Hi darlings,
I had planned to keep up with my marathon promise, but I got caught up with work and birthday activities.
But here I am, and I hope you enjoy this.

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Chapter 6: King 

Three days. For three days, Nigeria has been buzzing with her name, and it’s a sound that grates on my soul. Adaeze Nnadi. The Minister’s side chick. The money launderer. The mastermind. Social media headlines are a special kind of poison, designed to convict before a single piece of evidence is seen.

I’ve watched it all from the sidelines, a knot of frustration tightening in my chest. I don’t know her as I’d like to, not really. I had fun with her at the wedding and at the amusement park, made her laugh, saw the fierce, brilliant conductor of an event and the beautiful woman lost in a song of her own victory. That woman doesn’t match the caricature they’re painting online.

This morning, the breaking headline reads: Chief Yele has been “invited” for questioning. It’s a performative gesture, I’m sure. A way for the NFCC to look balanced. But it shifts something. It makes her story suddenly more plausible.

I need real information, not Twitter gossip. I scroll through my contacts and land on a name: Nabil Al-Qawi. A friend from university, now a lawyer with a reputation for navigating the most treacherous waters of government fraud cases. His connections run deep. If anyone knows the truth of what’s happening, it’s him.

I shoot him a text: Hey. Heard about the Yele case. You know anything?

His reply is instant: At a naming ceremony in Asokoro. Come. We’ll talk.

I dress for the occasion and pick my luxurious car to the venue. There’s always a new client to be got in these events, and you never want to not look the part.

The ceremony is a lavish affair, as I had predicted. A sea of colorful traditional outfits, mostly Yoruba-inspired. I find Nabil near the back, looking characteristically impeccable in a simple but stunning navy kaftan. He claps me on the shoulder with a grin after we shake hands.

“King! You came.” His stare is curious. “Looking for intel or just free ofada?”

“Both,” I say, forcing a smile. “This Yele thing. It’s messy. What’s the real story?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes me around, introducing me to friends. I do the natural thing of networking while Nabil sells my market. Always the good-hearted soul. Finally, we settle at a table and enjoy a three-course meal while discussing casual matters. 

“So…” He sips the last of his zobo. “Chief Yele. It’s always messy when that much money is involved. Why the interest?”

“Just curious. It’s all over the news.”

Nabil gives me a slow, knowing look. A smirk plays on his lips. “Right. Just curious.” He lets the silence hang for a beat. “Well, your curiosity has good taste. I know the case. Intimately, in fact.”

“And?” I press, my patience thinning.

“I’m her lawyer.”

The words sound good to my ears. “Deze’s lawyer?”

His smirk widens. “Ah. You know her name. Not just ‘the case’ anymore. Interesting.” He leans in, his voice teasing. “So, how do you know Ms. Nnadi, King?”

I feel a flush of heat on my neck. “I just… met her. Once. Professionally.”

“Professionally,” he repeats, drawing the word out. “Right. Well, professionally, I can’t discuss my client’s case with you. But personally, I will say this: your ‘professional’ acquaintance has a very good friend who hired me. A fierce one. Didn’t take no for an answer.”

Before I can form a response, his gaze shifts over my shoulder. The teasing glint in his eyes softens into something more complex. “Speaking of fierce friends.”

I turn. A woman is walking into the garden, and she looks utterly out of place. She’s beautiful, with an elegant poise, but her face is drawn, her eyes shadowed with worry. She isn’t here to celebrate.

But she looks familiar, and I take a second to travel back in time through my impeccable memory. Her voice comes to me first, singing Olamide’s Elada mi. Ah. Deze’s friend. The one at the hotel with her that gala night and in some of her photos and videos on Instagram.

“Fana,” Nabil says, almost to himself. Then to me, quieter, “We used to… talk. A long time ago. Before she married that ass.” There’s a world of history in those few words, of which he feels I somehow know.

She makes a beeline for us, bypassing the well-wishers. “Nabil,” she calls with a strained voice. She barely glances at me.

“Fana. Nice to see you again in less than twenty-four hours,” he responds playfully, but she doesn’t smile back. “I’m sure you know my friend, King.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, I assumed… Never mind.”

“Nabil, when can I see her? It’s been three days. Her parents are going out of their minds. Her dad is flying in from Lagos today.”

