Chapter One:
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Lagos wasn’t kind at 6 a.m.
It was a city of steel nerves and rusted dreams, and the sun wasted no time peeling back the cover of night to reveal its flaws. In Lekki Phase 1, the scent of privilege mixed with the exhaust fumes of hurried keke riders. Bougainvillea flowers bloomed in front of high-walled mansions, but behind the tinted glass of sedans, eyes were already twitching from the pressure of the day ahead.
Emeka Nwachukwu stood in front of a mirror framed by peeling gold trimmings in his one-bedroom apartment, wearing the same navy-blue shirt he’d worn to three interviews already. A tear in the collar had been cleverly hidden with a well-angled tie. The fan above squeaked like an unpaid rent reminder, slicing the humid air in slow motion.
He was tall, not by Nigerian standards but by the casual measuring sticks of women at Lagos bars who spoke in inches and half-truths. Slim but not fragile. His face wore the residue of dreams left too long in the sun. Dark eyes, sunken from sleepless hustles, scanned the room with a quiet urgency.
He lived alone. At least physically.
Mentally, he shared his space with doubt, memory, and a nagging voice that sounded a lot like his late father.
"A man must plant his own yam," his father once said in their hometown in Imo. "No woman will wait while you borrow someone else’s cutlass."
But this was Lagos. Nobody was waiting for anyone here.
By day, Emeka was a remote tech support rep for a European SaaS company. By night, he was a ride-hailing driver on Bolt. In between, he juggled freelance UI design gigs, most of which paid in promises or exposure. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept him out of debt—and that counted as wealth in this economy.
He buttoned his shirt, grabbed his keys, and stepped outside into a morning that already felt like it had something to hide.
The first pick-up of the day was a woman named Ifeoma.
The name blinked on his app just as he turned onto Admiralty Way. He almost cancelled. Not because he was tired, but because he was always tired—and the name stirred something in him. Not nostalgia, exactly. More like... a premonition.
She was standing in front of a coffee shop near Bisola Durosinmi-Etti Drive, holding her phone like a weapon, sunglasses hiding her eyes even though the sky was still shy of brightness. Slim, with a kind of deliberate elegance. Not forced. Not packaged. Just... unapologetically aware of her own power.
Emeka rolled down the window.
“You order Bolt?” he asked.
She barely looked at him. “Yes. I’m in a rush, abeg.”
She got in. No perfume. Just the scent of shea butter and lavender oil—the kind that lingers on your mind like a song you can’t name.
He drove in silence for a while.
“You’re quiet,” she said finally.
“I talk when necessary,” Emeka replied, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Lagos drivers talk too much.”
She smirked. “And Lagos women too?”
He allowed a small smile. “Only the interesting ones.”
“I see. So I’m interesting?”
“Or annoying. Haven’t decided yet.”
She laughed. Not the forced kind Lagos girls give you when they smell desperation—but the full-bodied laugh of someone who was used to being misread and found that funny.
Her phone rang. She answered in Igbo. Her voice turned sharp, deliberate, like she was arguing with a lover or dismissing one. It wasn’t long.
“Men,” she muttered as she hung up.
“You say?”
“Nothing. Just remembering why I deleted Bumble.”
Emeka chuckled. “Was it that bad?”
“One asked if I had a generator. Another said he could cook and clean—only if I paid his rent.”
“Sounds like Lagos Tinder.”
“I said Bumble.”
“Same market, different packaging.”
They arrived at her destination, but she didn’t move. She looked at him.
“You married?”
He blinked. “No.”
“Good. It’d be a shame if someone ruined you before the world could.”
She stepped out, her words hanging in the air like cologne.
Emeka watched her walk away, something inside him shifting gears.
Later that evening, while sipping a warm bottle of Hero lager with his closest friend Gbenga at a buka off Freedom Way, Emeka recounted the encounter.
Gbenga, rotund and perpetually skeptical, shook his head slowly. “See me see woman wahala. She fine, yes. But be careful. Lagos girls no dey fall from heaven, bro. Them dey crawl from drama.”
Emeka nodded slowly, but he wasn’t listening.
His mind was still in that car. With her. With the scent of lavender and unfinished sentences.
He had been searching for something real. Not the microwave affection that apps offered. Not the breadcrumb love Lagos women dished out while entertaining three other options.
He didn’t know it yet, but the moment she stepped into his car, something began to unravel.
Not love. Not yet.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
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