Fiction – 21stcenturybelle

Meena’s Diary #32

Can I see her now? I asked impatiently.

“Let’s go to my office so I can give you a proper update, Tide gestured, leading the way.

“I think you’ve told me all there is. “Please take me to Meena. I want to see her. Now that I had the blood transfusion out of the way. I wanted to catch a glimpse of Meena.”

“JK, let’s go to my office first. There is more I need to tell you before you see Meena.” A dread filled me; I could not form the words to the thought that flashed through my mind.

“She is alive, although in a critical condition. Tide reassured me. We were now in what I guessed was her office as she motioned to me to sit down.

“I did not tell you the whole truth. Meena was not rushed here from the office, and your number was in her file, indicating you should only be contacted if anything happened to her. She was involved in a head-on collision and was brought in here unconscious. We were luck y ot have her history as she’s been attending this hospital for her antenatal care, and the pregnancy was indeed a high-risk pregnancy. I was not the doctor seeing her for internal. Everything else mentioned earlier is true.

I took this all in. “How critical is her condition?”

“She is in a coma, and we had to take the baby out,” Tide answered, taking my hands across the table, trying to reassure me.

I felt a huge rock settle on my shoulders. “People from a coma wake up, right? “They do,” Tide responded gravely. She had a swelling around the brain area. We are watching it and monitoring her closely, but there is a danger that she may not regain her memory. Whether that would be in part or in full, we cannot say until she wakes up. The rock had left my shoulders and was now on my chest. I was having difficulty breathing. In a flash, my mind went down memory lane: the first time I met her at that party in a corner with a book in her hand; the day she agreed to date me; our honeymoon; when we had our first child; and the second. Her last trip to Paris. The shock and disappointment when she learnt of the supposed baby from my P.A. Our last memories together were not ones I was proud of or could erase. I did not realise I had been crying and felt the wetness on my face as I came back to consciousness of my surroundings. I was in Tide’s office, and although a few minutes had passed, it seemed like an eternity.

“Can I see her now?” The words tremble, my voice breaking beneath a flood of tangled emotions.

“Her face is swollen and all wrapped in a bandage. She has a broken rib and her arm. A few cuts around her body from the broken glass.” Tide continued. I tried to smile, but it must have shown only as a slight widening of my lips, prompted by the professionalism with which she spoke. It felt like a bad dream, and I wanted to wake up. I stood up, but I couldn’t feel my legs as I followed her. I felt my body moving on its own volition while I watched from the sidelines.

All the description Tide provided did not prepare me for what I saw. Meena was all wrapped up in bandages, almost everywhere and strapped to machines. I gasped and gagged as I felt like throwing up. I held on to the wall, trying to steady myself. I needed to be strong for Meena, the kids and myself. We would get through this as we have always done. A part of me said, while the other argued to let her go, what if she wakes up and is not who she was before the accident?

“How soon can she be moved?” I asked. “I want her in the best facility we can secure.” My voice was steady, final in the tone that leaves no room for discussion.

“Not now, but I have made arrangements for some relevant top professionals in their fields to fly down. The money you transferred has been helpful. Once she is out of the coma, provided that happens and after further observation. If you still want to move her. That can be arranged.

I should be happy that I had found Meena, but this wasn’t how the story was supposed to go.

Meena’s Diary #31

I gazed at Meena’s picture, which was my screensaver. How does someone disappear from the surface of the earth, just like that, without any trace? I am still surprised I survived the last seven months, hanging by a thread and drawing strength from pouring my energy into my business. It showed: we expanded, hitting the trillion-dollar mark. I should have been thrilled and over the moon, but success had no meaning without Meena by my side. I kept going as it was the outlet that kept me sane. Every breakthrough, every contract won, every company acquired, and every million-goal achieved, till the trillion mark was reached as we had dreamt. Ironically, there was no Meena to celebrate with. The one person who had believed I would make it, even when I doubted myself, was not there. The milestone celebrated by the media and everyone around me meant nothing.

My face was splashed across all the magazines; I had turned down several interviews and still had a long list of interviews to attend. The random women coming at me was another battle, and fending them off was still another greater one. Taking Hauwa’u to the tech award six months ago was to keep the women away. Instead, the media went wild with stories. I still can’t wrap my head around how it came about. My mother was the one who called and asked if I had moved on so quickly from Meena, and why it had to be her friend, and how she did not trust Hauwa’u. The same woman who gave Meena hell is the one protecting her territory in her absence. The thought of Hauwa’u and me was the most ludicrous of the century. Still, having been framed by my receptionist, I was coming to terms with the fact that nothing could surprise me any longer.

My friends and associates were asking me what happened to my wife as a result of the news on social media. It was tiring trying to explain to people close to me who did not know that I, JK, had no idea where my wife and two daughters were, and Hauwa’u was just one of my wife’s closest friends.

The moment Hauwa’u’s husband showed up at my door, I knew without a doubt that inviting her to the tech awards had been a colossal mistake. I was taken aback when I was told Alhaji Sherrif was here to see me. After exchanging pleasantries with a man I had only encountered once or twice—despite the closeness of our wives—I was stunned when he claimed Hauwa’u had eyes on me. I was her closest friend’s husband, yet he said he was shocked to see our supposed relationship splashed across social media. I wondered if I was in some twilight zone.

“This is some sick joke, Sheriff, but even that is too far. If you have any issues, please discuss them with your wife. I cannot even fathom the need to refute such allegations. I have bigger problems to find my missing wife, and I am not looking to replace her, not now and not ever.”

“I thought to come over, I may not have a conventional marriage with Hauwa’u and may have afforded her some liberties not common to a northern woman, but I would not want to be taken for a fool for someone so close to me.”

He got to his feet and, on his way out, tossed one last accusation over his shoulder. “If you were truly serious about finding your wife, you’d be digging into her friends,” he said, and then he was gone.

