The rain returned—angrier this time.
Lagos skies opened like a wound, and thunder rolled across the heavens like war drums. Mushin streets flooded in minutes. Danfo drivers cursed. Bread sellers hustled under umbrellas. The air smelt of burning tyres and wet earth. But inside Zainab Stitches, silence reigned.
Zainab sat on her low stool, eyes glued to the laptop screen. The flash drive still inside. Her body was still. Her heart was not.
She had gone through six folders already. Each one heavier than the last.
Photos of Dapo at events. Documents with fake names and stolen bank identities. Transfers in six figures. Euro, Dollar, Naira. Voices recorded in hushed tones, whispering numbers and addresses. A spreadsheet with codes.
And then—there was a video.
It opened without warning.
She hit pause.
Her hand trembled.
The face on the screen? Hers.
It was footage of her, from Ilorin. Laughing. Carrying Dapo's birthday cake. Wearing that wine-red gown she no longer owned. The background was the old apartment—the one she abandoned when the EFCC began asking questions.
Zainab's chest grew tight.
She reached for her inhaler.
Two puffs. Slow breath.
Then another folder. This one was labeled:"Z. Stitch - Watch List"
Inside it—pictures of her shop.
Recent.
Last week recent.
Photos of her taking in fabric. Her locking up the shop. Her buying suya across the road.
She slammed the laptop shut and stood quickly.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't paranoid.She was being watched.
And now she knew: Obi hadn't just stumbled into her life.
He had been sent.
Or worse—he had planned it.
There was a knock on the door.
Zainab jumped.
Another knock. Slower. This one, three taps.
She grabbed her pair of heavy-duty scissors. Moved cautiously. Peered through the curtain.
It was Amaka—her shop neighbor.
Zainab sighed and opened the door halfway.
"Zee, come and see something o!" Amaka said, half-laughing, half-worried.
"What?"
"Check your wall outside."
Zainab stepped out under the dripping roof.
Her shop wall, once clean, now carried red graffiti in bold letters:
"TALK AND DIE"
Three words.
That was it.
Three words that held the power to silence her soul.
Her knees weakened.
"Who did this?" she whispered.
Amaka folded her arms. "Me I don't know o. I just came and saw it like this. People are already talking. Someone even said they saw a tinted car around 2am stop here."
Zainab said nothing.
Just stared.
The rain fell harder. Thunder cracked above.
She walked back inside, locked the door, and sat on the floor.
Her scissors lay beside her. The laptop still humming faintly.
She was shaking.
Not just from fear.
But from rage.
Someone was playing a dangerous game.
And if there was anything Zainab had learned in Ilorin, it was this:
You don't survive by being the loudest.
You survive by being the smartest.
She took the flash drive, put it inside a nylon, sealed it, and dropped it deep inside her sewing box—under the old broken zipper pile.
Then she turned off the lights. Sat in the dark.
Waiting.
Thinking.
Plotting.
Later that night, her phone rang.
No caller ID.
She hesitated… then picked.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a deep voice, distorted by something mechanical, came through:
"You opened the drive.We warned you.Stay quiet.Or your shop won't be the only thing in stitches."
The line cut.
Zainab dropped the phone slowly.
For the first time in a long time, she prayed not just for protection—but for strength.
Because this was no longer about a man, a cloth, or a mistake.
This was war.
And war had come to Mushin… wrapped in navy-blue senator.