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Chapter 4: Deze

The taste of Fana’s mother’s pepper soup still lingers on my tongue, soothing more than just hunger. We are curled up on Fana’s massive living room sofa, surrounded by plush cushions and the quiet, settled feeling of a shared meal. The air smells of spices, a scent that always seems to cling to Auntie Fausti as a permanent reminder of her kitchen kingdom. Unlike my mom, she never had a career. She had come from a wealthy family and equally married an affluent man, who insisted that she be a housewife. Now that she is no longer with him, she doesn’t know how to break free from her past. She spends her time in her children’s homes, cooking for them and ensuring that they still get the nurture and comfort in which she raised them.

“Is there more of the pepper soup?” I ask Fana, yawning and rubbing my already full tummy.

Auntie Fausti herself is dozing in her favorite armchair by the window. Leaving her husband was the bravest thing she ever did, and Fana was the engine behind that courage. It’s a bond forged in fire. Fana knows all about bad men herself, having survived her father’s abuse and a husband who treated his wedding vows like suggestions. Sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, I see a shadow cross her beautiful face, a fleeting glimpse of the girl who was told she was never enough. Yet she had held down her family’s business with brains and hard work.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table, shattering the peaceful silence. The screen flashes with an unknown number. It’s a Friday, and I’m off work already. 

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Fana asks, nudging my foot with hers.

“It’s probably a vendor,” I mutter, but I pick it up. “Hello?”

“Ms. Nnadi? Good afternoon. This is Mr. Abubakar, aide to Chief Yele.” 

I know who you are, oga.

“Yes, hello. How may I help you?” I try to keep my voice neutral, professional.

“The Chief wishes to see you this evening. There is a matter he wishes to discuss.”

I roll my eyes exaggeratedly for Fana’s benefit, who raises an eyebrow in curiosity. “Oh, um… I’m actually out of town until tomorrow evening. A last-minute thing for a client in Lagos. Perhaps we can schedule something for next week?” The lie slips out easily, polished from practice.

There is a silence on the other end so profound I can almost feel the temperature drop through the phone. “The Chief,” Abubakar says, each word clipped and icy, “does not appreciate being kept waiting.”

“And I,” I reply with the same tone, “do not appreciate having my professional schedule dictated. Next week, sir. Please, send my regards to him.” I press the end-call button before he can utter another word, my thumb trembling slightly.

I drop the phone onto the cushion as if it’s grown hot. Fana is staring at me, a question in her eyes. I let out a long, theatrical sigh as I collapse back against the sofa. “Just another one of those clients. The type who thinks because he writes a big check, he owns a piece of your soul. Always wanting these late-night ‘meetings’ to discuss the ‘deeper nuances’ of event planning.” I make fluttering quotation marks with my fingers. “It’s exhausting.”

Fana is immediately in solidarity. “The worst. The entitled ones are a plague.” She unfolds herself from the sofa with a grunt. “But we’re not letting Mr. Nuances ruin our afternoon. We are celebrating!” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of wine, its deep red glass catching the light. “Seven months, Deze. Seven months of back-to-back, high-profile, ‘I-can’t-believe-they-called-me’ events.”

“Are you going to celebrate every month like this?”

“Shut up, my friend. As I was saying, you’re not just on a roll, my baby. You are the roll.”

I snap my fingers in applause for myself as she pours two generous glasses. 

“To slamming doors in the faces of annoying men!” Fana toasts.

“And to building our own castles!” I add and gulp down the wine. “It sha feels good to celebrate o.”

I might have been in the business for long and run my own company for two years, but I’m in a place right now that I only saw in my dreams. I’m so glad I didn’t listen to Zulu when he told me to japa.

“I love you!” I tell Fana and force kisses on her cheek as she squeals in laughter. Auntie Fausti wakes to a start and stares at us in irritation. Fana and I look at each other, frozen in a moment of my arms around her and my lips on her cheek. Auntie Fausti hisses and goes back sleep putting us in peals of laughter.

***

Long after I’ve gone home, the phone call from Abubakar presses in on me. I’m crippled by anxiety, and my phone, silent on my pillow, feels like a predator waiting in the dark. The voice in my head won’t stop.

Yele wants to see you. It’s not a request. It’s a summons. He’s reminding you that this winning streak you’re on, this castle you’re building… he provided the land. He owns the ground beneath it. 

