause did something more intense than any movement she could have made. It pressed against the walls of the room. It pressed against me. I felt anticipation rise not because of desire but because of a strange recognition that something deeper was unfolding. Something psychological. Something that seemed to place my mind under inspection rather than my body.

I tried to step closer, driven by an impulse I could not explain. But I stopped abruptly. The cuffs held me. My wrists were bound. My legs were restricted. I had known this earlier, yet for some reason the reality of it only fully claimed my attention in that moment. It was as though my mind had temporarily edited the restraints out of my awareness until she forced me to remember them again.

She tilted her head slightly, studying the confusion that crossed my face. There was no smile, but there was the suggestion of one. Not amusement, but acknowledgement. She understood exactly what was happening inside me.

“You always notice the wrong things first,” she said quietly.

Her voice flowed like water moving through a narrow path. It did not raise itself above the stillness of the room. It belonged to the stillness. I could not tell if she was mocking me, teaching me, or simply observing me out loud.

She began to walk around me, slow and deliberate. I felt her presence more than I heard her. She did not touch me. She did not whisper. Yet each step seemed to pull a memory out of some hidden corner of my consciousness. The more she moved, the less certain I became of what this night truly represented.

At the back of my neck I sensed her breath, though I could not be sure if she was close enough for it. The air felt altered behind me, as if something passed through it with intention. My heart reacted before my mind could analyse the sensation.

“You think you came here for one thing,” she murmured, though she remained behind me where I could not see her. “But you have never been entirely honest with yourself.”

Her words struck a chord I did not expect. They were not about the moment. They were about me. About the parts of myself I preferred to leave unexamined. The parts she had always seen long before I admitted they existed.

She moved back into my line of sight. Her face stayed calm, almost serene, but the serenity felt dangerous. She crouched slightly to align her eyes with mine. The closeness forced me into an uncomfortable awareness of how exposed I felt, not physically but mentally. Like she had peeled away every assumption I carried into the room.

“You want clarity,” she said. “But you fear the kind of truth that does not flatter you.”

I swallowed, though the room seemed too quiet for even that small sound.

“You could free yourself if you wanted to,” she added, looking briefly at my restraints. “Yet you do not.”

The statement rose inside me like a challenge. I tried to move again, harder this time, but the cuffs did not break. She watched the effort with the same calm expression, and I suddenly realised something unsettling. I was not sure if the restraints were as strong as they felt, or if I had simply accepted them as unbreakable because she expected me to.

She sat on the edge of the bed with a poise that carried authority without force. Her eyes never left mine. There was no cruelty in her, but there was no softness either. She seemed to exist in a place beyond either.

“This is not punishment,” she said. “It is revelation. And revelations are rarely gentle.”

The room felt heavier with each second. The boundaries of the moment seemed to stretch, as though reality itself was being pulled into a shape I could not recognise. I felt as if she was guiding me toward some inner truth I had avoided for years, a truth that waited patiently for her to uncover it.

“You have spent your life trying to lead moments,” she continued. “Tonight, you are required to witness one instead.”

The words settled into me with a weight I could not ignore. The realisation that followed was quiet but powerful. I had not lost control. I had handed it over long before I understood the consequences. I had surrendered not to her actions, but to her understanding of me.

And as she sat before me, watching with eyes that saw more than I intended to show, I knew without question that this night was not the end of anything. It was the beginning of a truth I had run from for too long. A truth she had chosen to reveal in her own time, in her own way, and with her own measure of mystery.

In that suspended moment, bound by more than rope, I understood what it meant to be seen completely.

And I realised that some revelations are more haunting than any darkness could ever be.

Chapter One

I met Titi, the daughter of the infamous Lieutenant Colonel Maduekwe, during a period of my life that felt both trivial and strangely formative. At the time, I was working as a telesales agent for a movie subscription company called Tiron Movies. A job many people considered routine, even boring, yet it had a way of testing a person’s patience and emotional stamina in ways no one outside the field truly understood.

That particular day had already stretched my mental limits far beyond the usual frustration I carried home. I had called so many numbers that the digits on the board began to blur. I remember glancing at the tally sheet in front of me. Five leads completed. Eighty four numbers dialed. Not a single confirmed subscriber. The system highlighted each unsuccessful call in the same bold red colour, a shade that had begun to look like mockery.

I was twelve subscribers away from the average monthly target. Twelve. A number that sometimes felt tiny and achievable, but on that day appeared like a mountain with no visible path to climb. I checked the time. Three minutes past four. My throat felt dry, my ears rang with the echo of countless rejected pitches, and my lower back ached from hours of sitting in the same stiff chair.

I stood up, stretched my legs, and walked straight to the restroom. My steps felt heavy, as if the company air conditioning had become denser. In the restroom, I splashed cold water on my face, looked at my reflection, and wondered briefly if this was the life I had imagined while growing up. I massaged my neck, moved my shoulders around, and gave my flat backside a much needed five minute break from the plastic chair.

