Chapter 7: Deze

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The feeling has been a cold, hollow stone in the pit of my stomach since the day the heavy metal door of the holding cell closed shut, leaving me alone. 

Abandoned. The word echoes in the silence like a cruel companion. The cell is a small, concrete box, painted in grimy, institutional green. A thin, stinky mattress rests on a raised concrete platform. I can already see the skin infection I’ll soon be dealing with. I’ve been scratching myself from the first night I slept here.

A stainless-steel toilet bowl without a seat rests in the corner, offering zero privacy. The air is thick with the smell of disinfectant, trying and failing to mask the scent of body odor, sweat, and urine. This is where they put people they believe are criminals. This is where I am.

The only interruptions I’ve had since yesterday when Nabil told me he was dumping the case have been the one bland meal slid through a slot under the door and the occasional, gruff summons for more questioning. I have stopped talking to that irritating Officer Chinedu. All I tell him is, “I want my lawyer.” 

“Your lawyer has abandoned you!” he yelled at me this morning. “No one is coming to save you!”

I’d almost broken down at those words. Me, Adaeze Nnadi. The first daughter of John Nnadi. The apple of her father’s eye. I have an entire army coming to save me. They’re just caught in traffic. But even if they delay, I’ve already prayed to God to come to my rescue, despite my deep guilt. I grew up in a religious home, the type that we had morning devotions every other day and never missed midweek and Sunday services. I might not be a strong Christian, but I was raised to put my hope in God. And this, I have done. I know my mom and sister are praying hard for me.

I hear a click, and the door opens. A woman stands there, backlit by the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor. She is tall and poised, dressed in a serious but elegant pantsuit. A brilliant white hijab frames a face with sharp, intelligent features and eyes that miss nothing. Again, the Northern perfume that reminds me of freedom. She carries a leather briefcase that looks expensive and out of place.

“Adaeze Nnadi? I am Aisha Sani. Your new counsel. Nabil and I have gone through your case thoroughly, and I am up-to-date. Unless there’s anything else you’d like me to know?”

I shake my head.

“Good.”

Her voice is calm and authoritative. It is not a voice that asks for permission. She steps inside, and the guard locks the door behind her. She doesn’t flinch at the surroundings and surveys the cell with a quick, dismissive glance, as if cataloging its inadequacies for a future lawsuit.

“So, I have good news. Nabil pulled some strings, and your bail hearing is this morning. Get up, we’re going to court.”

She places a bag on the thin mattress, taking out toiletries and a change of clothes from Fana. Someone comes in with a bowl of water, which I use to clean myself as best I can. After I am dressed, we head to court.

The bail hearing happens rather quickly, as the judge states that he has somewhere rather important to be. He listens to Aisha’s defense and the prosecutor’s charges, peruses the case in front of him, and grants bail in a matter of thirty minutes.

“A cash bond of fifty million naira. The surrender of all your travel documents. You are to report to the NFCC office every Monday morning. You are not to leave the Federal Capital Territory without express written permission from the court…”

Fifty million. The number is astronomical. It might as well be five hundred million. And how do I pay such an amount when all my accounts have been frozen? My shoulders slump. The sound of the gavel startles me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me until Aisha touches my shoulder.

“You’re free to go.”

“Ehn?”

“We will, of course, meet the first part of your bail conditions and process some papers at the NFCC office, but yeah, you’re free, pending trial, which will be set soon, likely within the next couple of months. You need to prepare yourself. Unless, of course, more damning evidence surfaces.”

“Ada’m?”

I turn to the sound of my dad’s voice. My dearest Dr. John Nnadi. He stands tall, but his shoulders are bowed under an invisible weight. His usually impeccable clothes are rumpled, his eyes broody with worry. 

“Daddy?” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay the bail fee.”

My heart swells and my breath hitches. I have tears in my eyes. Daddy is always my sweetheart, my knight and hero. But I have to pay him back.

“My accounts,” I ask Aisha in a voice that is raspy from disuse. “When will they be unfrozen?”