“I’ve spoken to her father and brothers.” Nabil’s tone shifts to pure professionalism. Cool, reassuring. “I’ve advised them to stay calm and positive and let me handle this. Visiting right now is complicated. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but deflates. Her eyes finally flicker to me, a question in them.

“It’s fine,” Nabil says, answering her unspoken suspicion. “King is a friend. He knows Deze. He can be trusted.”

She gives me a curt, wary nod before turning back to Nabil, pulling him away, and I am dismissed. But I hang around and try to catch a few words. She keeps mentioning Yele’s name with so much venom.

The rest of the party is a blur. I go to the office afterward and bury myself in the logistics for a wedding next week. I bark orders at my staff, my mind only half-present. At 4PM, everyone leaves, and I stay back until dark. 

I drive home in silence, Deze’s name echoing in my head. Innocent. She’s innocent. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

***

I don’t always have Don call me first thing in the morning. So, when my phone buzzes and I see his name, I remember that we’re supposed to have a family meeting. I’d been so caught up with this Deze and the NFCC mess that I forgot Don had requested to see me.

“Just a reminder,” he says. “In case, you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t.”

“Good.”

He hangs up, and I check the time. 7AM. 

Family meeting—meaning he, Ifechi and I. Whatever is waiting for me in his home is not something good. I sense it, having seen it coming for a long time.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m at their door. Ifechi welcomes me warmly and asks if I’d like to have breakfast, but I decline. I sit in the overstuffed armchair in their living room, the one I’ve slumped in for years watching football. Lazy morning light cuts through the curtains and lands on the coffe table. Ifechi perches on the edge of the sofa opposite me with a smile on her face. Don is a solid, silent pressure beside her, his face fixed in my direction. 

She picks a folder from a side stool and hands it to me. The folder is too black and crisp. It feels alien in my hands.

“Just read it, King,” Ifechi says. I open the folder. The title is printed in a bold, ambitious font: Barrett Diversified Holdings.

I turn the pages slowly. My own name is used to propose a venture that feels like a betrayal. Spreadsheets with optimistic projections. Market analysis for the importation of Turkish textiles. A partnership structure: four equal shares. Don Barrett. Ifechi Okafor-Barrett. Ifeanyi Okafor. King Barrett.

Don clears his throat. “King, things are good. Business is strong. And I think it’s time we… improved things. Made some moves.”

“What kind of moves?” I ask in a flat voice.

Ifechi leans forward. “Ifeanyi has an open door through his connections to an incredible opportunity—”

I cut her off. “Sorry to interrupt you. Ifeanyi, the one I know? Your very successful brother?”

Ifechi has a patient smile on her face. Ifeanyi has been successful in his life more than a couple of times, but like someone cursed, he has been the architect of all his misfortunes. I hardly know what he does these days. The last time we met was at Flourish’s third birthday, when he came in drunk and puked in a guest’s handbag. 

“He can get us an import license for premium Turkish textiles,” Ifechi continues. “We’ve kept the start-up costs lean. We can secure a double shop in Garki Market, a good location. Stock it with the first container. I will run it myself, day-to-day. The record-keeping will be completely transparent. I’ll give you weekly reports. This isn’t a gamble, King. It’s a sure thing.”

“Okay? So, where’s the investment capital coming from?”

Ifechi looks at Don before responding. “We’re thinking an initial investment of one-hundred-and-fifty million naira from the company would secure a dominant stake.”

I choke on my saliva. “Sorry? From what company?”

“Barrett Brothers,” she answers with a straight face.

I stare at her, then at Don. I can’t believe the audacity. “One-hundred-and-fifty million.” I laugh. “See how you’re just saying it as if it’s five naira. We really have a numbers problem in this country.”

“King, please, be serious.”

“Let me get you straight, Fechi. You want to take one-fifty million from Barrett Brothers to fund your family’s side business?”

“It’s an investment, King,” Don states. “It’s about being smart. Diversifying. You know how this city is. Event planning is a house of cards. One phone call from a displeased minister, one scandal, and the whole thing comes down. Look at what just happened to that… What’s her name…?”

“Adaeze Nnadi,” Ifechi says. “Daze Events.”

“One day she’s on top of the world, the next, her picture is all over the internet in handcuffs. We can’t have all our eggs in this one, fragile basket.” 