When I returned to the office, Mary Anne, one of my teammates, looked up from her computer and said, “Royce, you have a missed call.”

A missed call for a telesales agent is like a faint glimmer of hope. Not a promise, but a possibility. I felt my heart lift slightly, though I tried to remain composed. I cleared my throat, opened my plastic bottle, and took a small sip to wet the dryness in my mouth. Fatigue had begun to dull my voice, and that was the one thing I could not allow.

I breathed in deeply, performed my little ritual of straightening my desk, and re dialed the number.

The phone rang once.

Then twice.

Then I heard it.

“Hello,” the voice said.

That single word carried enough presence to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand. It was soft, but precise. Light, but commanding. A blend of accents I could not place. It rolled out with such ease that I felt instantly aware of my own breathing.

“Good evening,” I began, putting on my best professional tone. “My name is Royce and I am calling from Tiron Movies. The foremost movie and entertainment service in Africa. We are calling our existing and new cus…”

She cut in gently.

“I already got calls from your people. I do not have time for movies either. But unlike the previous callers, I am willing to listen to you.”

Her voice held a strange mixture of amusement and curiosity. A warm mystery. Something that pulled you closer without trying to. In that moment, my training, my prepared lines, and my confidence all vanished. My brain simply refused to function. I was left with nothing but that voice echoing in my mind.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

She must have sensed my sudden disarray, because she spoke again, more softly this time.

“Go on, Royce. You have my ears.”

I swallowed and forced myself to gather my scattered thoughts.

“May I know your name?” I asked, then quickly added, “I mean, so I can address you properly.”

There was a brief silence. The kind that makes you wonder if you have made a mistake.

Then she said, “I like your baritone voice, Royce. Speak to me the way you would speak to your wife.”

I smiled awkwardly and replied, “Well, I do not have a wife. I am not married.”

My teammates reacted instantly, turning to stare at me with surprised faces. Our team leader, Dami, raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. Their expressions helped jolt me out of the dazed state I had fallen into.

I heard a soft laugh from the other end of the line. A short, gentle sound. The kind meant to acknowledge amusement without revealing too much.

“Hmmm. Go ahead, Royce,” she urged.

I drew in a long breath and began again, this time with more composure.

“As you might be aware, Tiron Movies is the biggest online television platform in Africa. We are currently running a special discount for both new and existing subscribers…”

“I like your voice,” she said again, cutting through my pitch.

I almost forgot what I was supposed to say next. I forced myself to focus. My fingers tapped nervously on the desk.

“With as little as five thousand Naira,” I continued, “you will have a twelve month access to download and stream as many movies as you want without paying any extra charges...”

“What you never mentioned,” she said slowly, “is that I will use my own data to download or stream. Why should I pay five thousand when I can search the internet for movies and download them for free?”

She had a point. A very valid one. And it was a question we had been trained to expect from some customers, though not usually asked in such a thoughtful, almost playful manner.

I swallowed lightly. “The cinema quality Nollywood movies released on Tiron Movies arrive on our platform months before other sites get them. So if you want early access to the best films, Tiron is your best option.”

She asked, “What cinema quality movies do you have there?”

That question hit me like a small slap. Because the truth was simple. I could not remember the last Nollywood movie I actually watched. And I certainly could not recall the titles of the top releases on our platform.

My brain began scrambling for a way to maintain control of the conversation.

“How much does it cost you to watch a movie at the cinema?” I asked, stalling for time while trying to recall at least one title.

She chuckled. “Do not change the topic, Royce.”

But strangely, she did not press further. Instead, she kept the conversation alive. We talked about movies, accents, work stress, her day, my day, and the odd places life can take a person. Each detail she revealed about herself felt intentionally vague, as though she was drawing me into a puzzle she wanted me to solve.

She told me she loved stories but rarely had the patience to sit through films, especially nollywood, that they lacked imagination. She said she preferred conversations because they revealed more than a script ever could. She asked about my job, if I ever did voiceover, even what part of Nigeria I hail from. Normally, these questions would make me cautious, but something about her tone made everything feel strangely safe. I responded, howbeit offhandly, I should never be caught using the company's airtime for personal business, especially one that bothers paints romance.

It was only after nearly ten minutes that she suddenly asked, “Royce, will you call me later this evening? After you close from work. So you can guide me on how to subscribe.”

Her request shocked me because I was going to ask her but she beat me to it. I better keep it professional. Most customers tried to end the conversation quickly. They never invited you to call again later.

I blinked at my screen, wondering if I had heard correctly.

“Yes,” I replied. “I will call you.”

“Good,” she said. Her voice softened, almost dropping into a whisper. “I want us to continue our conversation. I enjoyed listening to you.”

The line went silent. Then she hung up.

I stared at my phone for several seconds. My seatmates looked at me, then looked at each other. Mary Anne mouthed the words, “Who was that woman?”

I did not know how to answer.

I picked my pen and wrote down her phone number in a jotter I carried.