A shadow of something that might be pity crosses her features. “That is at the discretion of the NFCC. They are notorious for leaving accounts frozen indefinitely, long after a case is concluded. You should not rely on accessing those funds for a while.”

Outside the court, I find my other brother, Chika, waiting. He squints under the assault of the sun when he looks my way. He and I are not so close and he’s not given to his emotions, so, all I get from him is a side hug and a quick but strengthening rub of my upper arm.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Where’s Fana?” I ask.

“She went to get your documents,” Aisha responds. “She’ll meet us at the NFCC office.”

Once my dad is done paying the bail fee, we ride to the NFCC office. The processing takes another hour. Forms are signed, fingerprints are taken again. Finally, Officer Chinedu looks at me with a frown and tells me that I’m free to go. 

When I step outside again and see Fana, waiting by her car, I feel like breaking down. She looks as stressed as I do. Our eyes meet. There are no words. She just jugs me and we cling to each other. After I hug her, I walk into my dad’s waiting arms. 

“Nne” he murmurs. “You are free now.”

We go to Fana’s house, and I have a long, steaming bath with Fana scrubbing my back and asking me a million questions that I barely respond to. She’s so mad at Yele and wants to call in favors from her dad to go after him, but I stop her.

“There’s no use, Fana.”

“But he can’t get away with this.”

“He’s a powerful man.”

“Just because you refused to sleep with him?”

I bite my lip. Regret is so mild a word to describe what I feel. I slept with him, and what I ended up getting was a jail term, frozen funds, a smeared reputation and a business that I’m not sure can survive the scandal.

“I can’t believe we still have to go to court.”

“I know.”

She leaves the bathroom for a bit and returns with her phone. She then tells me how a friend, who’s a mutual friend to Nabil, shared documents with her that can have Abubakar arrested for money laundering.

“Who’s this friend?”

“King Barrett. He says he knows you.”

King Barrett. I totally forgot about him in the midst of my woes, but as she mentions his name, the first thing I recall is his voice. It would really soothe me right now to hear him talk to me.

“Deze, look at this.”

She thrusts her phone and me and I peruse the evidence she shows me. I don’t feel any sort of hope with what I see. 

“How does this help, Fana?”

Her shoulder sag.

“This helps a lot, and we’re going to use it to make sure you don’t do time for what you didn’t do.”

“Everything still leads back to me. None of this leads to Yele.”

She sighs. “But it’s a start—”

“No, it’s not, Fanasiba!” I yell. “This is nothing!”

My voice stills her. She presses her lips together as she usually does when she feels defeated. But I still see that stubborn look in her eyes.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have shown you. I wanted to leak it out to bloggers. It was King that said we should seek your permission first.”

“Wise of him.”

“Just sha let your lawyer have it,” she says after a long silence. “You can never tell how it can help.” 

“My answer is no. We’re not going after Abubakar.”

She puts her phone aside and goes back to gently washing my body, which is more therapeutic than making me walk into a tunnel that has no light at its end. 

***

Auntie Fausti has prepared a feast, but no one has much of an appetite. We pick at the food while I talk, my voice growing weaker as I retell the last four days. The cold cell, the relentless questioning, the terrifying realization of how perfectly I had been played. Zulu, my mom and our younger sister, Queen, are on a video call on Fana’s tablet.

After lunch, the exhaustion hits me. I insist on going home alone. Fana wants to come along, but I need space. I need to breathe air that isn’t thick with other people’s anxiety, and I need a good cry. My parents taught me never to show weakness, and I’m sure I represented the Nnadi name well in that damned place.

“I’ll just sit and watch TV with you,” Fana persists.

I shake my head. “Fana, you should be at work,” I say. Her phone has been buzzing nonstop.

“I can go tomorrow.”

“No.”

The firmness in my tone makes her give up. My dad leaves with Chika to the family house, after he prays for me and blesses me with three bundles of one-thousand-naira notes. Chika gives me a hundred grand while Auntie Fausti hands me fifty thousand. But it is Fana that gives me the fattest envelope of dollars when she drops me off at home. I smile when I wave, but the smile quickly disappears once she drives out of the gate. 

