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Chapter 5: Deze

“You have the right to remain silent, as anything you say in this room will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a legal representation, but if you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you…”

These are the first real words I hear, asides gruff instructions from the NFCC officers, ordering me about.

The man seated before me has a voice that sounds like a drill. A relentless, monotonous hammer against my temples. I’ve been here for hours, but it feels like weeks. Even time is confused in this cold room that smells of stale sweat and hopelessness.

“Ms. Nnadi, trace for me the movement of three hundred million naira. Who instructed you to move it? Who provided the account details? What services were rendered?”

Officer Chinedu is a man that looks like granite and cynicism. His face has sharp angles, and his eyes are dark, reflecting nothing. He hasn’t assaulted me in the way Nigerian officers of the law assault citizens, but the psychological weight of his presence is torture, and it’s pressing me deeper into the metal chair. The flickering fluorescent light above us is not helping matters.

Can my life right now be more cliché?

My wrists are raw from the cuffs, even though I’m no longer bound. My throat feels like a desert. They have offered me nothing and have refused me to make calls. Just the questions, over and over, that are designed to shatter my story and my spirit.

“I’ve told you repeatedly,” I croak. “The Ministry paid my company the full sum. I was the disbursement agent. It was their protocol. I paid the vendors they appointed. I have the emails, the instructions…”

He leans back in slow, deliberate movement as a show of disregard. “A protocol. Yes. A very convenient protocol for moving state funds into phantom accounts. You expect me to believe a woman of your supposed intelligence saw nothing wrong with this? A ₦100 million fee for one event did not make you ask questions? Or you were too greedy to care?”

₦100 million. The number, which once made me feel like I had arrived, now hangs in the air like an accusation. Too greedy to care.

His voice fades, replaced by the roaring in my ears. The room melts away.

The alert had been a shock. ₦450,000,000.00. A number so vast it almost broke my phone’s screen. Panic, then confusion. I called Mr. Abubakar.

“Sir, there’s been a mistake. A huge overpayment.”

His chuckle was condescending. “No mistake, Ms. Nnadi. That is the total project sum. Your fee is included. You are to act as the disbursement agent. It is our new IFMS protocol…”

“I’m sorry. IFMS?”

“Integrated Financial Management System,” he said slowly like he was talking to an idiot. “It’s a protocol for special projects. It ensures accountability and efficiency. You will remit the vendor portions immediately. It creates a clean audit trail from the Ministry to the final service providers.”

He’d made it sound logical and official. A weird but brilliant government innovation. And the fee… my God, the fee. It was more money than I’d ever dreamed of making. It was validation and the key to a new life. So, I pushed the niggling doubts aside, buried under gratitude and ambition.

But I did my due diligence. I checked the four vendors they insisted on. Aso Rock Hospitality & Events, Auraspehere Concepts, KrystalKlear Audio, and Gustocater Coordinators. They had websites, listed addresses, functional phone lines. They were “special vendors,” Abubakar had said, “approved for all government functions.”

The math was dizzying. ₦450 million total. I was to disburse ₦300 million. That left ₦150 million with me. My fee was ₦100 million, the remaining ₦50 million was the actual budget for the event itself, and I allocated it meticulously. It was tight, but I knew my way around using little to create big things and the result was superb. Nothing was below quality. 

I’d wondered, briefly, at the insane markup for the “special vendors.” But then I’d shrugged. This was Nigeria. Over-invoicing was the national sport. And wasn’t I overcharging too? Imani had taught me that. 

“Charge them so much it hurts, Deze. It makes them respect you. Rich men don’t do business with people who look like they need the money.” My ₦100 million fee was my armor.

Back in the interrogation room, Officer Chinedu’s mouth is moving, but the only sound is blood pounding in my ears. I am falling through the trapdoor of my own foolishness.

On the event day, the “special vendors” were a disgrace. “Aso Rock Hospitality” showed up with four cases of cheap champagne. The others didn’t even bother to make an appearance or offer believable reasons. I’d been livid, but I had experience working with these government people. Always have a Plan B, Plan C, and a war chest to fund it.