For the rest of the day, I found it difficult to focus on any other call. My mind kept returning to her voice, her questions, the calm authority she carried without trying. The name she had not yet given me. And the strange warmth that lingered behind her words.

When work closed and the office gradually emptied, I sat for a few extra minutes at my desk. I looked at the number on my call log, unsure of what exactly I felt. Curiosity? Attraction? Intrigue? Or something more complex, something unfamiliar?

The sun was settling behind the distant buildings, and the colour of the sky had a gentle purple tint. I stepped outside, inhaled the evening air, and listened to the low hum of Lagos. Traffic horns. Distant murmurs. Occasional laughter drifting from a nearby shop.

Then, with my heart beating faster than usual, I dialed her number again.

She answered on the second ring.

“Royce,” she said, almost as though she had been waiting.

Her tone carried a calm certainty.

Chapter Two

I got home a few minutes to ten. The traffic was something else entirely, the kind that drains the soul and leaves you questioning every decision that brought you into Lagos in the first place. My shoulders felt stiff and my legs were buzzing from sitting in one spot for too long. The moment I pushed the door open, the familiar smell of my small flat greeted me, something between detergent soaked clothes and the faint lingering aroma of yesterday’s stew. I dropped my bag on the single wooden chair by the door and kicked off my shoes with a relief that felt spiritual.

All I wanted was a cold shower, food, and sleep. In that exact order.
Nothing else mattered.

I undressed halfway to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes like a worn out snake shedding its skin. The cold water hit my body and I felt a slow exhale escape me. That first rush of cold was always a shock, but after the initial bite, it felt like rebirth. I closed my eyes and let the water run down my face, listening to the sound of the shower like it was a choir.

It was then, in that calm moment, that I remembered her.

Not her name, since she had never given it, but the voice. That strange voice that had ricocheted through my mind since afternoon. I replayed the conversation in my head, partly to analyse my behaviour the same way I always did at the end of a day. It was a habit I had taught myself for survival, a ritual I used to reach what I liked to call perfection. I would go over conversations, actions, decisions, tone, and even unnecessary facial expressions. I would score myself like a teacher marking essays. It helped me feel as though I was improving, although in reality it often reminded me of my mistakes more than my victories.

I made a mental note to call her. I would do it after showering.

But as I stepped out, wrapped in my towel, I checked the time.

It was already past ten.

I stared at the phone for a moment, debating whether calling her at such a time would seem desperate or unprofessional. But then again, she was the one who told me to call later. So I reasoned with myself that late meant late. I would call her and if she did not pick after the third ring, I would hang up. That was my compromise.

I dried my hands, picked up the phone, and dialled her number.

The phone rang once.

She picked immediately.

“Hello, it is Royce,” I said, adjusting my voice unconsciously as if trying to match the depth I knew she liked.

“Hi Royce,” she replied. Her tone carried a soft curiosity that made the air shift around me.

“This is not the number you used in calling me earlier,” she added.

“Yes, the other one is the company phone,” I explained.

Her voice sounded even more sensual now, smoother, warmer, almost like hot chocolate melting in the mouth. A sound you could taste. I found myself oddly aware of the beating of my own heart.

“No wonder you did not pick. I called it several times,” she said.

My head shifted slightly and my forehead tightened. She called several times? That information caught me off guard. I did not expect that. It made me feel something I did not want to name. Something that sat between flattery and confusion.

“My day was stressful,” I said quickly, almost too quickly, trying to sound composed. “I just got home now.”

“That means you have not had dinner yet?” she concluded.

“Yes. But dinner is almost ready now.”

“Alright,” she said simply. “When you are done eating, beep me. I will call back.”

She ended the call before I could reply.

I stared at the screen for a moment. Her decisiveness lingered in the room like perfume. There was something about her that felt unpredictable. Not chaotic, just deeply intentional. She took control of conversations with the ease of someone who had mastered the art of attention.

I ate dinner slowly. Not because the food was good. It was just rice and stew I had warmed from the previous night. But my mind was busy trying to understand why someone with such a voice and such an attitude would bother to call a telesales number several times. I had called many people in my life, but none had returned the gesture with that level of eagerness.

After eating, I felt too lazy to stand. I remained on the floor, stretched out like a man recovering from a small war. I plugged in my earpiece and flashed her as she had instructed. She called back instantly.

“Hi,” she said.

Her voice wrapped around me again.

We talked about several things. I listened more than I spoke. She spoke with a kind of confidence that came from experience. She told me about her childhood, her movements across continents like someone who had lived more than one life already.

She was born in the United States but came back to Nigeria at a very young age. She schooled here until grade nine when her parents divorced. Her voice dropped slightly when she mentioned the divorce, but she did not linger on it. She and her younger sibling moved to Spain with their mother because her maternal family lived there. She returned to the United States later for her university education because her father insisted on it. She studied Management of Health and Fitness at Northern Michigan University.