My apartment feels like a shower after a scorching day. Abebi is waiting for me with a hug that I don’t need. She tells me that she’s made both lunch and dinner, and all my clothes have been laundered.

I thank her as I hold open the front door for her. When I ask her about work, she dismisses me with a wave of her hand and say she’s handling things. She gives me a sad smile before she leaves. I go for the nearest bottle of wine and fill an empty glass. When the sweetness goes down my throat, I moan.

It’s too quiet, too still. My phone is off, and I have no wish to switch it on. I recall Fana’s warning just as she dropped me off, not to go online, but a morbid, self-destructive curiosity pushes me to switch on the home WiFi. I then pick up my laptop and open it with trembling hands.

I type my name into the search bar. Adaeze Nnadi.

The results load. My professional website, my LinkedIn, my Instagram portfolio of beautiful events—they are all buried. Pushed down by page after page of news headlines.

MINISTER YELE’S ALLEGED MISTRESS GRANTED BAIL IN N450M FRAUD

PICTURES: THE SOCIALITE AT THE CENTER OF ABUJA’S LATEST SCANDAL

SIDECHICK OR MASTERMIND? THE DOUBLE LIFE OF ADAEZE NNADI

There are pictures of me from the gala, cropped and zoomed to make me look predatory, especially the photo of Yele’s hand on my back. Every professional achievement, every late night, every ounce of hard work has been erased. I am not an event planner anymore. I am a scandal.

A raw, guttural sob escapes me. I bury my face in my hands and weep tears of frustration and utter humiliation. Gulping down my wine, I cry until sleep takes me on the couch.

I wake up to my buzzing phone. Zulu is calling, and I answer. We don’t speak for long. He just wants to know if I’ve slept. He tells me to go back to bed and try not to jump right back into work.

As if I can! I’m so ashamed to leave this safe heaven and face the world. My small office in Garki, with its six employees, will have to do without me for now. 

But I have no intention of letting this situation defeat me. I plan to make sure I don’t end up in jail, and my first move is to find answers to the many questions in my head.

I start with Imani. Against every better judgment, I find her number and call it.

She answers on the third ring. “Deze?” Her voice is careful and neutral.

“Imani.” I can’t keep the tears out of my voice. “They’ve destroyed everything.”

There is a long sigh on the other end. “I know. I saw, and I’m sorry this is happening to you.” The sympathy sounds genuine, but it is laced with something else. A chilling distance. “It’s a brutal game. I did warn you.”

The words sting. “Were you behind this, Imani? Did you set me up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says in a sharpening tone. “Why would I?”

“Then Chief Yele did.”

“Deze, he’s a powerful man. He wouldn’t soil his name by publicly dealing with you unless he had to. You must have crossed a line you shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, shit happens. Just be careful from now on.” There’s a pause. “I know I shouldn’t do this because I don’t owe you anything, but your old job is yours if you want it. You just won’t be answering directly to me anymore but Atirola.”

She leaves me speechless, ending the call before I can respond. But her words, meant to intimidate, have the opposite effect. A cold resolve hardens inside me, as I get off the couch and walk to the kitchen. 

I microwave a full dish of Abebi’s asaro, grab another bottle of wine and end up in my bedroom, where I dig into the web, finding every information I can about Yele and his dirty lapdog.

Time passes, my plate and wine bottle now empty, but I’ve found nothing. Outside, the sun is beginning to rise, and I feel like having a shower. Something about that NFCC cell makes me still feel dirty, so I drag myself to the bathroom. When I’m done, I dress in a baby blue dress shirt with flower prints to uplift my spirits. The body mists I use are a collection from a gift set from Fana. Lined eyes and glossy lips complete my look, and I dare to record a video where I detail everything that has happened to me so far. It’s supposed to help me unburden, but my mind keeps going to Yele. 

I stop the video and sit by my window, staring out and refusing to answer my ringing phone. My DMs on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook are undoubtedly filled with hate messages. I don’t know how to crawl back to my active social media life. I can’t believe that it’s just been five days, but a lot has been taken from me.