I did not give much of what he said a second thought as he left my office. Whatever information Meena’s friends had, they had been good at keeping it close to their chests and guarding it with their whole lives to prevent it from even slipping out.

Not long after, a call came through from a strange number, and I almost didn’t pick up, but I did. “JK,” I recognised the voice immediately, “Tide, I asked in wonder. My cousin, whom I had not heard from for over a decade. “One and only coz”, she responded in her usual way. The days we ran Lagos together, flashing through my mind in a millisecond before she fell in love and married. “You, you walked away without a backward glance. You no try at all.“

“Ma binu, you know why I had to cut everyone off, including you or else my mum would have really pressured you. ‘O de ba aburo e soro‘. “

I smiled. Tide was spot on. Auntie Nike, her mom, to this day does not believe that I did not have her contact. After many months of asking me, she gave up, which was one of the reasons I could half-believe that Meena’s friends did not know where she was, even though it was hard to believe.

“So, after 10 years, you suddenly decided to call, ‘Kilode gan‘, if your mom did not accept the Igbo man you brought home and decided to marry. Cutting off your family was not the best, after all, against all odds; she agreed to the wedding”

“JK, let’s not go there. They made our lives a living hell at every family gathering and opportunity. The wedding was a disaster, just like a war zone. I could not bring up children in that toxicity between both families”

“So, you decided to just up and miss from the surface of the earth?” I expressed my displeasure.

“Well, that makes two of us,” she responded quietly, which I almost did not hear.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I read on the blogs that tech guru JK’s wife is missing”

I groaned. “Where are you, sef, that you are following Nigeria’s fake news?” I did not want to burden her with my drama.

“I am in the Gambia.”

Dr Tide Jideonwo, I thought you were in the US of A. We were! But we moved to Gambia just 6 months ago. It was the dumbest decision, and it didn’t make sense. Chidi was so sure we should move, and yes, we did. What we did not know was that we were sent ahead because of one coconut head cousin of mine.

“And that is definitely not me. Who is it?”

“You, of course. Coz, get the next available flight and head to Royal Cross Hospital in Banjul. I am so sorry; there is no better way to break this news to you. We are doing our best. With her voice going down a little octave lower, “your wife and baby are in my hospital, and your attention is needed urgently.”

“What are you talking about?” I heard her words, but they did not make sense. We were not expecting any baby when she disappeared on me. You must have the wrong person. I am sure that you have the wrong person.” I heard my voice, but it didn’t sound like me. My heart was racing so fast it frightened me.

“I do not know, but he has your rare blood group.” Whether he is your son or not, that can be checked later. Your wife and baby need you. How soon can you get here? We are seeking a blood donor because we do not have a match in our blood bank.

She was rushed from work and has been in and out of consciousness, but kept asking for JK. I did not know who she was at the time, but when she said JK, I wondered if you were the one. When she gave you her number, between in and out of consciousness, there was a desperate plea to reach you. I dialled the number, and it was yours! How crazy is that?

In one breath, I was relieved that Meena had been found and was reaching out to me, but in the next, apprehensive that Tide might not be telling me everything and that the situation was worse than she was making it out to be.

Without missing a beat, I told her I would be on the next flight to Gambia. I asked whether they needed anything and instructed that no expense be spared to provide them with the best possible care. I asked her to send the hospital’s bank details so I could arrange payment immediately. If they needed to be flown out of the country, I said to do whatever it took.

Meena must be fine. I’ve gone through hell without her. I do not think I will survive losing her. As soon as I dropped the phone, I contacted my PA to instruct the bank to transfer N50,000,000 to the Gambia Hospital, as Tide had sent the bank details via email. I called Alfred Tike, my oil mogul friend with a private jet. I have an emergency – I need an immediate flight to Gambia. Without question or losing a beat, he responded, “I will instruct the pilot to get ready. Just make your way to the tarmac. I will have the pilot call you. If I can be of further assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.

The next step was to call my driver while I picked up my passport from the safe in my office and the only change of clothes I had there. No bag packed, no calls to anyone, and I was out. I was tense but refused to entertain the possibility of losing Meena. Meena left seven months ago. She could not have known that she was pregnant. Gambia! I would never have thought. We had combed the US, the UK, Canada, Australia, and the nearby Accra.

I was on autopilot as I made my way to the airport to catch my flight. The six-hour flight to Gambia was the longest of my life. As soon as I landed, I called Tide. A car was already waiting to take me to the hospital. The car had barely come to a complete stop when I opened the car door and rushed into the reception. Tide was already there waiting for me. “How’s she?” The dread squeezed my heart as I waited for Tide’s response. She hugged me. She is still the same. I will have a nurse check your blood for compatibility and prepare you for the blood transfusion.

A nurse took me away, followed closely by Tide, who briefed me further. “From the notes, she’s begged to give her baby priority over her. It’s been a high-risk pregnancy, and we’ve waited till the best possible time to bring the baby out as healthy as he can be. She wanted the baby so severely that it was at risk to her life. I hung my head in guilt. If anything happened to Meena, the blame would be mine alone. I understood why the baby was her priority; after all, she had endured from my mother, the very reason she had left. While I had never put pressure on having more children, as we were happy with the two children we had, I could not understand why she would go through this alone without reaching out to me. The child was ours. She should never have gone through this alone. I was on a roller coaster of emotions. Sometimes I was angry at myself, then mad at Meena for not believing in me enough to stay. At the same time, another voice will ask whether I would have forgiven Meena if the tables were turned. I was balling my fist at just the thought and slumping in defeat simultaneously. You cannot ask someone what you cannot give in return when faced with the same situation.

“When can I see her and the baby?” Once we are done here, you can see her, but you will see the baby from the glass and later be prepped to go into the ICU.