It struck me how casually she spoke of all these places. The United States, Nigeria, Spain. Countries that existed far beyond the borders of my imagination but lived comfortably in her narrative like neighbouring streets. Her life sounded like a collection of well stamped passports. Mine by contrast sounded like a repetitive radio jingle.

Because my life was not as eventful, I asked more questions than I answered. She spoke with the ease of someone who was used to telling her story, but also with the caution of someone who chose what to reveal carefully.

Time passed without my realising how much of it had slipped by.

It was a few minutes past eleven when I looked at the time again. My eyes were getting heavy. Sleep was creeping in, slowly but steadily, like fog moving across a quiet road. I tried my best to stay alert but my mind kept drifting. I was shifting between sleeping, waking, listening, and pretending I was still listening.

She did not seem to notice or she pretended not to. She continued talking about the differences between Spanish winter and Michigan winter. I was barely holding on.

Then she asked, “You never asked for my name?”

“What?” I muttered, snapping awake like someone who had swallowed a small firework.

“You never asked for my name,” she repeated.

My brain was moving slowly. I needed to produce a quick answer, something that would cover the embarrassment of my half sleep, but my thoughts were crawling. I forced out the first thing that came to mind and decorated it with false excitement, hoping it would distract her from the truth that I had been drifting.

“I did not ask,” I babbled, “because I was caught up in the alluring cadences of your voice. I did not remember to ask. Your voice turns on my antenna in such a way that I am unable to send signals. My brain is fighting a muscular kind of sleep.”

As the words escaped, I wished desperately that I could gather them back like spilled water. I doubted I made any sense. In fact, I was sure I did not.

But she laughed.

It was a soft laugh, rich and amused.

“That is a very graphical naughty boy,” she said. “I will call you tomorrow. And it was inconsiderate of me to keep you awake.”

She ended the call.

I lay there for a moment staring at the phone screen. Then I stood up slowly and carried my plate to the kitchen. My feet felt heavy, but my mind felt strangely light. I saved her number with a name that came to me instinctively.

Foreign winch.

I chuckled as I watched the name appear on the screen.

It felt fitting.

Wow...for the first time in a long while, i have found a story worth reading here. Please op, don't stop. I'll always be here to read your updates.

Chapter Three

The next day at work was something else entirely, and not in any pleasant sense. The blame rested squarely on the previous night. I did not sleep well, not even in the smallest measure. Sleep came in fragments, broken and uncooperative, like a visitor who refused to stay long enough to be useful.

I woke up around two in the morning, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding violently against my chest. I had just escaped a nightmare I could not fully remember, only the feeling it left behind. A feeling of being watched. Of being chased by something invisible yet deliberate. I lay there staring at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling unevenly, until I whispered a short prayer. It was not eloquent or rehearsed. It was simply desperate. After a few minutes, calm returned just enough for me to drift off again.

About forty minutes later, I woke up once more. This time not from fear, but from light. The sudden brightness of the bulb pierced through my eyelids like accusation. Electricity had been restored. I had forgotten to turn off the switch before sleeping. I groaned softly and rolled to the other side of the bed, shielding my eyes, but sleep refused to return after that.

When morning finally came, it felt forced. My body rose reluctantly, my head throbbing with a sharp ache that seemed to split my thoughts into uneven pieces. Finding my bearings was a difficult task. I moved through my routine mechanically. Bath. Clothes. Breakfast I barely touched. By the time I stepped out, my mind felt heavy and hollow at the same time.

Strangely, I had already forgotten about the lady who had enchanted me the night before. It was as though my mind had filed her away temporarily, choosing survival over curiosity. Work demanded focus, and fatigue demanded obedience.

That illusion lasted only until Michael, one of my teammates, leaned over his desk and shoved his phone toward my face.

“Guy, see this,” he said, excitement lacing his voice.

On his screen were pictures a subscriber had sent him. Not inappropriate ones, but clear evidence of payment. Proof of conversion. Michael was beaming. I nodded absentmindedly, but something else stirred within me. A memory resurfaced. A voice. A laugh. The name foreign winch sitting quietly in my call log.

I reached for my phone almost without thinking and dialled her number.

It rang.

No answer.

I waited a minute, staring at the screen, then dialled again.

This time the call was answered.

But it was not her voice.

“Hello,” a male voice said, firm and unfamiliar. No accent I could identify.

I hesitated. “Good morning. Please may I speak with Titi?”

“Call her back in a few minutes,” the man replied simply, then ended the call.

I lowered the phone slowly.

So that was her name.

“Titi,” I said silently to myself.

The name lingered. It felt softer now that it had form. But alongside the softness came unease. Who was that man. My mind began to spiral almost immediately.

He did not sound like her father. Too young. Not her brother either, at least not how I imagined a brother would sound. That left possibilities I did not like to entertain. A boyfriend perhaps. Or maybe another relative. But if it was a boyfriend, what did that mean. Why would she be interested in a telesales agent. Why would she call repeatedly. Why would she speak the way she did.

I shook my head slightly, trying to dismiss the thoughts, but they clung stubbornly.

