THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
The storm broke in Abuja.
Rain lashed against the window of the safehouse. Inside, Zainab paced the room, soaked in sweat—not from the heat, but from the weight of revelation.
The Weaver.
A man so ghostly in presence, no photo of him existed online. He had no national ID, no passport trace, no official signature on any document. But Zainab remembered his voice—calm, soft, imperial. The way he said her name like he owned it.
Once, in Ilorin, he had offered her a choice: sew for his syndicate or disappear forever. She had run instead.
Now he was back in her orbit.
And this time, she was done running.
Across town, in a luxury estate in Maitama, Felix Adio—Mala—watched the rain from his balcony with a glass of scotch. His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered. Silence.
Then a familiar voice.
"You're bleeding secrets, Felix. I warned you about sentiment."
His spine stiffened. "I handled it."
"No, you didn't. You let the tailor breathe."
A soft chuckle.
"Weaver's coming to clean up. Don't be surprised if you don't survive the mop."
Click.
Felix dropped the phone like it burned.
In the safehouse, Obi pulled up a map. "Three warehouses in Lagos are flagged as inactive shipping hubs. Two belong to Raven's companies. One—this one—used to be listed under a textile import business... The name?"
He clicked. Zainab's heart stopped.
"Threadline Nigeria."
It was her old company. The one she'd registered during her early fashion days in Ilorin.
"How—"
Obi zoomed in. "They stole your identity, Zee. Turned your dreams into cover for smuggling. That's where they buried your past."
Zainab felt a deep, ugly fury rise inside her. Every sweat-soaked night, every needle-pricked finger, every customer she smiled at to survive… they had corrupted all of it.
It was time to reclaim her name.
They arrived at the warehouse by midnight.
Obi drove.
Zainab wore a denim jacket, her father's rosary tucked beneath her hijab, a portable drive hidden in her boot.
Inside, it smelled of rust and betrayal.
Stacks of old mannequins. Broken sewing machines. Forgotten bolts of fabric.
And behind a false wall?
A glass office.
Clean.
Lit.
Occupied.
Zainab entered first, slowly.
The man inside didn't flinch. He sat like a professor, hands clasped.
Late fifties. British-Nigerian. Eyes like wet ash. Calm.
He smiled.
"Zainab Abdulraheem. You still walk like someone who thinks choices matter."
Zainab stepped closer. "Weaver."
He nodded.
"I taught Dapo how to build personas. Fed Raven and Jackal their first pipelines. And you? You were meant to be the thread. The hidden path. But you ran."
She raised the portable drive.
"I kept the truth."
He sighed.
"And now you want justice?"
"No. I want closure."
Behind her, Obi slipped in with his phone, recording.
The Weaver looked amused. "You're brave. But bravery without strategy is suicide."
He tapped a remote.
The room's monitors flickered on.
Footage. All of Zainab's movements from the past week.
Hotels. Cafés. Even the safehouse.
They'd been tracked.
Weaver leaned in.
"You die today, the movement dies with you."
Zainab smiled, slow and cold.
"I sent copies of the drive already. If I die, a hundred people wake up angry."
He paused.
For the first time… he looked uncertain.
Obi whispered, "Checkmate."
Weaver stood, adjusting his cufflinks.
"You think this is the end?"
Zainab turned away.
"No. This is the unraveling."
And with that, they walked out.
An hour later, news broke:
"Anonymous leak reveals massive syndicate manipulating African economies through fabric export fronts and AI surveillance.""A woman in Lagos stitches back the truth."
Three days later, The Weaver's private jet vanished en route to Morocco.
The Bureau denied knowing him.
But whispers moved through the city like wind through lace.
And in a small tailoring school in Kaduna, ten young girls were taught to sew names into seams.
Not just for design.
But for remembrance.