I’d already prepared with my own trusted crew. I’d dipped into my ₦100 million fee, spending an extra ₦20 million for marketing and media, a proper sound system, crew and staffing, and high level security. I’d made the Minister’s event perfect. He’d been impressed, and I felt like a genius.

A week later, I sent a detailed email to Abubakar, attaching the invoices from my backup team. I politely requested reimbursement for the ₦20 million in additional costs incurred due to the failure of his vendors.

The silence was rude. After two days, my phone rang, and his voice was no longer smooth. “Madam Deze, you were paid in excess. Your mismanagement of suppliers is not the Ministry’s concern. Consider this matter closed.” 

He hung up before I could respond.

I sat at my desk, the heat of annoyance scalding my face, but I still had ₦80 million, and my new car was on the way. I had to move on.

Now, in this cold room, the memory is a damning indictment. The special vendors were never meant to provide a service. Their only function was to have a name and an account to receive the ₦300 million. And the ₦100 million wasn’t a fee. It was a payoff. Hush money. A sum so obscene it was designed to make me look the other way. And it had worked. I became a willing participant, with my bank account activities as proof. 

Deze, you were flattered and blinded by your own cut of the loot. Such a fool!

Officer Chinedu’s voice slices through my memory. “…so, you can cooperate, give us the names at the ministry, or you can go down for this alone. Three hundred million naira is a long time in prison, Ms. Nnadi.”

I look up at him. I feel so ashamed, but I have to keep a brave face or else I’ll fall apart.

“There’s something that rings at the back of my head,” he says, shifting forward in his chair. I see a silly look in his eyes. “Tell me about your relationship with Chief Yele.”

“Relationship?” I ask defensively. “It was all professional. Business.”

“Are you sure? Because a lot of people seem to believe that there is something between you two.”

“What are you talking about? He was my client.”

“A client who pulled a lot of strings for you and paid you that insane amount of cash? You need to start speaking, young lady.”

I stare down at my hands, and the memories return.

The success of the gala was a sugar high, sweet and fleeting. For two weeks, I was invincible. My phone rang with congratulations; I was the talk of the events planning industry. 

Then, it all fell silent. No serious clients. The silence was louder than the applause.

One morning, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. A low, smooth voice, but a familiar one filled my ear. “Adaeze. This is Yele. You did exceptionally well with the gala. I’ve not had time to thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief.”

“I love the sound of that.” 

Silence. Then… 

“There is another matter, more sensitive. I’d like to discuss it. The Velvet Room. 8PM. My car will be at your office.”

The Velvet Room. The name alone whispered of secrets.

“Okay, sir.”

At exactly 8PM, three hours after my staff had left the office, the black SUV pulled up outside the gate. I got in the backseat, and Chief Yele’s driver took me to the Velvet Room. 

A pretty lady in a short dress led me to the VIP room where I found my benefactor seated alone, dressed, not as the powerful man he was, but like his young version the world never got to see. There was a glass of amber liquid in his hand as I took my seat. 

“Adaeze,” he said my name, calling it like it was a possession on his tongue. “You look… good. Please, sit.”

“Thank you, Chief. Thank you for this opportunity,” I responded, taking the seat opposite him, my professional mask firmly in place.

He waved a hand, dismissing my gratitude. “The gala was adequate. It showed me you have… potential. But potential needs guidance. Protection.” He poured me a glass of wine without asking if I wanted any. “Abuja is a jungle, my dear. A beautiful, young woman like you, all alone? You need a big tree to hide under.”

I forced a smile. “I’m learning to navigate, sir.”

“Good. Let’s order.”

We ordered, made small talk, ate, talked some more, and I finally asked him why he wanted to see me. “I’m eager to know what this is about.”

“I’m sure you are.” 

He leaned forward, his eyes roaming over my face, my neck, my shoulders. All through dinner, he had tried crossing the line from professional to personal with his words, and I had steered him back. I learned long ago that a lot of men did not know how to act right with women. Unfortunately, you couldn’t avoid working with them.

“Adaeze?”

“Sir?”