The doorbell rings.

My heart leaps into my throat. Who now? The press? The NFCC again? I creep to the door and look through the peephole.

“My baby! It’s Lia!”

I open the door to a pleasant surprise: Liatu, Zulu’s ex-wife, a mother of two, rich to the bone and the most troublesome woman I’d ever met, stands before me, a warm smile on her face.

She doesn’t say a word. She just opens her arms, and I step into them. Her embrace is solid and certain, and for the first time in days, I feel a flicker of something that isn’t fear or despair.

***

A sound pulls me from a restive sleep. A clatter, followed by a soft curse in a language that is vaguely familiar. Then, the unmistakable, acrid scent of burning bread.

I open my eyes to cruel bright lights pushing through the gaps in my living room blinds. My mouth tastes like regret and stale tears. I had spent the night on this couch again, the aftermath of cocktails mixed by Liatu.

Pushing myself up, I see her. She’s in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the morning sun, waving a dish towel at the smoke alarm like she’s trying to shoo away a stubborn fly. She’s wearing one of my never-used floral aprons.

“You will burn down my house,” I say in a dry rasp. “And then I’ll move into your mansion.”

She looks at me with a wide, apologetic grin. 

“Ah. You’re awake. I was trying to be useful. My mother would say I have brought shame to the family with this toast.” Her northern accent, usually a subtle lilt, is more pronounced this morning.

She disappears back into the kitchen and returns with a strong cup of coffee. 

“I’ll try breakfast again while you drink this and have a shower.”

Her phone beeps and she takes it out from the pocket of the apron. “Shit. I forgot I scheduled a meeting this morning.” She waves a hand over her body. “And I’m dressed like this. Do you by any chance have anything in your wardrobe that fits?”

I would laugh if my head isn’t banging right now. Liatu is bigger than me. Way bigger.

“Let me just dash home, change, go for the meeting and dash back.” She unties the apron. “I promise, I won’t be long.”

She’s out of the door in a flash. I get up but land on wobbly feet. I take my time before I head to my bedroom. I find that Liatu has plugged my phone to charge, bless her! I pick it up and see more calls I’ve missed. Some from family, many from friends, and one from King Barrett, who also sent a text asking how I’m doing. I don’t respond. Instead, I put my phone on airplane mode. Last night, I deactivated my Twitter and Facebook pages. My Instagram stays, but I’d taken time to disable comments on my posts, from the most recent all the way back to a year ago. As strong as I tell myself I am, I don’t think I can handle the vitriol I’m facing online. 

I put my phone aside and walk into my bathroom. After a scalding shower and a long time spent in brushing my teeth and flossing, I step out to the coolness of my bedroom. But I slump on the bed and lay on my back to stare at the ceiling for a long time. I know this feeling. It’s depression, I think, and it sucks. 

I don’t move when I hear the front door slam until Liatu walks in and announces that she bought breakfast.

“Because God knows I can’t remember when last I entered a kitchen.”

Don’t I just love her life? I’d admired her from afar when she had nothing to do with my brother. The only child of extremely wealthy parents who lived life on her own terms was goals to me. I didn’t care then that she was a single mom and considered wayward; when my dad announced that she was going to become Zulu’s wife, I endorsed the marriage, even though I knew Zulu had feelings for Fana. To me, a marriage to secure financial connections and family legacy was a lot stronger than marrying for love—and I still believe that. Zulu didn’t, and was ready to elope with Fana, but Fana herself, had to bend to her father’s wish to be hitched to the son of another wealthy man. 

Unsurprisingly, Zulu and Liatu never worked out. Four years after they got married, following her father’s death, Liatu ended it and concentrated in growing her family business. Zulu was happy to be free of the union and kept an open line with her that eventually led to a solid friendship. They shared a son, a handsome ten-year-old who inherited his father’s intellect and his mother’s generosity.