“Royce, you are not calling,” Dami’s sharp observational voice cut through my reverie.

I looked up.

“See the board. No conversions today,” she added, tapping the board with her pen.

“Dami, relax,” I replied calmly. “Conversions come.”

She eyed me sceptically. “Be smiling. You better.”

Before she could say more, Adigun, who sat to her left, jumped up excitedly.

“I don get one conversion,” he announced loudly.

He shoved his phone toward Dami, displaying the proof of payment forwarded by the subscriber. The room erupted in cheers the moment it was confirmed and a single point was added to his record. It was a big deal. Adigun had been stuck on one conversion since recruitment nearly twenty days ago. That one point felt like a breakthrough for all of us.

I smiled genuinely this time.

Moments later, my phone rang.

I checked the screen.

Titi.

My body relaxed almost instantly. The tension I had not realised I was carrying eased off my shoulders.

“Hello, Titi,” I said confidently.

There was a pause on the other end.

“How did you know my name,” she asked, sounding amused and surprised at the same time.

“When I pick interest in someone, I go several miles to surprise the person,” I replied.

The line went quiet for a split second, then she burst into laughter. Loud and unrestrained.

“You are something else,” she said. “Are you at work?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And the board is not looking good for me. Lots of zero conversions.”

“What board,” she asked.

“There is a board here that shows how many subscribers we convert in a week,” I explained. “I have been on zero since Monday. And today is Friday.”

“I can do something about that,” she said casually, “if you oblige my requests.”

My heart skipped slightly.

“Okay,” I replied, before even thinking about what I was agreeing to.

We spoke for a few more minutes before she excused herself. She said she was heading to see her cousin. I pressed her playfully, asking what her request was, but she refused to tell me. Her tone was teasing, confident, almost conspiratorial.

True to her word, things changed.

Within minutes, I got four conversions.

Four.

I stared at my screen in disbelief as each payment confirmation rolled in. I paid four times and with that, I closed shop. My name climbed the board. Dami looked at me with narrowed eyes, suspicion mixed with curiosity.

Back from break, I was hyperactive. I had taken too much activation drink, my hands jittery, my voice sharp. I did not bother calling new numbers. Instead, I followed up on leads I had contacted days before. Some people were rude. Some cursed. Some promised. But none of it bothered me. I was buoyant. Untouchable.

A few minutes to closing time, my phone rang again.

Titi.

“I do not understand,” I said slowly into the phone, confusion creeping into my voice. “You mean…”

She did not let me finish.

“Look outside,” she said calmly.

I stood up, my heart pounding, and walked toward the glass door. I peered out.

There he was.

Standing in front of a tinted Mercedes Benz E300 sedan. He was dressed in full military uniform. The fabric hugged his body tightly, stretched by muscles that looked ready to tear through the camouflage. His posture was rigid. Disciplined. Unyielding. He did not look like someone who waited often.

My throat tightened.

“I am not sure I can,” I whispered into the phone.

“He wants to meet you,” she said. Her voice was unreadable now.

“Who is he,” I asked, though I already sensed the answer.

“My father,” she replied.

Lieutenant Colonel Maduekwe.

The infamous one.

My legs felt weak. The room around me blurred slightly. Conversations continued behind me, unaware that my reality had just shifted.

“He knows about you,” she added.

I swallowed hard.

“Knows what,” I asked.

“That you intrigue me,” she said.

I stared at the man outside, his eyes scanning the building as though he could see through walls.

And in that moment, I realised something unsettling.

My life had just crossed into territory I was not prepared for.

And there would be no turning back.

IkeIgboNiile:
Wow...for the first time in a long while, i have found a story worth reading here. Please op, don't stop. I'll always be here to read your updates.

It's cool hearing from thee. I just uploaded another episode...

Roycemadeit:
It's cool hearing from thee. I just uploaded another episode...

I have a question to ask

Should I?

Roycemadeit:
Please, go on

you talked about sin been innate in us

My first question
What is your take on a yahoo boy who steals from a white man by deception through Internet fraud then by so doing making the white victim commit suicide?

My second question
What is your take on a man who couldn't control his sexual urge which led him into raping a minor and killing her afterwards?

Pls am waiting for your feedback to my questions

Chapter Four: part 1

I wished there was a turning back. Well, there was, and that would have been me finding a backdoor and sprinting away into the anonymity of Lagos traffic. But that was not happening. Not now. Not with the man standing outside, watching like a hawk sizing up prey. My heart thudded in a rhythm that was both frightening and thrilling, each beat reminding me that I had crossed into territory far beyond my daily mundane existence.

The man outside looked like he was in his early forties, lean but muscular, every movement precise and controlled. But who was to say Titi was not younger than I had imagined? You know how rich kids are, what would take an average person years to accomplish, they seemed to attain in days. Her world was fast, polished, refined. Mine was slow, almost mechanical, and the contrast made my stomach twist with anticipation and nerves.