“Let me be direct. I find you fascinating. There is a fire in you I admire. This is why I’m sending NTM your way for their Abuja Customer Engagement Day.”

“Really?” My eyes widened. “That’s huge, Chief—”

“Call me Yele. Everybody does.”

“Sir, that’s huge.”

“Yeah, they owe me one. Everyone in this city owes me something, as I owe some people higher up. That’s how it works. Maybe you owe me something too.” He chuckled, I chuckled too. “So, asides that, I have this other new project… It could be yours. The budget is three times that of the gala. Your fee will be commensurate.”

My heart was hammering against my ribs. Three times. The number was astronomical. “Chief…”

“Yele.”

“Sir, I… I don’t know what to say. I am very grateful.”

“Gratitude can be shown in many ways,” he said, his voice dropping low. “I am a very busy man, Adaeze. I need companionship. Discreet, understanding companionship. A woman who knows how to handle herself in my world. A woman like you. This project, and others like it, can be a regular feature of our… arrangement.”

The air left my lungs. The room felt suddenly small, suffocating. He wasn’t offering me a job. He was making a proposition, and I was being hired for my appearance, not my talent.

“Chief Yele,” I said in a steady voice despite the tremor in my hands. “I am a professional event planner. That is the capacity in which I wish to work with you. Nothing more.”

The warmth evaporated from his eyes but his smile didn’t falter. “I see. You are a principled woman. I admire that. But principles are a luxury. I gave you a hundred million naira as just your base fee without asking a single question. Do you know why?”

I stayed silent as my mouth was suddenly dry.

“Because I have ten times that amount waiting to be moved,” he told me softly. “I can open doors for you, Adaeze. Or I can ensure every single one is shut, permanently. Think about it.”

God! What type of temptation is this? Just when I felt like I have arrived, this curveball was thrown my way? What sacrifice did I need to make to not have to face an erection on my way to accomplishment? Why did I even feel like I had successfully evaded them all?

“Give me your answer in a week.”

For seven days, I struggled, dreading the end of the grace period given to me. I didn’t talk to anyone about it; not Zulu or Fana, because I knew what they were going to say. In fact, they would have both been disappointed in me for even giving it a thought. Zulu’s answer would be simple: “If Abuja is difficult for you, come to the US and start afresh.”

But I didn’t want to uproot my life here and start all over. I had sweated tears and blood in this city, and I would take what belonged to me because I deserved it.

After a week, Abubakar called a couple of times, but I didn’t answer his calls. In the meantime, NTM, Nigeria’s major telecoms company, had already reached out to me concerning their upcoming event, and I had scheduled a second meeting with their anchor person. I needed this contract on my résumé. Once I bagged them, I knew nothing would stop me, not even Chief Yele.

But the universe laughed at my naivety. The very next day, NTM canceled on me. The project manager, a woman I considered a friend, was almost in tears on the phone. “Deze, I’m so sorry. The directive came from above. We have to use Mani Fest Events. Their ‘connections’ at the Ministry of Communications are… indispensable. I fought it, I swear.”

Imani’s company. The blacklist was not a threat; it was a concrete wall smashing into my future. The pressure suddenly became real, a tight knot in my stomach. I left my chair and hid under my desk, praying Abebi didn’t come in and see me in that state. 

My phone rang and I reached for it. It was Fana calling to remind me of a gallery opening, later tonight.

“Are you okay?” she asked, sensing something off.

“I’m fine,” I responded. “Come and pick me up at home in two hours.”

In two hours, my makeup was in place, matching a beautiful black dress that expressed the mood in my heart. I tried to be jovial, but I couldn’t mask my distress. However, I didn’t tell Fana what was bugging me, no matter how much she pressed.

At the gallery, the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and ambition. This was Fana’s type of crowd. Wealth had levels, and though I was raised in an above-average home, Fana’s financial circle had always been higher than mine. For instance, she’d never think twice before buying a five million naira painting or taking a trip to some exotic country to cool off. All my life, I wanted to be on that insane money level, not because I was greedy but because it was a crazy place to be where you could see the type of life you wanted, but you never really reached there. It was like constantly window shopping. It was not just money that would take me there but connections too, and Imani had made sure she never opened those doors for me. It was the reason I left Mani Fest and started my own thing. 