I can’t go back. I can’t sit in those soundproofed rooms with him, where the air is thick with his cologne and unspoken demands, where my success is a transaction waiting to be renegotiated. 

I shake my head, as if to physically dislodge the thoughts. I will not let him poison my mood. Not tonight.

I have a sip from the wine bottle I took from Fana’s house. Just as I’m about to take the second sip, my phone rings.

King.

I smile as I pick his call. 

“Adaeze,” he calls my name slowly. 

“Hi, Mr. Barrett.”

“Good evening. Hope your day went well?”

“Yes, it did. Yours?”

“Good. I just want to check in to see if we’re still on for tomorrow.”

We had chatted two days ago and fixed an outing to Magic Land for tomorrow.

“Yeah, sure. We’re still on.”

“Great. So, do I pick you up, or…?”

“I’ll drive there,” I respond, erasing anything that would make our outing look like a date. I already feel some attraction to the man. I cannot let him know.

“That works. So, see you at 10AM?”

“Sure.”

“All right. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

The line goes dead, and I smile again, sipping my warm wine.

King Barrett. Just the thought of his name sends a different kind of warmth through me, a genuine one. 

I need to ask him if that’s his full name, or if it’s Kingsley or Kingston. I also need to ask about his voice. He sounds like he went to a voice-coaching school to learn how to speak seductively and articulately. If someone tells me that he uses that voice alone to get clients and grow his business, I would totally believe it because the way he talks…

His voice has that calm, deliberate cadence men in boardrooms use when they already know the deal is theirs. Dangerous, persuasive. I remind myself it’s just a voice, not a verdict on my heart.

I have this theory that men with baritone voices often have more prominent Adam’s apples, like King’s. 

Adaeze, stop. No need to act like a giddy schoolgirl. Padding across the room toward my wardrobe, I tell myself that he’s just a man like any other man out there.

An hour later, my bed is a graveyard of rejected outfits — too severe, too flirty, too desperate. I don’t want to look like I tried. I want to look inevitable. The fact that I care enough to try annoys me most of all.

Finally, I settle for classic fitted jeans and a simple off shoulder top the color of deep emerald. Simple. Elegant. I lay the outfit carefully over my chair and approve.

In bed, on my clothes, sleep is distant. That’s because I replay the sound of his voice at the wedding, the way he’d said my name, the easy way we fell into conversation. 

Sleep comes much later.

***

The sun at Magic Land is brilliant, a perfect contrast to the slightly chilly weather. And King… King is a revelation. Out of his sharp suit, in a simple gray t-shirt and dark jeans, he seems younger and more approachable. The way the fabric stretches across his shoulders as he lifts a hand to point something out makes my stomach do a funny little flip.

I know I’m not falling for this man. It’s the idea of him I’m falling for. He looks well-packaged, the type of man any woman would get easily carried away by. And that’s what attracts me.

We start with the Flying Bicycle. I pedal furiously on my side, breathless with laughter but enjoying the dizzying blur below. When I glance over at him, he’s not looking at the view. His face is directed elsewhere in a frown. I nudge him, he looks at me, and I see something like fear in his eyes.

“You’re scared of heights?”

“No,” he lies. I burst out laughing. 

“You so are.”

“I’m not. If I were, would I be all the way up here?”

“Is that why you’re sweating in this cold?”

“Pedal your own side of the bicycle, madam.”

“Fear, fear!”

He pokes my side and I squirm. After the bicycle ride, I hitch two other rides while he stays below, pretending to make calls. I don’t call him out on his fear of heights again because I have a devilish plan in the works. 

We go for ice-cream and sit under a tree in silence. After we’re done, I suggest the Pirate Ship ride. The way his expression changes makes me almost fall off the bench laughing. 

“I have a confession to make,” he says, raising his hand. “I, in a moment of uncharacteristic bravado, once got on that ride with my nieces, and I want to let you know that it almost ended in tears. I will not do it again.”

“So, you admit that you’re scared of heights?”

“Yes. Hi, my name is King Barrett, 6 foot 1, late 30’s, and I’m scared shit of heights.”

I think this is the cutest thing I’ve heard from a man in a while. 

“I understand, King Barrett, but today, you’re going on that ride.” I get on my feet and thrust out my hand to him. “Let me be your guide.”

He doesn’t take my hand.

“It won’t be bad the second time, and that’s how you overcome your fear.”