Meena’s Diary#30

I read the blogs and comments and laughed it off. Who will believe all the conspiracy theories? Just because JK won a tech award, all the lenses have been pointed at his life, his background, and his history. I saw a post by a random person saying I met JK at a party before going to the university. I did not recognise the name, but that person must have known me or someone who does. No one was there to agree or disagree with the comment.

When they were tired, they would move on to the next big scandal. In Nigeria, it was a scandal every other market day. At best, a story will be on for 2 or 3 weeks. Still, something else always came up, and trust Nigerians to take the matter into their own hands, discussing strangers’ personal issues with so much passion and conviction that one would think they had slept and woken up in the same room with the strangers. No action, no solution, heated arguments and unsolicited advice. It was the 21st-century equivalent of market-square gossip. If we diverted the same energy to solving our national issues, the nation wouldn’t be where it is.

I swiped away from social media to my email, bringing up Meena’s email. I held back responding to her. If I were to start divorce proceedings, JK would know we were in touch, and he would be pissed off that I withheld this information from him, which would damage the access I currently have to him. Moreover, JK would not agree to a divorce without putting up resistance.

Talk about the devil. JK’s call came through. Without any greeting, his voice blaring through my phone, “I would not be needing your Investigator.”

“Why?”I asked, a dread coming over me, another dent to my plans.

“I changed my mind.” His tone sounded final, the kind he must be using in his negotiations. I could not be intimidated by any tone; I have seen much worse in the courtroom or with some unruly clients who think money has made them gods and given them license to speak without being spoken back to.

“Are you not looking for your wife anymore?” I ventured to ask.

“I did not call to be interrogated by you. You seem to think that I do not know that Meena would have been in contact with you women. I have never believed it, and I still do not.”

And just like that, the call went dead. JK had ended the call. Does this guy have some sixth sense? My access to every piece of information from the Investigator would have been my cue to filter any information he received. My frustration was building up. Meena had been gone for more than three months now, and I was no closer to making him see me as the woman he needs. If I have been patient for 10 years and now suddenly fortune has smiled on me with Meena leaving, what is 12 months more of waiting? JK, you can run for all you want. I will get you this time. There is no comeback from Meena. She would never take you back. I sank into my chair, my gaze on the ceiling. I had an exit clause in my marriage to Sheriff. I would finally be with the one I have loved all these years.

Meena’s Diary #29

I still hadn’t heard from Hauwa after one week, and I wondered whether she had missed my email or was simply overwhelmed with work. I did not want to call, as I was sure JK would leave no stone unturned in getting information out of them, knowing I would contact my closest girlfriends, and I did not want to put them in that position. Although I know my girlfriends would choose to protect me.

The tech awards were all over social media that weekend. From the moment I saw it, I went across all the social media to follow the event. Guess who was filled with so much pride when JK received his award that she momentarily forgot she had moved on? It was me!

I was confused when I saw Hauwa’u at the event, sitting with JK in one of the many videos I watched. The Tech industry was not her space, and even if my friend found herself at an event with JK, she would have made sure to sit many seats away from him. I still don’t understand why Hauwa acted that way, despite JK’s many attempts to be polite and respectful. They seemed to find a way to mutually exist because of me.

It looked weird the way Hauwa’u was gazing at JK like a lovesick teenager in the 10-second video clip. In that instance, I felt a little concerned for her; social media would likely blow it out of proportion, making it a Herculean task to explain to Alhaji, her husband. Worse, she was not even with her veil; her head was all exposed. Hauwa’u grew up in Lagos and did not cover her hair, but started doing so in public after she got married. Veils were left in the car on our nights out, but we weren’t expecting anyone to take pictures of us, and the venues of our nights out were our homes.

I reached for my phone to call Hawa’u, chuckling when I remembered yet again that it was not an option. The more I watched the clips, the more it meant something different. The last thought was preposterous. Hauwa’u and JK. The sun will cease to rise before that could happen. JK has a baby mama to wed, Hauwa’us unusual marriage arrangement and lifestyle, as well as animosity towards JK, would never allow it. I wondered if I had watched too many Nollywood movies recently for such plot twists to come easily to mind.

I logged out of the media space and clicked on the Economist magazine to read. I did not have the headspace to entertain such ridiculous thoughts. I made up my mind to stop checking online for JK and focus on myself and my girls.

I thought of calling my mom, but changed my mind. The last time I called, she begged me to contact JK, despite my instructions not to discuss JK at any time I called. She kept insisting that the girls need their father and would stubbornly not let me be, so I have given her a break equally. I still had not told my mother I was pregnant. I could almost predict my mom’s action. She would literally pass her phone to JK so that when my random call came through, he would answer it. Sometimes, I wonder who her child was, JK or me? She’s all about JK, this JK that, but can’t see what her precious JK had done to me, her own daughter. I love that woman to bits, but I swear, she is a sellout. Quite frankly, the connection between them sometimes makes me jealous. JK doesn’t play with my mom. He displays the same warmth and affection he has for his mom towards my mum. For that, he’s earned points with my family members. The way my mom sings his praises, he can do no wrong in her eyes. One day, my mum is on my side, and the next day she is on JK’s.

Meena’s Diary #28

I waited for two hours and still did not hear from Hauwau. This was very unlike her. She would have fired me with emails threatening me to call her as soon as possible. The silence was louder than her many shrieks in person.

It is official. My friends hated me! I stayed away because I could not afford to take chances. JK will have his eyes on them, very sure they will have information about my location.

The girls and I had just come in. I picked them from school, which was a short five-minute walk from the house, on the days my schedule allowed it. On other days, the elderly housekeeper Madam Asanatou did. Banjul was a quieter and slower-paced town than Abuja. The population for the whole area was comparable to that of Asokoro or Jabi. The Gambians were friendly, and the girls and I settled in nicely.

I feel guilty about taking the girls from JK, but I couldn’t have left my precious babies alone, and I needed to take a walk. I could have been wrong, but I still think I could demonstrate resilience in any other situation, but not infidelity.