“Are you having fun?” Fana asked.

I turned to answer her, but one of her insanely rich friends dragged her away. Just as they disappeared in the crowd, I spotted Atirola, Imani’s golden girl, surrounded by her own fawning crowd. She spotted me too. Her eyes swept over me, from my hair to my heels, a slow, calculated assessment. She detached herself and glided over.

“Daze Events! So, you used to come to this kind of place?” 

“Meaning what, Rola?”

“Ehen! I heard about the NTM gig. I’m so sorry, my darling.” She straightened a curl in my hair. “Eiya! But don’t worry, luv, there are always smaller events to plan. If you want, I can pass on this naming ceremony gig to you? The parents are family friends. But it’s all the way in Nyanya.”

“Are you okay?” I asked her with venom.

She leaned in closer and whispered. “See ehn, some cliques in this Abuja, you just don’t have the… pedigree to join. No matter who you sleep with.”

“You think I’m like you?”

She laughed. “Deze, you’re exactly like me. Stop deceiving yourself.”

The insult was precise. It implied that I was already trading on my sexuality. I was gutted. Humiliated. I didn’t stay in the party one more second. I requested an Uber and left, sending Fana an apology.

On my bed, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of Imani’s smugness and Atirola’s sneer. The fear of failure was no longer an abstraction. It was a beast breathing down my neck with the stench of disgrace.

The next morning, Yele’s SUV was parked outside my gate. From my window, I stared at the monster for a while, until my phone rang at exactly 7AM.

“Good morning, Adaeze. I’m waiting. Let’s have breakfast. We can… talk about your future.”
 Yele’s voice was calm and assured. He knew I was broken. Defeat was a bitter taste in my mouth, so I took a shower, dressed up and got in the vehicle. 

The driver didn’t take me to a restaurant. We went to a house in Guzape, in an estate that was still under construction. Once the car drove into the compound, the gate slid back in place, locking me in automatically. 

I walked into the house and found Yele seated comfortably on a couch, one leg crossed over another. He was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, watching something on Netflix. On the dining table in the corner, a lavish breakfast lay untouched. He got up and poured me some juice. I didn’t take the glass.

“It’s not drugged, I promise.”

I still refused the glass. He sipped from it and took my hand, leading me back to the couch. I picked a smaller couch and settled in it. He smiled. “I don’t need you forever,” Yele said, as if reading a spreadsheet. “Just once. One signature. You know how business works. Sometimes a single transaction unlocks a fortune. No more cancelled contracts. What is one night measured against a lifetime of struggle? Against proving everyone who doubts you wrong?”

His words were a trap, baited with everything I’ve ever wanted. Wealth. Legitimacy. Respect. Victory over Imani. The chance to finally stand as an equal in my family and amongst my peers. The temptation was a dark, swirling vortex and my principles felt like a luxury I could no longer afford. 

I looked at him. He was powerful, handsome in a ruthless way. This wasn’t about desire. It was about survival and power.

But I didn’t say anything; neither did I stop him when he came to take my hand again, leading me back to his couch. He didn’t touch me, but he stared at me in a way that made me feel undone.

“Fine,” I finally said, my voice flat. “Once. Business. Nothing more.” The words felt like a betrayal of myself. “And it never happens again. My business thrives on its own merit after this.”

“On my word,” he answered.

He was strangely gentle when he kissed me. In fact, he was a great kisser and knew his way around a woman’s body. When we had sex, the act itself was pleasurable, but my soul was not in it. I saw it as a transaction being completed. But afterward, when he picked up his phone and made business calls, I slipped into the massive bathroom of the guestroom. I stared into the mirror. My lipstick was smudged, my hair a mess. I looked like every tired woman in this city who thought she was too smart to be cornered. Nothing dramatic. Just another statistic. The tears came, hot and silent, in a torrent of shame that left me shaking. He walked in and looked at me with a concerned frown.

“No, no, no. Don’t do that, Deze. Please, don’t cry.”