He has no idea. The casual, almost bored tone he uses to reduce Deze’s world to rubble, to use her destruction as a rhetorical device, sends a cold splinter of annoyance straight into my heart.

I close the folder and place it on the coffee table, centering it perfectly between us. “No.”

Ifechi protests. “King—”

I stop her with a rude raise of my hand. “That’s not how this works,” I say, my baritone coming out. “Every naira we have is earmarked. For our equipment, our marketing, our client guarantees. This company is our focus. It’s not a venture capital fund for your relatives.”

My words have hit below the belt, but Ifechi had it coming, and I don’t care.

“See?” she says, turning to Don, her voice dripping with scorn. “This is what I’m talking about. No vision. Just… control.”

Don looks pained. “King, be reasonable. This is a sure thing. It’s time we diversified.”

“Diversified with company capital?” I laugh harshly. “No. The answer is no.”

The silence is heavy. Ifechi’s eyes narrow. “Fine. Then let’s talk about the structure of Barrett Brothers. This 65/35 arrangement is outdated and disrespectful. Don is your elder brother. Your partner. It should be 50/50. Equal say.”

And there it is. The real play. This isn’t about the one-fifty million. It is just the opening gambit to make the 50/50 demand seem reasonable.

“Equal say,” I repeat, letting the words hang in the air. I look at my brother. “You think after everything, you deserve equal say, Don? You think you have the right to veto my decisions?”

“It’s not about vetoing, King,” Don retorts. “It’s about respect.”

“Don’t bring seniority into this!”

“I built this company too! I was there from the beginning!”

“Were you?” I fire back, standing up, the anger I’ve held for years finally boiling over. “Were you there when I swallowed my pride and begged Yele for our start-up capital? How about our first major clients that you couldn’t bother to follow-up when I was down with pneumonia. I had to keep calling them on my sickbed before they committed. I poured every kobo I had into this company, bro! A company, that, by the way, was existing before you came! So, the 65/35 split isn’t arbitrary, Don! It’s the value of my initial capital and my vision! It’s the price of the risk I took that you didn’t!”

“You always throw that in my face!” Don shouts. “Your money! Your risk! What about my blood, King? What about my eyes?” He gestures to his scarred face. “I took a bullet for you! Or have you forgotten that too in your quest to be the great King Barrett?”

The room goes silent. The old, unpayable debt. He always plays this card.

“I have never forgotten,” I say in a trembling voice. “I live with it every day. But you and your wife use it as a blank check. You used it when Ifechi funneled company funds to her cousin’s fake consultancy. You used it when she inflated invoices from her uncle’s rental company. And you tried to use it when she emptied twenty million naira without my knowledge to fly you to India, against the doctors’ advice, because she panicked! My gratitude for your sacrifice does not mean I will let you and your wife run this company into the ground!”

“What have I done to you, Kingston? Ehn?” Ifechi jumps to her feet. “Why are you so mean to me? I was saving my husband’s life! You would have let him die in some Nigerian hospital!”

“I put him in the best hospital with the best ophthalmologist in all of Abuja, and he did his best for him, Ifechi! Yet, you stole twenty million that we didn’t have and flew him out, just to hear the same verdict the doctor here gave us! And the money? It just disappeared like that! Till today, you have no explanation for what you did with it.”

“I used it to take care of my family since you decided, without your brother’s consent, to fire me! And you didn’t end there. You moved all the money from the bank where I worked!” She claps in my face. “Kingston Barrett! Without telling me! Without asking your brother’s permission! While he was still healing!”

“I did what was best for the company, Ifechi. You were a liability to Barrett Brothers! You still are! You see this company as your personal ATM, and my brother is too blinded by loyalty to clock it!”

I look at Don. “A 50/50 partnership? So you can veto me and let her sink us with another one of her ‘sure things’? So you can hold your sacrifice over my head to justify every bad decision? No. Never. This company exists because of my work and my money. It will continue to run on my terms, and that’s final!”

The air is thick, charged with the unsaid things that are now screaming in the space between us. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it, just as Don’s voice cuts in.

“King? You see the way you just spoke to my wife?” His voice cracks through the room, louder than I’ve heard it in years. Then, he adds in our mother tongue, Khana, “Don’t you ever try it again! And by the way, it is our family business, and you don’t get to have the final say!” 