I sighed as I stepped into the cold air-conditioned house. The heat was something else. Abuja heat would have prepared us for Banjul. But no, the weather was something I could never get used to. I prefer the cold weather, but Anastasiya, a colleague who comes originally from Russia, warns me to be careful what I ask for.

It’s been three months since I left JK without a hint. I booked a flight to Lagos under a different name, and from there, we travelled to Accra by road and then took a flight to the Gambia.

I wasn’t stupid enough to leave any tracks. I did not want to be found. I needed to just disappear and build a life for myself and the girls.

I started work with the Gambian branch of my office in Nigeria. Still, two weeks after my resumption, there came another opportunity to work with UNESCO in the country. It was a perfect opening for me. I applied, and six weeks after a series of interviews, I got the role. I was extremely excited because the work time was flexible, allowing me to fit it around my kids. The girls attended the bilingual international school, paid for by the company. We were comfortable, and I could not complain.

I am already thinking of bringing my mum. She is still upset with me. And all my reasons why appear not to resonate with her.

I threatened not to call her again if she keeps moaning about JK. She should accept my decision and refrain from discussing him with me. I did not want to know what he did or anything about it. I was surprised he had not married the lady carrying his son. With the way his mother was excited about the birth of her grandson, one would think that they would have completed the marriage rites quickly and moved on with their lives. Maybe it was a quiet wedding. Whatever, it was not my business. I tried to convince myself I did not care. Still, I was the one poring over the Internet looking for updates on Jamal Kolawole Lawson or Lawson Technologies. JK had clinched that contract he was working on before I left. I knew, as it was all splashed over the news and one of the top technology blogs, I followed because of him. Luckily, his personal life had not been featured on those gossip blog sites.

I closed all my social media accounts and operated under a pseudonym. This was to keep in touch with friends, but it was more like ghosting, as I could never comment or give away my identity.

So, I stalked him through his pages, not that anything was going on there. He had not posted anything in the last four months. He had zero presence on social media.

Yes, I was that pathetic. I justified my actions. And I would not admit that I still love JK. I had a responsibility to know he was okay as the father of my girls.

In a moment of weakness, I dialed his number the moment I found out he won the contract, and I was expecting another child. JK picked the call and kept repeating “hello,” while I held on relishing the sound of his voice unable to utter a word. I broke down in silent tears when he asked, “Is that you, Meena?” Holding onto my mobile phone as if my life depended on it. I wanted to ask him how he was doing and congratulate him on his big win. I wanted to let him know we were expecting our third child. I just held on till he cut the call. If only I could forget why and how we got to this point.

I cradled my stomach, feeling life growing inside of me. Finding out that I am expecting our third child was a bittersweet feeling. Surprised because I had put measures in place not to have any more children, and shocked, as this was not the time in my life to carry a child and do so alone without JK. I wished I could turn the hands of the clock back again when all was good between us. I tortured myself with the thoughts of how excited JK would have been, even though we were not expecting it. It was still a blessing from God and worth celebrating. If it were a boy, it would have been his mother’s answered prayer. If it were a girl, we would have been ecstatic at the arrival of yet another version of me and the array of pink ribbons and dresses that forever adorned our home. They all came with their unique personality. You couldn’t help but fall in love with them and marvel at how these tiny, perfect beings came from two imperfect beings, and how quickly they kept growing, keeping you on your toes. The sassiness and know-it-all get to me on some days, the confidence and innocence bring out the fire to protect them as much as I can from the evil in the world. I remain their biggest cheerleader, letting them know they can be anything they choose to be, and nothing can stop them.

The Dice #46

Tade was less than thrilled about the birthday dinner his mother had planned. Since when did she start organising dinners for his birthday, especially now that he was an adult? The only reason he’d shown up was because he had nothing better to do. Three days earlier, he’d tried booking a flight to the U.S., but their travel agent couldn’t seem to find one. She’d muttered something vague about unavailable flights, but it didn’t make sense to him.

This was the first birthday he and Tide would spend apart. Not even when she was heavily pregnant with the twins had they skipped celebrating together. Somehow, they always found a way to connect.

The venue was Roisaree, one of Ikoyi’s more upscale restaurants. While other restaurants were moving into Lekki and beyond. Roisaree had stationed itself in Ikoyi, near the affluent Banana Island neighbourhood. It was owned by a mixed-race Lebanese-Israeli woman from the famous Lawani family of Lagos Island, who married into the prominent Kusimo dynasty of Isale Eko. She had done well for herself, and the restaurant rivalled any other on the Island. After much pressure, she opened two additional branches, one in Ikeja on the Mainland and another in Asokoro, Abuja.

His mother was already seated when he arrived, dressed in a flowing white guinea bou-bou embroidered with teal thread. Her long, texturised hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and her caramel skin glowed, almost defiant in its radiance. It was hard to believe she was over fifty, let alone a grandmother.

Tade greeted her with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and took his seat.

“Have you ordered anything?” he asked, pausing to take in the softly lit room. It wasn’t too crowded, which he appreciated.

“You didn’t book the whole place?” he teased. Molade was known not to do anything in half measures.

“Just half,” she replied without missing a beat.

He managed a small smile. “And here I was thinking you were softening. Losing your edge.”

“I’m so sorry to disappoint,” she said. Her voice carried a faint sadness, but her gaze remained steady and unyielding, the way he remembered.

Their relationship had never fully recovered after she disapproved of Solape. Even after Solape’s death and despite her repeated olive branches, things remained distant. Still, he knew she was there for him, and she adored his daughter, her only granddaughter, unconditionally.

“What?” Tade’s face lit up as he saw Tide approaching. Dressed in a fitted teal-blue knee-length gown that subtly echoed their mother’s teal embroidery, and white Michael Kors wedge sandals that gave her an extra four inches of height, she placed her teal clutch on the table. Hugging their mother first, before making her way to her twin.