He lingered, almost tender, but it was worse than violence. He thought he was kind, and for a second, I lied to myself that I could like his tenderness. But I didn’t feel the connection, the warmth I was supposed to feel with a man I cared for. And somewhere in me, I clutched to that lack of feeling like a lifeline. It was simply business.

After he left the bathroom, I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash away the feeling of being a commodity. Subsequently, I dressed up and found him in the living room, now dressed like the government official he was, a reminder that his presence here was simply to have his way with me. I didn’t want to imagine the number of women he had brought here. Perhaps, Imani? Maybe even Atirola?

“My chauffeur will take you back home.”

“Office, please.”

I didn’t think I could stand to face myself in the quiet of my house.

“Your office, then.”

I aimed for the door, but he took my hand. 

“I want more, Adaeze.” He kissed me, but I didn’t respond. “You’re dangerously sweet.”

I snaped my hand back and walked to the door. When I tried the handle, I found it locked. There was no key.

“Please, unlock this.”

I heard a beep and he said, “It’s open.”

I opened the door but paused a second, understanding the message he was trying to pass—that he wasn’t a creep, that he respected my wishes, that this wasn’t coercion.

“Next time, Adaeze.”

The payoff was immediate. The following day, NTM called back. There had been a “reversal of the directive.” The contract was reinstated with a larger budget. From then on, my phone began to ring with new clients, all seemingly out of the blue. My business didn’t just recover; it soared. I hired new staff to meet up with our busy calendar and started making plans for a bigger office space, as our rent in the present one was soon expiring.

Like a steady small stream from a faucet, my name began to climb a ladder I only dreamed of climbing. But every success felt like a monument built on a rotten foundation. The guilt was a cancer, growing silently inside me. Yet when Yele called, I answered. No persuasion, no cajoling… I just went. The man had played this game many times that he knew that the extra rendezvouses I granted him were a show of gratitude. 

At this point, I learned to compartmentalize. Work in one box, Yele in another. My phone rang, I answered. He called, I went. It was survival, not romance. I even enjoyed his presence sometimes and spared him the tenderness I reserved for a true lover. He bought me gifts, playing house with me, being the doting boyfriend.

But the end came months later when I was leaving the Hilton after a brief, professional meeting with him for another event for his office. And as I waited under the portico for my car, a sleek Range Rover pulled up. The front passenger door opened, and a woman in uniform stepped out. She opened the backdoor, revealing another woman who was elegant and graceful. I recognized her immediately. Nkese Okon. Yele’s wife. 

Then, two identical little girls, about ten years old, tumbled out after her, laughing and clutching her hands. “Mummy, hurry!” one of them squealed. The mother smiled, a picture of love and stability. The twins laughed like bells, and their innocence sliced deeper than any insult Atirola could ever deliver.

The reality of what I was, a secret stain on this family’s picture, hit me with the force of a physical blow. I could never walk up to her and introduce myself as someone she could become acquainted with. I had to always remain in the shadows, never good enough to be seen with him in public.

The humiliation and guilt became unbearable.

I called him that night. “It’s over. I can’t see you anymore.”

“Because you saw my wife?”

“Huh?”

“I watched you from the hotel lobby. Adaeze, do you want to be my second wife?”

“What? No.”

“Good. Then, what we have is better.”

“No, Yele. No. I can’t do it anymore. It was supposed to be once.”

“But you kept coming back to me.”

“Because you didn’t stop asking, and I didn’t know how to say no because I was scared.”

“Hmmm… You didn’t sound coerced whenever you moaned out my name—”

“Can you just stop it?!” I yelled. I’d never raised my voice at him. The power imbalance was always in place in our liaisons. “I can’t do this again. I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause. Then, a simple, cold reply. “As you wish. Our business is concluded.” He hung up. The finality of it was stunning. I felt a massive, complicated weight lift. It was done. I was free. Or so I thought. That fragile, hard-won freedom was what I was clinging to as I sat in Fana’s living room after enjoying Aunty Fausti’s pepper soup, when Abubakar’s call pulled the first thread that would unravel my entire life.