My thoughts were running wild, scattering in every direction like a rodent chased by a sudden beam of light, panicked and reckless. Yet, what could I do except be the man? Face it. Stand tall. Whatever her request was, I had no idea it would be this.

I stepped out of the office, Michael trailing behind, urging me on with nervous energy. Others in the room stretched their necks, craning to see out the glass door. I had already told Michael what was happening, tried to prepare him for the absurdity of it. The news had spread quickly among the team, whispered from desk to desk. Some gave encouraging nods and reassuring smiles, which boosted my confidence more than I expected. One girl, Serah, scoffed audibly.

“Then go deal with you,” she said. Her words were sharp, teasing, and laced with mockery. “See as your liver done cut finish.”

She was cautioned by a couple of teammates, but did I care? Not at all. I walked out with my head held high. Michael did not step beyond the door. That was for the best; he needed to remain a safe observer, a witness, not a participant. My consolation was this: I had not done anything with her. All the thoughts I had were mine alone, harmless in execution, and in that, I found some small dignity.

I walked towards the soldier. He was waiting, upright and alert, radiating authority and quiet menace. The precision of his posture reminded me of a Sicario in a Mexican film, a man who could end a life without hesitation. I felt my legs stiffen.

“Are you Royce?” he asked, voice firm, a slight edge as if testing me. I nodded.

He repeated the question, the same words, now charged with unspoken threat, as if he were ready to pounce. I answered quickly again, trying to mask any tremor. He gestured to the car door. “In,” he commanded

---

Chapter 4: part 2

I hesitated for a moment longer than was necessary. Not because my legs would not move, but because my mind was still trying to catch up with the situation my body had already agreed to enter. His eyes were fixed on me, calm and unreadable, and somehow that quiet intensity was more commanding than shouting would have been. Slowly, deliberately, I stepped forward and climbed into the car. Michael faded behind me, his presence dissolving like a thought interrupted too late.

The door shut. Soft. Final.

Inside, the car felt sealed off from the world. The air carried the scent of leather and something floral, expensive but restrained. Nothing here was accidental. The interior lights cast a gentle glow that softened edges and hid shadows, making everything feel curated, intentional, controlled.

And then there was her.

Titi sat with the ease of someone who belonged exactly where she was. The white gown clung to her in a way that suggested elegance rather than effort. Lace traced its edges like a quiet secret. She smiled when she saw me, not surprised, not relieved, but pleased, as though events were unfolding precisely as she expected.

For a moment, I stopped existing in time.

She looked unreal. Caramel skin smooth and luminous, her face so clean it seemed edited by a skilled hand rather than shaped by nature. Her eyes were almond, slightly angled, framed by thick, perfectly arched brows that looked sculpted rather than grown. Her face was long, her jaw proud, a Roman chin sitting confidently beneath lips that were full, supple, and dangerously expressive.

My mind stalled.

She noticed.

A soft snigger escaped her lips, light but deliberate, and she extended her hand toward me. The gesture snapped me back into myself.

“Oh. I am sorry,” I said quickly, averting my eyes as if I had been caught staring at something forbidden. I had not expected to see her this soon, and certainly not like this. In my head, this meeting had been scheduled for later, for a time when I would be prepared, when I could rehearse confidence in front of a mirror and hide uncertainty behind familiar lines. I had imagined tonight. Searched her out on the internet just as I did with her phone number on Truecaller. Studying her from a distance. Understanding her before she could understand me.

Instead, she was here. And I was exposed.

I masked my disarray poorly, pretending to notice something outside the window. For the first few minutes seated beside her in the back of that immaculate car, her eyes did not leave my face. They burned through me, not aggressively, but thoroughly, like heat sinking into metal. It felt as though something heavy and molten had poured from my head into my stomach, weighing me down from the inside.

I swallowed hard. Once. Then again.

She did not respond to my greeting. She simply watched me, silent, observant. I turned my head slightly and looked out the window, grateful for the soldier still standing outside, rigid and unmoving, a reminder that this was real and not a projection of my own imagination.

I needed to speak.

“Is your father…” I began, then paused, trying to arrange the sentence without sounding foolish. “I thought you said your father wanted to meet me?”

She laughed softly, almost indulgently. “Do not be funny,” she said. “That is not my dad.”

Relief rushed in before confusion followed close behind. If not her father, then who was he to her. And why was he here.

“So,” I said, forcing a smile as I turned back to her, “are you this quiet in person?” I needed to regain some balance. “Do you have all your conversations in your head?”

Instead of answering, she shifted closer and placed her hand around mine. The contact was light, but deliberate.

“It is a pleasure meeting you, Royce,” she said.

“And me too,” I replied, pointing at my head. “Feeding my eyes with you was so overwhelming it felt like my system was being hacked.”

Her gaze followed my finger, then drifted lower, resting somewhere I would rather it had not. Her smile deepened.

“That system?” she asked.

The implication landed immediately. She was flirting. Openly. Without apology. Without fear. I tried to flatten my stomach instinctively, adjusting my posture in a futile attempt to suggest definition where comfort had long replaced discipline. The shirt clung to me anyway, betraying every insecurity.