“I should’ve known you had a hand in this dinner,” he said, teasing but visibly pleased.

“I could see your scowl from thirty yards out,” she quipped. “What’s got you all twisted up like you’re sitting on pins?”

“Please ask him,” their mother chimed in dryly.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Being kidnapped for dinner when I’d rather be at home eating fish pepper soup made by Chef Rita and a bottle of champagne, wishing myself a happy birthday while throwing a wish your way since you refused to pick up my call.”

“You know, try sha, why were you looking for tickets three days before and not earlier?”

“I was waiting for your plan, meet me in Seychelles, Maldives or Cape Verde or whatever weird place you intend to choose this year.”

For the last decade and more, they had hopped to very unpopular destinations, long before they became a Lagos outbound destination. Tide did all the groundwork and just announced, expecting him to drop everything he was doing and be there, which he always did. It was a mystery that Efosa allowed her to do her thing. It was an unwritten rule that their birthday was theirs alone. Solape, ingeniously, chose to celebrate his birthday a week earlier.

Tide placed her order, Linguine ai Frutti di Mare. Fresh linguine pasta delicately tossed with wild-caught tiger prawns, tender calamari, Scottish diver scallops, and Mediterranean mussels, all simmered in a white wine, cherry tomato, and garlic infused broth. The dish was finished with a touch of Calabrian chilli, a hint of lemon zest, and a drizzle of cold-pressed Sicilian olive oil. She thanked the waiter and joined the conversation.

They had a great time catching up. It was lovely to be all together in one place after a long time, but they did not fail to notice their mothers’ quietness as the evening went on.

“Mom, is the food not okay?” Tide asked, her tone laced with concern. She and Tade exchanged a glance. They’d both noticed their mother picking at her meal.

“I try new dishes… and struggle to enjoy them,” Molade said with a soft shrug.

“Want to order something else?” Tade offered, already motioning for the waiter.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, then paused. “But there’s something I need to share. And I am afraid it’ll shock you. I’ve had a few weeks to process it, but it’s still… big.”

“Are you sick?” Tade asked quickly, concern etching his features. It was the kind of expression Molade wished she could frame. It was a glimpse of the son who, somewhere deep down, still loved her as he had before Solape came into their lives.

For the next ten minutes, Tade and Tide listened in stunned silence as their mother recounted how she’d found Dr. Lanre Braitwaite listed as the doctor who took delivery of Dunni Adesida.

“Mom!” Tade objected, getting frustrated with his mother’s insistent need for background checks.

“You are still doing this, your FBI moves.” The girl does not want to have anything to do with me, so you can rest now. I hope you are happy.”

Tide gestured to him to calm down. “Let’s hear what mum has to say.”

Molade told them about her visit to his office and how, by sheer coincidence and shock, she had met him there.

“Mom, who is he?” Tide asked, her brow furrowed.

“He’s your father,” Molade said quietly, the words dropping like a bomb between them. “I didn’t know he was alive. It was not until I saw the birth certificate, dated well after his supposed death. I was told he’d died, but it turns out that wasn’t true.”

She took a shaky breath. “I went to see him, but… the meeting didn’t go well.”

“Why didn’t he ever contact us?” Tide asked, her voice a whisper.

“Because he never knew you existed,” Molade replied. “When he met Tade, he got curious about your name, which is his middle name, and the surname… it all clicked, especially when he found out I was your mother. He’s been out of the country most of the time, doing medical outreach programs, but he’s back now.”

Tade and Tide sat frozen. It was too much to absorb all at once. How were they supposed to process the fact that their father wasn’t dead—had never been dead—and they were only finding out in their thirties?

“When can we see him?” Tide finally asked.

“He’s here,” Molade said softly, gesturing toward a man seated at another table.

The man stood and walked over to their table at Molade’s gesture. Tears filled his eyes. He didn’t just have one child. He had two grown ones. And grandchildren.

“I’m so sorry,” he began, voice trembling. “If I’d looked for your mother… if I’d even tried… I would’ve found you. I can’t give you back the years we lost, but if you’ll let me, I’d like to be part of the years ahead.”

Tide was crying now. Tade, still stunned, only nodded. The realisation hit him slowly—the man he had randomly met weeks ago, who had reacted so strangely upon hearing Molade’s name, was his father. There were so many questions, so much to catch up on.

Anyone watching might have thought it was just an intimate family dinner. They would never have guessed it was a reunion of life after death, of a family finding its way back to itself.

The Dice #44

It had been three days.

Dunni was still heavily sedated, her breath shallow, her chest rising and falling in a slow, fragile rhythm. The hospital room pulsed with a low mechanical hum of monitors, IV drips, distant voices muffled behind thick walls. The acrid bite of antiseptic hung in the air, layered over the stale bitterness of Moses’ untouched coffee cooling on the side table.

He sat slumped in a hard white turned brown plastic chair, unshaven, eyes sunken with exhaustion. No one could convince him to leave. Her mother came and went, slipping home to rest and return. Ola stopped by once a day — though Moses had barely noticed the passage of time.

“Man, you need to get out of here and clean up,” Ola urged, voice rough as he leaned against the doorframe. “You look bad enough to send her into another coma if she wakes up and sees you.”

Moses didn’t flinch. His gaze remained fixed on Dunni. “At least when she wakes, she’ll see me. You should’ve seen how she clung to me after the rescue. Wouldn’t let go until they sedated her. How I look will be the least of her worries.”

Ola folded his arms, exhaling through his nose. “And even now, I think she knows you’re here.”

A tired smile ghosted across Moses’ lips. “Her body’s asleep, but her heart… maybe it remembers.”

Ola let out a dry chuckle. “Three days in the hospital and now you’re suddenly a doctor, huh?”

Moses gave a weak laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll leave when she opens her eyes. Until then… this is where I stay.”

“You need a break, bro.”