“Ms. Nnadi!” Officer Chinedu drags me back to painful reality.

“I want to call my lawyer,” I say in a thin voice and repeat lines I have heard in movies countless times. “I am not saying another word until my lawyer is here.”

His expression doesn’t change. He simply stares at me for a long, silent minute before laughing.

“This is not America, Ms. Nnadi. Na Naija you dey o. You either cooperate or you’re finished!”

I don’t answer him. He stands, stares down at me, and leaves the room. The lock clicks shut with a sound of finality.

***

Hours pass. The silence is worse than the interrogation as my mind races to my family. What are they thinking right now? Have they seen the news? Please, Fana, don’t tell them. Don’t tell Daddy. 

The image of my father’s face, crumpled in disappointment, is more painful than any threat Chinedu could utter. I think of Zulu, across the ocean. The shame is a physical ache.

But I’m mad. So mad at Yele. He’s doing this just to punish me?

Exhaustion eventually overcomes anger and anxiety, and my head droops onto my arms on the cold table. I hover in a miserable half-sleep, jolting at every sound in the corridor.

The click of the lock is different this time. Sharper. I jerk upright with a hammering heart.

Officer Chinedu enters, but his demeanor has changed. Behind him is another man.

This man is different. He is tall and lean, dressed in an impeccably tailored kaftan, Hausa-style. His face is calm, intelligent, with a quiet authority that seems to suck the oxygen from the room. Despite my present condition, my eyes agree that he’s attractive. There was a time I had a thing for Northern men with their loud perfumes and seductive accents. I think I even dated one briefly.

This stranger doesn’t look at me; his gaze is fixed on Chinedu, and it is not a friendly look.

“You can wait outside, Officer,” he says. His voice is calm, carrying an unmistakable weight of command and has that northern accent. 

Chinedu hesitates with defiance in his eyes, then he nods once and backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The man turns his gaze to me. It is assessing, but not unkind. “Ms. Nnadi? My name is Nabil Al-Qawi. I am your lawyer.”

I sigh in relief, like I have been given a glass of cold water on a hot day. And Nabil does just that—handing me a bottle of water, which is already opened.

“I had to taste it before coming in, to let them know it isn’t poisoned. They have a notorious habit of killing you with thirst here.”

“Thank you.”

I take the bottle and gulp down the water rabidly. It’s only after I am done that my brain registers his surname.

Al-Qawi. 

The name resonates in the small room. It’s a name that carries history, power and one that opens doors even the NFCC might fear to approach. An entire street in Asokoro and a law library is named after it. If I recall, his grandfather was once the Chief Justice of the Federation, and another distant memory connects him to Fana. I think they once had a fling. 

“Please, what time is it?” I ask him. He stares at his watch.

“Sixteen minutes after nine.”

“PM?”

“AM. This is the day after your arrest.”

“What?”

I look around, shocked at myself that I’d slept on a cold, metal table. Nabil sits across from me, placing a sleek leather folio on the table. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. “You are in a great deal of trouble,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “But before we discuss strategy, you need to understand the full scope of what we are facing.”

He opens his folio, revealing a tablet. He taps the screen and turns it to face me. It’s open to a screenshot of a Twitter thread. The headline makes my blood run cold.

#YeleSideChick: NFCC Nabs Mastermind Behind ₦450M Gala Scam.

He scrolls to a photo from the event. Chief Yele is smiling, his hand placed possessively on the small of my back as he leans in to whisper something. I remember the moment; he was pointing out a dignitary I needed to greet. But in the photo, cropped and stripped of context, it looks intimate. In another screenshot, the comments are a torrent of venom.

See as fine girl dey use her body launder money

Another runs girl for the politicians

See what these men and small girls are using our taxpayers money to do

I stare at the screen, my breath in my throat. This isn’t just a financial crime. They’ve built a narrative and made it salacious. I’m a villain in a story I didn’t know I was the main character.

Nabil Al-Qawi watches me, his expression grim. “They’re not just trying to convict you, Ms. Nnadi,” he says softly. “They’re trying to destroy you. Now, start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

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