The journey from Mushin to Badagry wasn't just long—it felt like Zainab was being peeled away from herself, one street at a time.
She watched the heart of Lagos disappear in the rearview mirror. Oshodi, Mile 2, Festac, all melting behind her like old memories dissolving into fog.She didn't speak.She didn't blink much either.
She just held her scarf tight and breathed like someone learning to be alive again.
Obi drove in silence. No music. No phone. His eyes sharp on the road.Every pothole was a jolt.Every checkpoint was a threat.
But Zainab wasn't afraid.
She had passed the stage of fear.
2 hours later.They turned off the expressway and entered a narrow sandy road surrounded by palm trees and broken fences.
They stopped in front of a faded blue bungalow with a crooked gate and a fallen satellite dish leaning against the wall like a drunk.
"Here," Obi said.Zainab stepped out.
The house looked abandoned.But Obi opened the gate like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Inside, the lights worked. The fans spun slowly. The fridge hummed.It was empty… but not lifeless.
"I used to bring injured friends here after raids," Obi said."Back when I was still… them."
Zainab nodded. "It'll do."
He handed her a new phone. Clean SIM. No contacts. No links.
"Use this only when necessary. Keep it off most of the time."
Zainab collected it silently.
Then Obi handed her a small red diary."What's this?" she asked.
He looked away.
"Insurance. Names, locations, account numbers. Dapo's ghosts. In case I disappear."
Zainab stared at him. Her fingers clenched the book.
"Why me?" she asked.
Obi's voice was low. "Because I'm not just helping you, Zee. I'm trying to bury who I used to be."
They stood in silence for a while.Two broken lives sharing the same roof.
Then Obi walked toward the door.
"I'll check in through signal only. Don't leave this house. Don't trust voices. Not even mine over the phone."
She nodded.
He hesitated at the door.
"Zainab…"
"Yes?"
"If anything happens to me… finish it. Please."
Zainab looked him in the eye. "Go."
And with that, Obi disappeared into the Lagos night.
Day 2 in Badagry.
The safe house was cold, quiet, and full of thoughts.
Zainab wandered room to room, reading old newspapers, praying, staring at the ceiling.She wrote in the red diary—page after page of what she remembered about Dapo, his scams, the Ilorin escape, and all the signs she ignored.
She began preparing for the war ahead.
At 4PM, her phone buzzed.
The journalist. S.K.
"Your documentary is trending. Part 1 hit 1.3M views.Are you okay?"
She didn't reply.
Instead, she opened Facebook.
#TheTailorsTruth was everywhere.
People were debating, analyzing, defending, accusing.
Screenshots of Dapo's face. Blog headlines. TikTok videos of influencers mimicking her story with fake tears.
Her inbox was flooded.
But one message stood out. A voice note from an anonymous number.
She played it.
It was her own voice—from her conversation with S.K.
"If I don't survive this, make sure Dapo never sees peace again."
Her blood went cold.
The line was supposed to be private.Encrypted. Safe.
But it had leaked.
And that could only mean one thing:
Someone had found the safe house.
That night, Zainab didn't sleep.
She locked the doors, turned off all lights, and sat with the red diary in one hand and her mother's photo in the other.
She whispered softly:
"Mama, I'm not afraid. Not anymore.Let them come."
She reached under the bed, pulled out her wrapped tailor scissors.Unwrapped them slowly.
Not to sew. Not this time.
To survive.