penandpulsetales

In the heart of a bustling Nigerian town, Zainab is known as the quiet, modest tailor with golden hands and a perfect smile. Her clients adore her. Her neighbors respect her. Her life seems flawlessly stitched—until a mysterious stranger walks into her shop and unravels everything she’s tried so hard to conceal.

Beneath the layers of Ankara and silk lies a haunting past, a forbidden love, and a truth that could destroy her family’s name. As old wounds resurface and new desires bloom, Zainab is torn between duty and desire, silence and survival.

How long can she keep sewing perfection when her own life is falling apart at the seams?

A tale of secrets, sacrifice, and the kind of love that dares to exist in the shadows. The Tailor’s Secret is a gripping urban drama that pulls you in, thread by thread.

The Tailor's Secret

The warehouse in Ogun loomed like a forgotten memory—silent, grey, surrounded by bush paths and broken power poles.

Inside it, Fatiha wasn't just tied.She was bait.

Outside, Zainab stood in the rain with Alhaji Raji and two trusted allies from his old EFCC unit—men who had seen the underbelly of this country but never someone quite like her.

"Last chance to back out," Raji said quietly."We can still call the state police and pull strings."

"I didn't come with string. I came with scissors."

She pulled out the folded Ankara fabric wrapped around her waist.Inside it—a tiny voice recorder, a power bank, and a flash drive.Evidence.Backup.Insurance.

She whispered, "They want a show? Let's give them one."

Inside the warehouse.

Mala walked in, chewing suya like the world owed him nothing.He placed a chair directly in front of Fatiha.

"You know," he said casually, "you and your tailor friend really have hearts. But the problem with people like you is… you forget that Nigeria is built for the silent."

"Yet… here we are," she whispered, eyes swollen but steady.

"True. But this is your curtain call."

He raised his hand—signaling the man behind her to ready a syringe.

Then, suddenly—the lights cut off.

Shouting.Movement.Footsteps.And then—a single beam of torchlight pierced the dark.

Standing at the entrance.Soggy, fierce, with her scarf tied like a warrior going to battle.

"You want me?" she said calmly."Let her go."

One of the guards pointed it straight at her chest.

"I didn't come to beg. I came to finish this."

"You think this is a Nollywood scene?"

"No," she replied. "It's Mushin, rewritten."

And before another word could drop—Alhaji Raji's men stormed in.

Flashlights.Shouts.Handcuffs.Shots in the air.

Mala pulled out a pistol and aimed—

Zainab dove to the side as Raji tackled him, gun flying from his hand.

Seconds later, Mala was face-down, cuffed.The guard fled.

Fatiha was in tears, trembling, but alive.

Zainab rushed to her, untying the ropes with shaking hands.

By sunrise, they were back in Lagos.

Zainab uploaded the audio recording from the warehouse to her blog.

"This is not just about me anymore.This is about everyone they silenced.Let this be the beginning of their end."

But somewhere, in a gold-plated mansion in Maitama…The Raven watched the news unfold.

He simply lit a cigar, opened a drawer… and pulled out a folder marked: "ZAINAB—PHASE 3."

NEEDLE OR GUN?