Moses ran a hand down his face, stubble rasping against his palm. “I can’t. I see the way Tade’s been looking at me, but this isn’t about him. We all want her to recover. Dunni is my heart — always has been, always will be. Married or not… that doesn’t change. Her wellbeing comes first.”

Ola’s tone softened, a note of caution threading through his words. “But she chose him. We’ve got to respect that.”

“I do,” Moses said quietly, voice taut with barely masked ache. “But you don’t just stop loving someone after sixteen years. That would take another lifetime.”

Ola’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen with a grimace. “More lies. Now they’re claiming the military rescued the women… saying a terrorist bomb went off by accident. We both know that’s nonsense.”

Moses nodded grimly. They all knew the so-called cleanup crew or whatever they truly were had their own reasons for wanting that land. The government’s line about building a factory to foster development, erase the land’s dark reputation, and attract foreign investors reeked of spin. Putting up smokescreens for the citizenry was their usual modus operandi. But in this country, strange was normal.

Then a soft moan broke through the sterile hush. Both men’s eyes flicked to Dunni as her eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling, then slowly parted. Her gaze roved the room, glassy but aware.

“What’s… happening?” she whispered, voice dry and cracked. “Am I… home?”

Moses was already leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “If you call this hospital bed home… then yes.”

A choked laugh caught in his throat, relief crashing through him like a wave. He hadn’t realized just how tightly the fear had coiled inside him until now.

Across the thin hospital blanket, Dunni attempted to lift her hand playfully but a sharp gasp escaped instead.

“That hurts,” she murmured, a crease deepening between her brows as pain flickered across her features.

“Easy,” Moses murmured, voice gentling. He shifted closer, instinctively protective.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “The others?” she asked, her words fragile, every syllable laced with effort. Another shadow of pain crossed her face.

“They’re safe,” Moses answered softly. “I’m… I’m sorry about your friend.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, breath hitching. “I have to find her family,” she whispered. “She had a son.”

“As soon as you’re strong enough,” Moses replied quickly, knowing her too well. His fingers hovered, then pressed the call button. “But first… you need to rest.”

A soft chime echoed, and within moments the door swung open. Nurses bustled in, the crisp rustle of linens and muted clink of equipment filling the space.

“Out,” one of them ordered, already moving to the bedside.

Moses and Ola exchanged a look, then stepped out into the hallway.

Outside, Moses stretched, knuckling the back of his neck. The adrenaline had left him drained. “My work here is done,” he said with a weary grin. “Catching the next flight out.”

“Won’t you say goodbye?” Ola asked.

Ola shook his head. “Nah. I’ve done what I came here for. No point making it awkward. She’s safe — that’s all that matters. Now I can finally sleep. Win-win.”

The Dice #43

Operation Desert Storm

02:25 – Leave with the rescued.
The message blinked on Segal’s phone. It was from MI Bello—the team they had collaborated with.

“We have 55 minutes to get any rescues out of the area.”

Segal barked the update to his men as they made their way, dropping into the dark night from the helicopter crouching in the shadows, their forms melting into the dark night like leopards stalking prey. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth. The oppressive silence was only broken by the soft rustle of leaves and distant calls of nocturnal birds.

Sambisa was nothing like the media had described—a dense jungle, impenetrable and mysterious. In reality, it was a harsh, raw land littered with makeshift tents cobbled together from cut trees and dry leaves. The widely circulated tale of a mangrove forest, rivers winding like silver serpents, and wild animals prowling in the underbrush was a myth—this was no Colombian Amazon jungle. There were no meandering waters or echoing caves here—just hilly terrain and tall trees, spaced wide enough to reveal a dark, visible sky.

The first raindrops hitting their skin, soft as whispers. Then came the deluge—a torrential downpour that masked the distant thrum of the helicopter blades as it touched down ten miles from the settlement. Rain mixed with the earth, the night was deadly still, yet heavy with expectation and the rush of adrenalin in anticipation of the rescue mission.

The team would walk the rest of the way. The women were close.
Thanks to two embedded informants inside Boko Haram, the rescuers had a flow of intel—risky, erratic, but crucial. The weather had made surveillance harder, but the women had arrived recently, and they couldn’t afford to wait.

Inside one of the ragged tents, the women huddled together, frightened and despondent, with hope ebbing away with each passing moment. The air was sour with sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies. Muddy rainwater crept in, soaking their already threadbare clothes. Some of the women looked barely alive—dehydrated lips cracked open, skin dull and stretched over bones, the light in their eyes long extinguished.

They had overheard enough to know there would be no negotiations. The government had taken a hardline stance, vowing to rescue them, but days had passed, and no one had come.

Dunni stared blankly ahead. Since they had left Lana’s body behind, she hadn’t spoken, eaten, or blinked. The others tried to coax her, their voices cracking with desperation. But she looked through them, eyes wide open, dry, and unblinking.

She was the first to sense the shift—a rustle, a shadow. Then the men emerged like ghosts, signalling silence. Dunni didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge them, as they rounded up the women, gently nudging those barely awake. Some eyes sparked with hope.
Dunni’s remained lifeless.

The extraction took fifteen minutes. Then they vanished into the forest, boots silent on the soggy ground, as if the rescue had never happened.

For Moses, time froze. Rain pummeled him, cold and stinging, but all he saw was Dunni—a ghost of the woman he once knew. She was alive. That was enough for now. He would get her the best care: emotional, physical, and mental. Although he had no claim on her and months had passed with no contact, their friendship-or—or whatever it could have been—was buried beneath silence and time. But none of that mattered now. He was here to ensure she made it home safely.

What he hadn’t prepared for was the void in her eyes as she passed him without even a flicker of recognition.

The team hustled the women into the helicopter with an urgency that left Moses perplexed but made sense a few minutes after when a huge explosion ripped the ground below a few minutes into the sky rocking the helicopter. Moses looked below at the flames and smoke bellowing up.