“Don—”

“Get out.” His voice drops to a low, dangerous tremor. He points a shaking finger toward the door. “Get out of my house.”

My phone vibrates again. I pull it out. 

Nabil.

But I don’t answer.

“This talk is not over, Don.”

I head back home. Seated in his car, outside my gate, is Nabil. He steps out, dressed in gym wear.

“How far nau?”

We shake hands. I notice that he’s holding a brown envelope.

“Is she your woman?” he asks from nowhere.

“What?”

“Adaeze Nnadi.”

“No. She’s…”

“I see that look in your eyes, King. You always want the dangerous ones. The ones that show you pepper.”

“Why are you here? What’s happened?”

He gestures toward my gate. “Let’s talk inside.”

***

“I’m off the case. I can’t represent her anymore.”

“What? Why?”

He sighs and sits on my couch. “My elder brother. He’s announcing his run for senate soon. He doesn’t want the family name muddied with any sort of scandal.”

“Nabil, you’ve taken on more scandalous cases before.”

He averts his eyes, embarrassed. “My family thinks she’s a…”

“Nobody.”

“You know how it is in this town. It’s all a game of names. Hers can hardly move a rock.”

Abuja! I scream in my head. This city has a way of quietly putting you in your place.

“So, you’re saying…?”

“My family has made it very clear that this is a conflict of interest I cannot afford.” He runs a hand over his face. “Politics, King. It trumps everything.”

I am annoyed. “So that’s it? You just abandon her? You know she’s being set up.”

Nabil’s eyes narrow. “Why are you so invested in this woman, King?”

“That’s not the point!” I snap. “The point is she’s innocent, and the system is eating her alive!”

“Innocence is a concept, not a defense strategy,” he fires back, his own frustration showing. “If you want to help her, you need to start pulling in favors. That’s how this works. It’s ugly, but it’s real.”

“What favors? I don’t run in you people’s circles, nau.”

“Your paternal uncle does.” The words hang in the air, heavy and toxic.

I go cold. “No.”

“King, your uncle is a Zonal Director at the NFCC, last I checked. He has the power to make this whole thing disappear. A phone call. That’s all it takes.”

The memory is a physical pain. My mother’s silent tears after his “visits” when my father died. His arrogant, corrupt presence was a constant reminder of our powerlessness. The way he offered us crumbs from his table after she got committed to a mental facility. A gesture of pity I spat on. To ask his help would be to beg him. I cannot do that.

“That man is not my uncle,” I say in a low and venomous tone. “I would rather burn in hell than ask him for a glass of water, let alone a favor. The answer is no.”

“And Yele? You once told me that you lived together in Liverpool, and he gave you the startup cash for Barrett Brothers. I’m sure you can reach him?”

I smile cynically. The last time I spoke to Yele was that one, single phone call. We haven’t spoken directly since then. Every correspondence, including business, has been handled by his aides. Physically, we have come across each other a few times. Nods and half smiles were all I got from him. It was clear that we were no longer peers. I understood and respected the distance. It’s never been my way to kiss ass.

I shake my head at Nabil. He studies me and nods slowly. “Then you need a scapegoat. Yele is untouchable, for now. But his aide, Abubakar, is not.” He hands me the brown envelope. “Chairman,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. “I’m taking a risk here.”

I nod before opening the envelope.

“Abubakar is the one who handled her. He’s the leak. This is everything you need. Emails linking him to the shell companies. Bank records showing unexplained deposits from those same companies dating back three years. A property in Dubai purchased in his mistress’s name. It’s all there. Leak it. Let the press have a new shark to feed on.”

I nod. I’m not ready to go through the evidence yet. “Are you sure that this can’t be traced back to you?”

“It won’t be,” he says simply. Then he fixes me with a hard look. “But before you open that, you need to ask yourself a question. Is she worth it? Because once you start this war, you can’t unstart it. Yele will know someone is coming for his man. There will be blowback.”

“I understand.”

“By the way…” He looks around, eyes darting in all corners. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I think you should know. Yele asked Deze to be his sidechick. When she refused, he and Abubakar threatened her. She strongly believes that he’s behind all of this.”

I pause to take in the information.

“Why would he want to expose himself and his office to this type of scandal just because she refused him?”