Zulu never remarried or maintained a steady relationship. It was the same with Liatu, although she had a collection of men that offered domestic, culinary and sexual services whenever she required them. 

I get off my bed, dress up in simple home clothes and step out to the living room where Liatu has set plates of Thai fried rice, plantain stir-fried eggs, French fries and chicken. She waves her hand over the coffee table with a proud flourish.

“How was your meeting?” I ask.

“Good. We didn’t have to meet physically, but you know how these old people do.”

I smile, imagining how said old person would have assessed her appearance. Liatu has a nasty habit of shocking people and making them uncomfortable for no reason. Gorgeous, classy, and intimidating at first sight, she is the only woman I know who’d go for a meeting dressed in a three-piece shorts set—and yes, the inner top is cropped, proudly showing off some tummy. She’s plus-size and not ashamed to flaunt parts of her that could be considered unflattering. I have always admired her confidence. 

“Eat,” she commands. “You cannot fight wars on an empty stomach.”

The food is tasty at first bite, and before I can stop myself, I serve a plate with everything and finish it all without pausing. Liatu doesn’t touch her meal. She simply stares at me. When I’m done, I move my fork to a plate of plantains, but she pushes it away.

“I’m still hungry. If you’re not going to eat—”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” she says. “Please.”

She places a bottle of water in front of me and watches me take a long gulp. 

“What?” I ask her. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you. But you have to be aware.”

“What?” My heart begins to pound in a familiar rhythm of fear. It’s ironic how I lived most of my life being anxious over little, but it takes a single day and I’m a vector for anxiety.

“Someone on Twitter made the connection between you and Bani Hospital, and your family has been on the chopping block since last night. You’re trending again, so are your dad and mom. They even dug as far as some government contract your mom had with the Ministry of Health during the COVID period when she provided hazmat suits and masks to general hospitals…”

I don’t let her finish. I dash into my bedroom and retrieve my phone.

“Deze, don’t do it.”

I go online and my phone becomes a barrage of messages and notifications. But Liatu doesn’t let me. She snatches the phone before I can confirm her words.

“Give me my phone!” I demand. 

“No. You’ll have it, but just breathe, first, Deze. Breathe.”

I stubbornly attempt to snatch the phone from her, but she holds on to it. We struggle for a bit, then I give up and go for a bottle of wine in my fridge–the last one.

“My phone is ringing,” I say. 

“I know. But you won’t have it until I’m sure you’re calm.”

I take a long swig of the wine and return to the couch. I look at her face, at the genuine concern etched there—and the careful wall I’ve built around the truth begins to crumble. The words escape in a whisper, so quiet I’m not sure I’ve even said them aloud.

“I slept with him.”

The air in the room changes. The confession hangs between us, ugly and raw. I brace myself for the recoil and judgment.

It doesn’t come. She doesn’t even flinch. She just sits down on the couch beside me. 

“Chief Yele,” she says. It’s not a question. It’s an acknowledgment.

A sob tears from my throat. And then it all comes flooding out. The story I’ve held inside for months, poisoning me from within. I tell her about Imani’s relentless hounding of me to trade my body for contracts and the toxic environment at work. I tell her about how I left Imani to build my own thing and the doors that slammed in my face because I was a nobody. I recall the night Fana introduced me to Yele at a party.

“It’s not like she hadn’t tried to get me connected. People would take my card and promise to reach out, but they never did. But that night…” I stare into space, remembering the exact way Yele’s eyes twinkled when he held my hand. “That night, I knew my life was going to change.”

I tell Liatu about the day the NTM contract vanished, the cold fear that froze my blood. I describe Atirola’s smirk at the gallery, the way she’d said “pedigree” like it was a weapon. I confess the sheer, gut-wrenching terror of failure, of facing my family as the one who didn’t measure up.

Then I tell her about the black SUV that appeared outside my gate like a stalker and didn’t leave. The trip to the unmarked house in Guzape, the untouched platters of food, Yele’s calm, transactional voice. “Once.” The choice I made, not out of desire, but out of a desperate, crumbling survival instinct. The hollow feeling after, scrubbing my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash away the shame.