“What was that?” he shouted at Segal.

“They bombed the place. That’s why we had 55 minutes.”

Moses shuddered. What if they hadn’t made it tonight? Would any of the women still be alive?

Inside the rented chopper, he wrapped Dunni in a blanket, holding her close. His tears mingled with the rain still clinging to his face. She didn’t look at him, but her body eased slightly, her eyes fluttering closed for the first time.

“She lost her friend,” said a woman beside them quietly. “Since then, she hasn’t spoken, eaten, or even slept. Your wife will need you now.”

Moses gave a bittersweet smile at the word wife. If only…

He wished he could rewind time to the beginning, when they first became friends. When he should’ve told her she was his future. The thought of what she had endured crushed his heart.

“How are you?” he asked gently.

“I’ll be fine,” she shrugged. “We saw hell. Minute to minute, we didn’t know if we’d live. I’m leaving this country. Going to my family abroad. I’m done.”

He didn’t blame her.

The government had refused to negotiate. Their “rescue mission” had barely begun many days after the kidnapping, and they hadn’t even located Sambisa.

Segal, ever professional, contacted MI Bello to have ambulances waiting.

As the chopper landed, medical teams from Tade’s hospital were already in position.

Tade was there. He ran to them, eyes locking on Dunni. Moses refused to let her go, her head tucked under his chin, still unresponsive.

“She’s been like this since we picked them up,” Moses said. “She’s in shock.”

Tade’s voice trembled, though he forced calm into it. “Let’s get her to the hospital.”

He stretched his hand toward her. Dunni flinched, retreating deeper into Moses’s arms.

That should’ve made Moses feel something like joy. But all he felt was grief.

She wasn’t here—not really.

“Will she be okay?” Moses asked with uncertainty.

Tade met his eyes, his own filling with sorrow.

“She’ll get help. Therapy, trauma care, and any care required. She’ll come back. She’s strong. Soon we’ll have the no-nonsense fireball back.”

He tried a smile. Moses managed a weak one in return.

He would give anything to see her whole again.
To wipe away every memory of the horror she endured.

To bring Dunni—not this hollow shell—back from the dark.

The Dice #41

The last light of the sun bled into the horizon, staining the sky in hues of orange and deep purple. The air was thick, carrying the dry scent of dust and sweat, mingling with the distant smoke that curled in ominous tendrils. Each breath Dunni took felt heavier than the last, her limbs screaming in protest. She had been the strong one, the one whispering words of courage to Lana, forcing a smile when despair threatened to choke her. But now, her strength was slipping away like sand through clenched fingers.

She turned to check on Lana, and the sight froze her blood.

“Lana,” she whispered, her voice barely above the whisper of the evening breeze. “Lana?” Her fingers trembled as she reached out, tapping her friend’s arm. No response.

A cold wave of dread swept through her, sinking deep into her bones. “Lana, wake up!” she pleaded, her voice rising with each desperate call. Her hands shook as she grasped Lana’s shoulders and shook her gently, then violently.

Two men rushed toward her, their faces shadowed in the dim light. One reached out to check for a pulse, the other bent to lift Lana’s body. But Dunni flung herself over her friend, clutching her with a strength she didn’t know she had.

“No! Get back!” she screamed, her voice raw with anguish.

More hands came, rough and unyielding, prying her away. She fought, kicked, thrashed, her cries splitting the silence of the night like a shattered mirror.

“She’s just sleeping,” she muttered, her breath hitching. “She’ll wake up soon. She just needs to wake up.”

She rocked herself, hugging her knees, her eyes wide and unfocused. Around her, the other women stood in silence, their faces carved with sorrow and fear. They had all learned to speak without words—through glances, through the weight of shared suffering. But Lana had been her anchor, the only voice that had kept her sane in this madness. Now, that voice was gone.

The men started rounding them up. A shadow loomed over her, his face set in hard lines.

“Tashi mu wuce.” His voice was like a hammer striking cold steel.

Dunni barely heard him. She was drowning in a haze, floating outside herself, her body refusing to move. The man barked again, his tone sharper. When she didn’t respond, a pair of hands seized her, yanking her up. She flailed, her screams cutting through the heavy night air.

Then she caught a whiff of the man holding her—an unbearable stench of unwashed flesh and dried blood. Her stomach turned, and a wave of nausea drained the fight from her. Her body slumped, her strength leaving her as quickly as Lana had. Satisfied, the man set her down roughly and walked away. She staggered forward, joining the line of women who marched onward, their feet dragging through the dust, their silence heavier than the darkness that surrounded them.

Three days had passed. Three days of hell.

Tade stood in his office, his phone pressed to his ear, his body thrumming with restless energy.

“What’s the update?” he demanded, his voice clipped. His chief security officer’s voice came through, laced with tension.

“It’s all over the news. The women were taken by Boko Haram. They’re being held in Sambisa Forest. The president has vowed action, but you know how these things go.”

Tade clenched his jaw, flipping through news channels. The flickering screen showed sensationalised reports, shaky footage, talking heads spewing government promises. It was all noise, all propaganda. None of it had hastened the rescue of Dunni and the rest of the high-profile women.

A different kind of war was raging beneath the surface.

Information was surfacing about lithium and gold buried beneath the Sambisa Forest. Molade Thomas, the richest woman in Africa, had already set her sights on the land. She had partnered with Senator Isiaku Balla, a man whose interests were as murky as the waters he waded in. To the world, they spoke of conservation, a grand plan to turn the forest into a game reserve. But Tade knew better.

Molade had an instinct for wealth, an almost supernatural ability to sniff out opportunities before anyone else. And if she was interested in Sambisa, it wasn’t for the wildlife.

She had been working her way into Borno for months, weaving a web of influence, waiting for the perfect moment. Now, with the hostage crisis unfolding, she had the perfect excuse to move in. Her trucks, loaded with aid for displaced civilians, were a front. She had already reached out to the army, the police, an independent security agency—offering ‘assistance’ in the rescue mission.