He still doesn’t take my hand.

“Okay, if you agree to do it, I will do something crazy you ask me to do.”

He looks at me suspiciously.

“Hand on heart,” I swear.

He places his hand in mine and wraps it, pulling himself up.

“You’re about to learn that you don’t make promises to me.”

“Really?”

“I’m like the devil. I take and take and take.”

“I’m scared,” I say in sarcasm as we walk toward the Pirate Ship. When we get on, King makes sure the metal bar that encloses us is firmly in place. He grasps it until his well-moisturized knuckles expose a scar line that runs over them.

As the ride begins, I cling to his arm. When it starts to rise, I whoop and scream with the dips and swings, my hand flying out instinctively to grip his arm while the other holds my phone steady to make videos and take pictures. He sits perfectly still beside me, a statue of forced calm, but I can feel the tense muscles under my fingers.

Me, I’m having the time of my life. And I know I’m going to keep coming here to hitch this ride.

Finally, the ride halts. While I take my time to step out, King stumbles away and finds a place to cool off. I follow him and touch his back, feeling him taking deep breaths. One look into his face and I see that he’s trying hard to not throw up. I instantly feel bad for putting him through hell.

“I’m so sorry. Let me get you some water.” I reach into my handbag and take out a mini water bottle and hand it to him. He doesn’t sip from it; rather, he splashes a handful on his face.

“Are you okay?” I ask, passing him a face towel. He wipes his face and looks at me.

“I hope you’re ready when I come to collect.” He runs a hand over his face, composing himself. “I have renewed respect for the maritime industry,” he states, and I laugh. Then he looks at me. He’s not embarrassed or softened by me witnessing a weak side of him. It’s unsettling, being seen like that in the middle of my laughter.

***

We walk and talk for what feels like both an instant and an eternity. The conversation is easy, a gentle back-and-forth that requires no effort. And in these moments of quiet, I study him.

He has a sharp jawline, clean-shaven and strong. He walks with easy confidence, like he’s sure of his place in the world. When he laughs, it brings out that baritone he’s hiding. He is, in every conceivable way, perfectly packaged. The kind of man you see in magazine spreads for expensive watches. Successful, handsome, solid. The ultimate prize. The man you bring home to a family of doctors to finally prove your life choices have merit. The unassailable boyfriend who makes intrusive men like Abubakar and Yele think twice.

A part of me that feels distant and analytical, admires this. It admires the idea of him. Being with King Barrett would be like building a fortress. It would be a declaration. See? I didn’t just get lucky. I landed a king.

This feeling is safe. This is about acquisition, not surrender. Falling for the idea of a man like King is like admiring a beautifully designed weapon. You appreciate its power, its potential to protect you. You don’t think about handing him the ammunition.

So, when I feel a flicker of something else that is warmer and more dangerous, when he tells a stupid joke and his eyes look into mine, I quickly douse it. When I feel the genuine impulse to open up and tell him about the constant, low-grade fear that has been my companion since the gala, I swallow it down.

Instead, I focus on the packaging. The impeccable cut of his simple t-shirt. The way other women glance at him as we pass with appreciation in their eyes. 

The real danger and terrifying freefall wouldn’t be in wanting him. It would be in needing him. And that is a line my heart has already drawn without me even realizing it. For now, it’s enough that he looks the part. It’s easier to believe I want the fortress than to admit I might be longing for a safe place to rest inside it.

I don’t know how much time flies until I see that the sun has begun to set. As we walk back through the nearly empty parking lot, the magic of the day is a tangible thing around us. Our shoulders brush, and neither of us moves away.

A figure suddenly steps out from between a van and a sedan in such an abrupt manner that it takes a second to register.

Abubakar.

The air freezes in my lungs. All the warmth and light are sucked out of me. 

“Ms. Nnadi,” he calls. “The Chief insists. The car is here.” He gestures to a black SUV idling a few rows over.

Annoyance and fear course through me. Without thought, my hand flies out and grabs King’s arm. I press myself against his side. “I’m busy,” I say. “As you can see, I’m with my boyfriend.”

I feel King’s body go rigid with surprise. But it lasts only a second. His hand comes up and covers mine, with a firm grip. He steps slightly in front of me, just a fraction. 

“Is there a problem here, Abubakar?” he asks Abubakar and I look at him in surprise. 

“No, Mr. Barrett.”