She noticed. Of course she did.

She placed her palm fully over my hand. Warm. Confident.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked, slowly running her tongue over her lips before biting the lower one.

My throat tightened. Saliva pooled uncomfortably and I had to clear my throat to keep my voice intact.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “So far, I think I like what I have not seen.”

The words surprised even me. They came from a place of instinct rather than calculation, from a part of me that had spent years crafting lines for others, watching them work like keys in locks that were never meant for me. Friends had used my words and succeeded. Sometimes girls ended up calling me instead. Maybe it was my voice. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was just luck.

Titi reached into her handbag and pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. She offered me one without breaking eye contact. I declined. She returned them to the bag, slow and unhurried.

“So,” she asked, shifting back slightly, “how is work?”

“Work is fine,” I said. “After those four subscriptions, I closed shop. I just wanted to relax and disturb the peace until closing.”

I did not mention the activation. The discreet stimulants we took during breaks. The way we bought alcohol from the Aboki at the corner, mixed it with soft drinks, and drank from their plastic bottles concealed in nylon while calling clients, constantly watching ourselves so we would not be found out. Funny, It was the activation that had loosened my professionalism. That had opened a door to Titi. And now, here I was, sitting in the consequence of that openness.

Her lips caught my attention again. Flamboyant. Expressive. Almost theatrical. The kind of lips that made promises without words.

Conversation drifted. Light topics. Half confessions. She was touchy now, brushing my arm, leaning closer than necessary. It meant something. Or maybe it meant nothing at all. I did not dare to touch her back. Not yet. Beauty like this carried weight. Confidence like hers demanded caution.

I thought briefly of the girls I ignored. The ones who tried too hard. The ones who brushed against me deliberately and were met with indifference. They would have laughed if they saw me now, stripped of narcissism and self importance, sitting stiff beside a woman who intimidated me without effort.

After nearly fifteen minutes, she motioned for the soldier to get in. That was my cue.

I stepped out quickly to retrieve my belongings and submit my work phone. Inside, my teammates buzzed with curiosity. I gave them nothing but a smile.

“Later,” I said.

I turned to Serah. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Her eyes widened, surprise overtaking mockery. Dami said nothing. No one protested. It was not closing time, but no one stopped me.

When I stepped back outside, the contrast hit me. Inside the office was noise, fluorescent lights, unfinished conversations. Outside was silence, tinted glass, and something unknown waiting patiently.

As I slid back into the car, the door closing behind me once more, I realised the line had already been crossed.

We were driving toward the terminal where I usually boarded the intra-state mass transit bus, the BRT. She was on her way home from visiting her cousins but decided to stop by first, as if derailing my entire evening schedule was a casual hobby. Only a few hours earlier she had called to ask where the Tiron Movies office was located, saying she might come by the next day. I never imagined she meant that same day. Some people say “I might come around” the way politicians say “we’re working on it.” Titi, apparently, moved with military efficiency.

She had not mentioned that her father was in the army until I asked why a man built like a reinforced gate was shadowing her every movement. With kidnappings becoming the national pastime, her father had assigned Musa, also known as Mosko, as her driver and bodyguard. The man looked less like staff and more like a one-man emergency response unit. Her father was the notorious Lieutenant Colonel Maduekwe, the officer credited with helping crush insurgencies in the North some ten years earlier. Though he had since risen to the rank of Major General, many still called him Mad Lt. Col. It was not the kind of nickname one repeated in his presence unless one was tired of owning teeth. I knew this because the day I stood before him, my tongue resigned from duty and fled without notice.

Still, the evening itself had been glorious. The kind of evening that tricks a young man into believing destiny has finally remembered his address. I sat there building castles in my head, painting futures with reckless optimism. Me and Titi. Better clothes. Better life. Maybe even a car whose doors opened without prayer and shoulder force. Human beings can manufacture fantasy from the smallest attention. A smile, a touch, a woman with perfume and confidence, and suddenly you’re drafting wedding invitations in your skull.

When I boarded the BRT, I noticed several passengers glancing at me sideways with expressions that mixed curiosity, amusement, and the silent gossip Nigerians can perform without speaking. I ignored them. In my mind the explanation was obvious: I smelled of expensive perfume, the kind of scent that announced itself three seconds before the wearer arrived. Let them stare. For one evening at least, I was not the struggling telesales boy chasing reluctant subscribers. I was a man returning from somewhere important.

By the time I got to my street, the area was bright with electric light. A miracle in itself. What a day. I walked to Anuru’s kiosk, the small provision store that had saved me from hunger more times than dignity would allow, and asked for bread and powdered chocolate. I had no strength left to cook. Romance may lift the spirit, but it does nothing for tired legs.

Anuru handed me the items, then paused. He leaned forward and stared at my face with the grave concentration of a doctor discovering a new disease.

This was becoming suspicious.