I talk until my voice is hoarse, and the tears are drying cold on my cheeks. Liatu listens. She doesn’t interrupt. 

“It’s all my fault, Lia,” I weep. “I’m a disgrace to my family.”

She still doesn’t say anything until I finally fall silent. 

“Adaeze,” she calls. “Look at me.”

I drag my eyes up to meet her, this sister of mine that always had a listening ear back then. She never pried into my personal life, but she somehow knew what I struggled with.

“This city…” she begins, shaking her head slowly. “People keep talking about the ruthlessness of Lagos, but this Abuja is a market. And everyone is selling something. You sold something you thought you could spare to buy a dream. It is a story as old as Zuma Rock. You’re not a bad person, Adaeze. You were a desperate one.”

“He’s ruined me,” I whisper, fresh tears welling.

“Yele?” Liatu lets out a short, dry laugh. “No. Yele gave you a key. A key to a crooked door, but a key nonetheless. He has done what he will do. His part in your story is finished. You must let that man become a ghost. He has already taken too much from you.”

“And Imani? What about her?”

“Imani?” She says her name like it’s a bitter taste. “That one is a viper in a pit of her own making. You cannot go into the pit to fight her. You will only get bitten. Let her go. You must stop spinning in this same circle, Adaeze. It will make you dizzy until you fall.”

“So, what do I do?” The question is a plea. “Where do I go from here?”

“You walk a new path,” she says. “You pave your own way. You rise from these ashes, but you build a different house. A stronger one. You know where the traps are now. It will be the hardest work of your life, but you will find a way. I have known you since you were suffering for that witch. I have seen your fire. It is dim now, but it is not out.”

Her faith feels like a hand pulling me up from a deep well. I don’t know if I have the strength to climb out, but the grip is firm.

“I have good news, by the way.”

I sit up.

“Your case has been struck out.”

I don’t think I heard her clearly. “Sorry? What did you just say?”

“That meeting I had was for you. I talked to someone who has the power to set you free, and they just did.”

“What?”

“Yes, baby.”

I can’t stop the smile on my face. “Lia, are you serious?”

She nods. I don’t know when I grab her in a hug, squealing.

“Easy.”

“Yes!”

I pull away, steadying my breath. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She snaps her fingers and blows away an imaginary problem into the air.

But I’m still in disbelief. I question her repeatedly until she scolds me. Then, I jump to my feet and do a little dance, making her laugh.

“Lia, when Zulu said you pull strings that even angels are scared of pulling, I didn’t believe him.”

“Your brother exaggerates. I simply called an old acquaintance of my mom who works in the NFCC.”

“Thank you.”

“The only thing is that the court won’t officially call you back to dismiss the case because it’s all under the table.”

“Meaning?” I ask cautiously.

“Meaning that, on record, you’re still guilty until proven innocent.”

My brows slowly come to a frown as the import of her words hit me.

“I’m sorry, baby. That was the most I could do. But look at it this way. You don’t need a stellar reputation to succeed in life. You just need to show up and do the darn thing, Deze.”

“Okay.” I nod bravely. “I can work with that.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”

“Thank you so much, Lia.”

“My pleasure. Expect your lawyer to call you soon. Just do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell anyone I helped you.”

“Okay.”

Liatu stays with me through the day. When evening comes, she has to leave for Lagos. At the door, she hands me a gift bag and pulls me into a hug. “I will call you tomorrow,” she says. “Answer your phone.”

After she’s gone, my small apartment feels like an empty castle. I ponder on my present situation. I’m free, but my reputation has taken a damning hit. Worse, I’m still a suspect to a crime I never committed. Should I worry that the case has not disappeared on paper and might return to bite me in the back or should I take Liatu’s advice and start afresh?

My phone buzzes. I look at the screen. King Barrett. My heart lurches. The man who looked at me like I was magic, not a mess. 

I take his call.

“Adaeze,” he says.

The voice… I sigh in a smile.

Talk to me, King Barrett. Tell me everything’s going to be okay.