CHAPTER 4: BLUE SMOKE AND WHISPERS

Mushin wore a strange quiet that Monday morning. No megaphones screaming "Ejika! Ejika!! ₦200 only!", no arguments from the pepper sellers, and even the mechanic opposite Zainab's shop hadn't started hammering his usual noise into the earth. It was like the street itself was holding its breath.

Inside Zainab Stitches, the machine sat unused. The scissors untouched. The iron cold.

Zainab sat alone on the bare floor in her inner chamber. Her scarf loosened, one edge dragging along the ground, her eyes sunken and faraway.

Her prayer mat was still open from Subh. She had recited Ayat-ul-Kursiyy seven times this morning, like her mother used to do whenever fear lingered too long in the walls.

The graffiti was still there—red, bold, screaming silently from the wall like an open threat to everyone who passed.

But she refused to clean it.

Let the world see it. Let them wonder. Let them fear what they don't understand.

She stood slowly, tightened her scarf, and stepped outside.

Two Alhajis passing by greeted her.

"Asalamu Alaikum, Aunty Zainab."

She forced a smile. "Wa alaikum salam."

But they weren't looking at her face. They were looking at the wall.

People had begun to whisper.

Some said it was area boys.

Others said it was EFCC.

And a few—those who had seen too much in Lagos—just shook their heads and said, "It has started again."

Zainab returned inside and finally opened the shop. She plugged in her old pressing iron, placed a dull brown fabric on the table, and tried to pretend everything was normal.

Until she heard the sound.

Click.

She paused.

That was the sound of a camera.

She looked up sharply.

Across the street, by the vulcanizer's abandoned container, stood a man in a blue hoodie. Face hidden. Phone raised. Taking pictures. Of her.

Zainab dropped the iron and bolted outside.

"Hey! You there!!"

But the man ran.

Through the puddles, past the danfo park, and into the next street.

Zainab didn't follow. She knew Mushin's corners, but she also knew when to stand still.

When she returned to the shop, she saw it—a white envelope, neatly dropped just by the foot of her curtain.

It hadn't been there when she stepped out seconds ago.

Her hands trembled as she picked it up.

Inside: a photo.

Obinna and Dapo.

Standing together beside a foreign currency exchange booth in Cotonou. Laughing. Arms around each other. Brothers, maybe.

On the back of the photo, in red ink:"He knows you.He knows everything.And you still ironed his cloth."

Zainab's chest felt tight.

She backed away slowly, like the paper would explode.

Everything was starting again.

She remembered Ilorin too well—how it started with silence, then surveillance, then the police came and her name was plastered across blogs and status updates. How even her aunt disowned her. How she nearly took her own life.

But Mushin was not Ilorin.

This time, she was not going to run.

She called just one person.

Fatiha.

Her only friend in Lagos.

Not just a friend—her former flatmate. The one who once dated a military man and swore she knew how to handle secrets.

Fatiha came within an hour.

Slippers sharp against the floor, wrapper tied across her chest, black hijab over her braids.

She didn't ask too many questions. She just listened.

Zainab showed her the flash drive. The pictures. The note. The graffiti.

Fatiha leaned on the doorframe and said something that chilled Zainab's spine.

"Zee… This isn't about love again. This one is syndicate level."

Zainab sat down. "What do you mean?"

Fatiha looked around, lowered her voice.

"Dapo wasn't just yahoo. These people, this Obi of a guy—they're big. They move people. Move money. And you? You're not just a tailor anymore. You're a link. A witness. They don't play games, Zee."

Zainab looked at her hands. Her fingers had always been steady. But now, they shook.

"What do I do?"

Fatiha didn't answer immediately.

Then she brought out her phone.

"I have someone. My ex. Still owes me favor. He works with DSS now."

Zainab's eyes widened. "Are you mad? You want to involve government?"

Fatiha's face turned serious.

"They already involved you, Zee. The only question now is whether you want to be used… or protected."

Silence.

A heavy one.

Zainab's phone buzzed again.

No caller ID.

She didn't pick.

A message came through.

Just four words:

"Tonight. 10pm. Come alone."

Attached: a Google location.

Zainab looked at Fatiha.

Fatiha looked back.

Then whispered:"You're going to go."