Abubakar’s cold eyes flick from my terrified face to King’s protective stance. He assesses the situation. 

“No problem,” he says. “My apologies for the interruption. The Chief will be… disappointed.” He gives a curt nod and melts back into the shadows of the parking lot.

My legs feel like water. A tremor runs through me that I cannot control. King turns to me, his hands coming up to hold my shoulders, his brow furrowed with deep concern. “Deze. Look at me. Are you okay?”

“You know Abubakar?”

“Chief Yele’s aide? I’ve handled some events for them. What was that about?”

“I… I don’t…” I stammer, truly bewildered. “I don’t even know how they found me here.”

A small, wry smile touches King’s lips. He pulls out his phone and opens my Instagram. He shows me the screen. There I am, laughing on the Flying Bicycle, the caption reading: “Finally at Magic Land! Let the childhood reclamation begin!” The location tag is clear as day.

A weak, shaky laugh escapes me. “Oh. Right.”

I don’t tell him that I forgot that Chief Yele wanted to see me and I had lied that I was in Lagos. 

King’s expression sobers again. His eyes search mine, and I see the questions there, the protective expression simmering just beneath the surface. 

Deze,” he says with a gentle voice. “Talk to me. Is Chief Yele being a problem for you? Because if he is, you don’t have to handle it alone.”

The concern in his eyes is genuine. I force a bright smile onto my face. I reach out and pat his arm. It’s cute that he cares, but I don’t think he, with all his connections, is a match for the Minister of Interior. 

“It’s nothing,” I say. “Really. Just an overzealous PA who doesn’t understand boundaries. Thank you, though. For the backup.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I can see he doesn’t entirely believe me. But he nods, accepting my deflection for now. “Anytime.”

Driving home, I don’t listen to my favorite radio station. The adrenaline has faded, and the memory of King’s solid presence plays in my mind. He was a wall. He was a shield. 

A new, chilling clarity dawns. King Barrett, with his quiet strength and his obvious, growing feelings for me, is more than just a good man. He is a tool. A powerful, dependable tool to be used against the Yeles of this world. In this our neck of the woods, a woman without a man is like a lamb lost in the Amazon jungle. With my time in this business, I have come up with a million clever ways to escape these men and their blatant chases. To be honest, it’s exhausting. Six years without a steady boyfriend is no small feat, but I think it’s time to do something about that streak. With the way I’m climbing up the ladder, God knows I’ll need to ward off more than just a few flies.

A sharp pang of guilt pricks at my conscience, but it is quickly smothered by a survival instinct honed over months of navigating sharks.

Back in the echoing silence of my apartment, the façade crumbles. My phone lights up. First, Imani. I let it ring out. Then, Abubakar. This time, my hand is steady as I answer.

“The Chief’s patience is at an end, Ms. Nnadi,” Abubakar’s voice is stripped of all pretense now. “Doors that were opened for you can be shut. Permanently. I suggest you consider your position very, very carefully.”

The line goes dead. I stand alone in the middle of my dark living room, the threat hanging in the air like a poison. I can feel the walls of the beautiful life I’ve built beginning to tremble.

Three days later, while Abebi and I sort out some work issues in the office, my phone rings. Imani, this woman that promised to burn my career to the ground, is suddenly all up in my business again. 

I ask Abebi to give me the room and pick her call.

“Deze, what is this I’m hearing? Why are you ghosting Chief Yele’s office?” Her tone is sharp and accusatory. I want to ask her what her business is with how I choose to handle Chief.

“Am I not talking to you?”

“Imani, he… he doesn’t want to discuss business. He wants an… arrangement.”

There is a beat of silence on the other end. Then a light, airy laugh. “And. So. What?”

I frown. “What do you mean, ‘and so what’? I’m a professional, not a… a sidechick!”

“Oh, darling, wake up,” Imani’s laugh is cruel now. “Do you think I got where I am just because my father is who he is?”

I roll my eyes. Not this bagina talk again. This woman taught me how to be a hoe on orientation day when I began working for her. I can’t believe she chose events planning as her day job; sex work would have been more appropriate.

“Family wealth opens the first door,” she continues, “but it’s what you bring that keeps you in the building. This is how the game is played.”

“Well, that’s not how I play my own ga—”

“Abeg, abeg! You think I don’t know you? You’re a hypocrite and have no right to talk to me like that! After I picked you up and made you who you are today? Adaeze, I handed you the biggest contract of your pathetic little life!”