“What is it?” I asked. “Wetin dey my face?”
“Oga…” he said slowly, squinting for accuracy. “E be like… say na woman mouth.”
“What?”

I demanded a mirror. He passed me one from under the counter, scratched but serviceable. I looked.
There, blazing on my cheek like evidence in a criminal trial, was the full red imprint of Titi’s lips.

For a moment I just stood there, bread in one hand, chocolate in the other, staring at my own reflection like a man betrayed by his skin. Then memory rushed back. She had kissed me before I jumped out in a hurry to catch the BRT, and in all my confusion and excitement, I had forgotten to wipe it off.

Which meant I had ridden a crowded public bus across Lagos wearing a woman’s lipstick mark like a campaign poster.

Anuru laughed so hard he had to hold the shelf.

I snatched the mirror away, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and walked home with whatever remained of my pride. Still, beneath the embarrassment, I was smiling.

Some humiliations are worth it.

This was the second week since I met Titi, and in that short time we had seen each other four times on different days. Four meetings, four separate disasters to my peace of mind. Every outing had been memorable, the kind of reckless adventure that leaves a man lying awake at night wondering when exactly he transformed from an ordinary hustler into a hopeless romantic fool. Love, lust, ambition, delusion, they often wear the same perfume.

Today made it the third day in a row we were seeing each other that week. I could hardly ask for official leave just to spend time with the hottest and richest girl I had ever spoken to, a woman who, in my increasingly biased opinion, was very likely destined to be mine. So I did what underpaid workers across the land have done since civilization began. I called in sick on Wednesday. Nearly everyone in our office did it sooner or later, except a few noble creatures like Serah, who always told the truth and accepted consequences like some kind of administrative martyr.

Besides, Titi represented opportunity. She was beauty, excitement, escape, and upward mobility wrapped in one expensive package. In my mind she had become like a difficult five-unit course I absolutely had to pass. Not just pass. Excel in. So far, my performance had been promising, but today was examination day. I intended to scatter that course orally, practically, and theoretically. By the time I was done, she would suspect my pen never ran dry, my plantain was machine-made, and my hips operated on industrial fuel.

“Bros, go now.”

The voice yanked me back to reality. I turned and saw the man behind me in the ATM queue pointing impatiently at the machine. I had been so lost in fantasy that I forgot I was standing at the front of a line full of citizens already irritated by life. A dangerous place to daydream in Lagos.

I hurried through my transaction, boarded a taxi, and about forty minutes later I arrived at her estate in Jakande Phase 1.

The place looked like the sort of compound money builds when it wants privacy. A giant gated duplex stood before me, with high fences dressed in roughly chiseled stone. Even the gate looked expensive and unfriendly. I straightened my shirt, checked my breath, and dialed her number again for what had to be the fifteenth time.

No answer.

Then the gate opened slightly.

I smiled to myself. I expected Titi to rush out and fling herself at me the way she had done the last two times we met, once at an elegant lounge in Opebi and another in GRA, each embrace so sudden and forceful I nearly lost balance and ancestry. In preparation, I widened my stance like a man bracing for affection.

Instead, a small boy, no older than nine, peeped through the opening.

Before I could speak, a man’s harsh voice barked from inside. The boy disappeared instantly and the gate slammed shut.

I frowned and reached for my phone to call again.

It slipped from my hand.

At least, that was what I thought.

What really happened was that something, or someone, hit me from behind with such force that I was launched forward into the fence. My shoulder smashed against stone. Pain burst through my arm. Before I could turn, another blow sent me crashing to the ground.

Then they descended.

Fists. Boots. Something hard and heavy.

The world became noise and pain.

“Lord Je... Jaso... yee!”

My mouth was trying to pray, but grammar had abandoned me.

GHBOOW!

A strike landed across my ribs.

“God please... please...”

GHAN! GBISHH!

A kick folded into my stomach and stole the air from my lungs.

GBAW!

My face scraped the ground.

“...Piss oh please...”

I meant peace, but under enough beating even vocabulary develops a concussion.

GBIIIQSHHH!

“As I ebnetr wrre haaa!”

I was attempting repentance now, but the prayer came out like a broken keyboard. Half words, wrong tenses, punctuation without purpose. If heaven graded clarity, I was doomed.

At some point the blows paused. I lay curled on the ground, trembling, trying to gather the pieces of myself.

In my head I prayed properly.

Father, forgive me. Is this how I will end? You know I try to live right. But today... today I came here for fornication. Lord Jesus, you know my thoughts. Forgive me. I am a sinner. In fact... I came from fornication.

Then laughter exploded around me.

Cruel, delighted laughter.

One of them mocked in a dramatic voice, “I came from fornication!”

Only then did I realize I had spoken the prayer aloud.

Wonderful. Not only was I being beaten to death, I was also providing entertainment.

I tried to lift my head, tried to see who they were, tried to scream, but something heavy crashed against my skull.

The earth tilted.

The voices stretched far away.

And I fell into a darkness so complete it felt like I had stepped off the world itself.