But Tade had heard whispers of another plan. One that would erase Sambisa Forest from existence.

Bello’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We move in tomorrow at midnight. If the hostages aren’t out by then, we bring them out ourselves.”

Tade exhaled slowly, his hands clenching into fists. “Twenty-four hours, MI Bello. Bring her back.”

The Dice #40

They were already in the air when Segal’s voice cut through the deafening roar of the chopper’s blades. “Change of plans! New coordinates—Sambisa Forest!”

Moses felt the cold sweat trickling down his spine, soaking into his shirt. His pulse pounded in his ears. Sambisa. The very name was enough to freeze his blood. A place so feared, that even the military hesitated to enter. Whispers of its horrors drifted through barracks and villages alike—dark, dense, a fortress for terror. There was no turning back now. The original destination he thought was supposed to be on the outskirts of Abuja. How had they ended up heading deep into Borno?

His throat went dry as his mind flickered to Dunni. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. She was out there somewhere, and now, they were hurtling toward the belly of the beast.

Segal moved to his side, his face grim. “I’ve been contacted by Andrew Akande. His wife was taken too.” He thrust a phone into Moses’ hands. A picture illuminated the screen—Dunni standing beside a woman he didn’t recognize. The image was taken on the first day of the conference. A sharp twist coiled in his gut. The helplessness gnawed at him. He had to get her out. He had to.

“The husband wants us to rescue her as well,” Segal continued. “And as many of the women as we can. The numbers change the dynamic. It’s Boko Haram. They’re asking for ransom—ten million naira per head and a hundred motorbikes. I’ve called for more men and more resources. We’ll have two bigger helicopters. We move in at midnight tomorrow.”

Dunni’s limbs burned with exhaustion. How long had it been—four, maybe five days? Time blurred together in the endless cycle of movement. They travelled by night and hid by day. The dry, smoky air clung to her skin, mingling with the scent of sweat and fear. Her lips were cracked, her throat raw. Hunger gnawed at her insides. The last thing they had eaten was stale, crumbling bread, its rancid taste still clinging to her tongue. But they had no choice. Strength was a necessity, not a luxury.

She glanced at Lana, her heart tightening. If they weren’t rescued soon, Lana would run out of medication. The consequences were too grim to contemplate.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “What medication is your friend on?”

Dunni’s head snapped toward the sound. The voice was smooth, impeccable English with the slightest trace of an American accent. She squinted at the man before her, his eyes warm beneath the folds of his turban. Her shock was visceral. The contradiction unsettled her.

“We are not savages,” he said with a chuckle.

Under different circumstances, the joke might have been amusing. But here, surrounded by masked men and the echoes of suffering, it felt absurd.

“No one will be hurt,” he continued. “Those who have been… it was a necessity. To ensure obedience.”

Dunni stared at him. Had she seen him before? The faces around them changed constantly. The men who had captured them were long gone, replaced by new ones. There was no pattern.

“Diabetes,” she finally answered.

She had always believed that a closed mouth led to a closed destiny. Perhaps, just perhaps, this man could help.

“I’m a doctor. Harvard-trained.”

The accent made sense now. But nothing else did.

“Do you still practice?” Her voice held suspicion. If he was a real doctor, what was he doing here? Why was he with them?

“Yes,” he said briskly, then turned, his voice slipping seamlessly into the local dialect as he spoke to the others. Gone was the American twang.

Dunni’s stomach twisted with unease. She watched him blend back into the crowd, his posture no different from the rest. “Did you hear him?” she asked Lana.

Lana barely stirred. Her voice was a whisper. “No.”

Fear spiked through Dunni. “Are you okay?” she asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I don’t think I’ll make it,” Lana murmured. Her words were fragile, breaking against the heavy air. “Tell my son… I love him. Tell my father… to raise him as his own. With his twins.”

“Stop,” Dunni said fiercely, her hands trembling as she grasped Lana’s frail fingers. “You will make it. You will see your son again. That doctor—he’ll help us.”

“If he’s a doctor, I’m in America right now,” Lana muttered weakly, attempting a joke. She lifted her water gourd, but it was empty.

“I’ll get more.”

Dunni pushed forward toward the men. She held up the gourd in a silent plea. A grunt of acknowledgement, a rough hand snatching it away. “Go. Someone will bring it.”

She hesitated. This group was different. Their garb was just as tattered, their faces just as covered, yet there was an air of refinement. Educated men in the ranks of terror. She returned to Lana, sitting beneath the meagre shade from the mango tree, the heat pressing in on them like a suffocating blanket.

Night fell. They moved again, trudging deeper into the unknown. Dunni’s feet throbbed, her body weak, but she pressed on. They were given stale bread once more. She nibbled half and hid the rest for Lana. They scavenged as they walked—wild berries, bitter fruits, anything to sustain them.

A man approached, a blackened gourd in his hands. “Diabetes.”

Lana eyed the liquid warily. It smelled acrid. But she was too weak to care. If they wanted her dead, they would have killed her already. She drank it in one gulp, wincing at the foul taste.

“What was that?” Dunni asked, noticing Lana’s expression twist in disgust.

“Death potion,” Lana rasped. “To make my passage to the beyond easier.”

“Stop with the jokes!” Dunni snapped, her voice cracking. The fear of losing Lana made her skin prickle, goosebumps rising along her arms. They had only known each other for days, yet their fates were entwined forever. She shuddered at the thought of delivering a message of death to Lana’s family.

“It’s a local remedy,” the man said. “Herbs used for diabetes.”

Dunni narrowed her eyes. “If it works, why isn’t it in hospitals?”

His face darkened. “We don’t value what our ancestors left behind. Western medicine overshadows what is more potent.”

Dunni had no reply. A part of her wondered if he had just handed her friend a death potion.