Nabil shrugs. “Why do the powerful feel like they can get away with anything? King, na Naija we dey so. Look around you. How many politicians, caught red-handed committing heinous crimes, have faced the law? It’s always the underdogs.”

I sigh.

Nabil turns to leave. “I’ve arranged for another lawyer to take over. She’s good, but she doesn’t have my… last name.” At the door, he pauses. “You should have Fana’s number. For updates.”

After he’s gone, I sit alone for a long time, staring at the envelope. I finally open it. The contents are damning. Spreadsheets tracing payments from “Aso Rock Hospitality & Events” to accounts in foreign banks, then to a Nigerian account under the name “A.A. Yusuf.” The name traces back to Abubakar. Yusuf is a distant cousin, a grain merchant in Sokoto. There are scanned copies of property deeds for an apartment in the Jumeirah Beach Residence. Photos of Abubakar himself, a smug-looking character, stepping out of a new SUV. It’s a catalog of arrogance and greed. 

But I don’t act immediately. I begin to make plans in my head, ask questions in the quiet of my living room.

If I leak this to the press, then what? Does it free Deze? Abubakar is only guilty of past transgressions. On this one, it’s all on Deze. The only connection is Aso Rock Hospitality, but is that enough? And even if Abubakar somehow gets arrested and is found guilty, what does it do for Deze’s case?

I feel defeated, despite every armor I have in front of me. In Nigeria, even the best of lawyers and undisputable evidence cannot save you from the chopping block of an elite with revenge on their mind.

But is Yele really behind this? He can have any woman he wants in Abuja. Why Deze? When did he become this person?

As I walk to my bedroom, Nabil’s voice in my head accosts me. A phone call. That’s all it takes.

“God forbid,” I say loudly, stubbing my little toe on a dumbbell I’d left in the hallway. Hopping on one foot and swearing, I enter my bedroom. 

I call Fana the instant I get her number from Nabil. She answers on the second ring, her voice guarded.

“Fana? This is King. Nabil’s friend. We need to talk. I think I can help.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Nabil abandoned her,” she says in an angry tone.

“I know. Meet me at Café Neo in Wuse. In an hour.”

She’s already there when I arrive, a half-finished cup of matcha cooling in front of her. I slide into the seat opposite hers and place the folder on the table.

“What’s this?” Her eyes are wary.

“The reason Deze is in jail. The real culprit. Yele’s aide, Abubakar.”

She opens the folder and scans the documents. I watch as her expression shifts from skepticism to stunned comprehension. She looks up at me with wide eyes. “My God. This is… this is it. This proves it! Thank you so much, King!”

She scans the folders again, then frowns.

“Nothing leads to Yele?”

I shake my head. She grunts. “You won’t believe that he’s not picking my calls. Yele that used to come to our house then in Lagos to ride my brother’s bicycle. His father gets into government and steals all that money, and they become insanely rich, and he forgets where he’s from.”

“Oh, you know him that well?”

“I introduced him to Deze. That’s what’s paining me. He tried to sleep with her, King. She said no, and all this happened. Why are men so wicked?”

I don’t respond. I feel her pain and frustration.

“I called my brother to help, and that one said he has maxed out all his favors from Yele. Can you imagine? That he’s owing him. Strangely, everyone I’ve asked to help talk to him just kept saying no. Nabil was the only one that agreed, but now…” She shakes her head in frustration.

I think of my uncle again. I’d threatened to kill him the last time we met. Will he give me an audience?

“We have to leak this to the press, or leak it on social media,” Fana says, picking up the envelope again. “Or send it to the NFCC.”

“It won’t free Deze.”

“But it will shift the focus from her in the public eyes and save her reputation. People will believe her innocence.”

“How about Yele? Do you think he’ll react?”

“If that ugly faced Abubakar means anything to him, yes. He will do everything to drop the case. So, yes. Let’s leak it.”

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “Once I do this, Fana, there’s no going back. It will get ugly. Yele will retaliate. I need to know something first.”

“What?” she asks, impatient.

I look into her eyes, asking the question Nabil forced me to ask myself. “Is she worth it?”

She studies me. “Where did you meet Deze?”

“We work in the same industry.”

“And you guys are…?” she asks protectively.

“Friends.” 

She leans forward. “Then you should know that she’s innocent and worth burning this whole corrupt FCT to the ground for.”