“No, you did not. Fana introduced me to Chief.”

“And I endorsed you! If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten that job, you ungrateful little girl. Remember your place in that Abuja o! You are nothing without my patronage!”

The call ends. I am shaking. To calm my nerves, I open a half-consumed wine bottle under my table and finish it.

***

Another week passes. I am trying to forget, to bury myself in new, smaller projects and put Yele and Imani behind me. Fana senses something is off and asks to meet for lunch. I meet her at Vintage Café in Wuse. We talk about work, about life. She is so beautiful, so ambitious. I admire her strength, and I want all the nicer things in life for her. I want her to have my brother, Zulu. I think he would be good for her.

“Zulu is a good man, Fana,” I say, pushing my salad around my plate. “A real one.”

“I know,” she says with a sigh. “And God knows I want him. But I need to end this thing with TJ properly. I need the divorce finalized. I don’t want my husband hanging over my head like a bad smell.”

She talks about her father, too. How he still calls her mother, begging her to come back, while simultaneously threatening to kick Fana out of the family business. “He told me last week, ‘You think you’re so smart, but remember who built this chair you are sitting on. I can take it away.’” She shivers. “It’s the same tone he used with my mom for years.”

The words send a chill through me. They are too familiar. 

“Fana, I’m scared. I’m starting to see the underbelly of this Abuja, and it’s ugly.”

“What are you talking about?”

I pull out my phone and show her a text from Abubakar from two days ago, as I tell her everything. 

“Do not be a fool and mess up the small success you have achieved,” Fana reads the text. “The Chief is a powerful man. Don’t take his kindness to mean weakness.” She looks at me, dazed. “What is this? Is Yele mad?”

“I’m tired.”

“No, this cannot fly. I’m going to speak to him.”

“No, no.” I say, sitting up. “Please, don’t.”

“I will.”

“Fana, just let it be. You could make it worse. Let me handle it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. Please.”

“Well, if you need me, just call. If I have to report him to his mom and dad, I’ll do that.”

“No need.”

Fana reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Her grip is firm and reassuring. “Don’t be scared, Deze. He can’t do anything. All will be well and nothing will…”

Her words are cut off by a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The gentle hum of the café conversation dies. Three men in plain clothes but with an unmistakable air of authority are walking straight toward our table. They are not smiling. They stop in front of us, and I hold my breath.

“Adaeze Nnadi?” the one in front asks, his voice flat and impersonal.

My heart stops. “Yes?”

He flashes a badge. “NFCC. You are under arrest for money laundering and fraud, related to the Abuja Metropolis Beautification Gala contract.”

“What?”

I freeze.

“What?” I repeat. “No. There’s a mistake. I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for.”

“Exactly,” Fana says. “You’re mistaking her for someone else.”

“Are you not Adaeze Nnadi of Daze Events?”

“Yes, I am, but I…”

“You are the one we’re looking for.”

“I didn’t do anything. The Minister of Interior contracted me to handle the event. You can call his office and ask. In short…”

I reach for my phone, but the officer snatches it. “There won’t be need for that. Just follow us quietly.”

“I-I-I have receipts. I did my job! I simply planned the event, and that’s all. I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“I’m about to read out your Miranda Warning—”

“Miranda what? Are you for real right now?”

“Please, Ms. Adaeze, kindly cooperate with us. Let’s not make a scene.”

“You’re arresting her wrongfully, and you’re telling her to not make a scene?” Fana yells.

“Calm down—”

“We’re not calming down.”

I take a deep breath and look at Fana. I shake my head at her to stop as I surrender my hands to the officer. The cold, metallic click as the cuffs snap shut around my wrists is the most horrifying sound I have ever heard, and it jars me, making me sharply withdraw my hands.

“Please, you don’t understand. Let me call Chief Yele’s aide, and he’ll explain.” I am pleading, my voice rising in panic, tears blurring my vision. I look desperately at Fana, who is also in shock. “Fana. Get me a lawyer. Don’t call my parents or Zulu. Call a lawyer, please!”

 My legs are weak as they pull me up. Following them, I see someone with a phone held up, recording. Dozens of eyes drink in my utter humiliation, my complete undoing.

The bright Abuja sun hits my face as we exit the café, but I feel only a cold, deep dread. This is not a mistake. It’s a promise. 

This is a door slamming shut.