THE RAVEN'S REPLY

By morning, Zainab's name was everywhere again.But this time, not as a hero.

Blog headlines screamed:

"Zainab AbdulRaheem Accuses Top Government Officials Without Proof!""Tailor-Turned-Terrorist? Anti-Corruption Poster Girl Now in Trouble!"

One tweet in particular went viral:

"Not every tailor should try to become a warrior. Know your lane, Zainab." — @RealNijaVoice

Zainab sat in silence beside Obi's hospital bed, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of her phone.

She wasn't angry.She wasn't surprised either.This was always how they fought: with words like poison and silence like daggers.

But then her email pinged.

One message.No subject.No sender ID.

She opened it.

Inside was just a link.

A video.

She tapped play.

It was Fatiha.

Tied to a chair in a dark room.A cut across her lip.Eyes wide. Breathing fast.

Then a voice spoke off-camera. Calm. Elegant. Male.

"We warned you, Miss Zainab.You named names. You lit fires.Now you must choose what burns."

Zainab froze. Her fingers trembled around the phone.

The camera zoomed in on Fatiha's tear-streaked face.

"You have twenty-four hours.Delete the tweet.Apologize on live TV.And hand over every file you've collected."

"Or the girl dies."

The video ended.

Zainab didn't move.

Not for minutes.

The AC hummed.Obi groaned faintly in his sleep.A nurse walked past.

But Zainab was still staring at the black screen like it was alive.

She stood.

Picked up her bag.

Walked into the bathroom.

Washed her face with freezing water.

Stared at herself in the mirror.

Then whispered to her reflection:

"No more games."

Two hours later.

Zainab met Alhaji Raji again.Same café in Yaba. Same booth.

"I need you," she said.

He didn't blink. "They've taken your friend, haven't they?"

Zainab nodded.

"And I know where they're holding her."

Raji raised an eyebrow.

"How?"

She pulled out her phone and played back the video.Paused it.

Zoomed in on the back wall.

There—just faintly—was a logo of a bottled water company and a warehouse code.

"I traced the logo. One of their main depots is in Ogun State. Code matches."

Raji stared at her. Then leaned back.

"You're not just a tailor anymore."

Zainab stood.

"No. I'm not."

Meanwhile.

In a warehouse outside Abeokuta…Fatiha coughed violently.The room reeked of petrol. Her mouth was dry.

But her spirit was fierce.

The man watching her—the one they called "Mala"—smiled and dialed a number.

"She won't stay quiet," he said into the phone."She'll come for her."

A deep voice on the other end replied:

"Good.Let's see if the tailor can sew her way out of death."