Agnes

The air in Banana Island shimmered with opulence. Bougainvillea petals drifted from gold-trimmed archways, caught on the silk lapels and gele folds of Lagos' most elite. From the crystal chandeliers hung beneath the wedding canopy to the custom-embroidered napkins stamped with “#ChuKaKa2025,” no detail had been spared.

Amaka Emecheta stood at the edge of the reception marquee, a vision in white satin and calm elegance. Her neckline, modest but sharp, was crowned by a string of South Sea pearls—a gift from the bride’s mother, billionaire philanthropist Agnes Emecheta. Every camera sought Amaka's smile, and she gave it freely, gracefully, like she’d been rehearsing it for years. Her hands, adorned with French-tipped nails, trembled just slightly as she adjusted her veil.

"You're glowing," someone whispered.

She turned. “It’s the heat,” Amaka replied with a soft laugh. But her eyes were watching the crowd.

Chuka, her groom, was already seated at the high table, chatting with the Commissioner for Works and a former Miss Nigeria. His agbada shimmered in white and silver. He looked up and caught Amaka’s gaze, giving her a wink. She smiled tightly and turned away.

A waiter approached with a flute of champagne. Amaka declined. “Bring it to my mother,” she said. “She likes the brut.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

Amaka took a deep breath. She didn’t know what part of the ceremony made her stomach churn more—the vow exchange, the kiss, or watching her mother hold court like a crowned queen. Agnes had received a standing ovation after her toast earlier in the day, a speech filled with love, pride, and performative humility. The guests lapped it up. They always did.

“You’ve been blessed with a mother people would die for,” someone had gushed to her earlier that afternoon.

Amaka had smiled. “Yes. I know.”

The band transitioned into a lively highlife number, and the crowd surged forward, eager to spray naira notes and praise the couple. As she moved through a maze of glittering guests, Amaka felt the weight of eyes on her, of expectations stitched into every thread of her gown. But she moved with grace, touching shoulders, exchanging hugs, laughing in perfect rhythm.

Then she saw her.

Agnes.

Seated at her custom-made throne-like chair, flanked by political associates and society friends, Agnes clapped rhythmically, her movements mechanical, rehearsed. She was wearing a champagne gold iro and buba with a head tie that rose like a coronet. Her smile—broad, warm, deceptive—never touched her eyes.

Amaka moved to her side, bent slightly, and kissed her cheek. “You’re okay?” she asked.

Agnes nodded. “I’m watching you. You’re doing well. No mistakes. Not yet.”

The words were whispered, sweet as venom.

Amaka smiled, lips tight. “Good.”

Across the hall, Uju, her childhood friend, waved. She looked radiant in emerald green, eyes bright. But Amaka looked away quickly.

“Don’t let her distract you,” Agnes said.

Amaka blinked. “She’s my friend.”

“She’s a liability,” Agnes replied. “You know it. I warned you.”

“Yes,” Amaka said. “You warned me.”

The waiter returned with another champagne flute.

“For the mother of the bride,” he said, offering it with a practiced bow.

Agnes accepted it with a pleased smile. “Finally, someone trained properly,” she said, lifting it slightly.

“To you,” Amaka said, meeting her mother’s eyes.

Agnes raised the glass. “To us.”

She took a long sip.

Five minutes later, during the second couple’s dance, Agnes began to sway in her chair. Her fingers clutched the carved wooden armrests. Her smile faltered. Someone called out her name, but the music drowned it. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Then—gracefully, slowly—she slumped to the side, the champagne flute slipping from her hand and rolling under the table.

A gasp pierced the music. Then screams.

Amaka was the first to reach her. “Mummy?” she cried, dropping to her knees. “Mummy, what’s wrong?”

Her perfectly manicured hands trembled as she shook the older woman’s shoulders.

Agnes’s eyes fluttered. Her mouth twisted into something unreadable. Then nothing.

More screams. Chairs clattered. Phones were raised. Some people tried CPR. Others called emergency services. The band had stopped playing. A ripple of chaos surged through the marquee.

Amaka sobbed uncontrollably, face buried in her mother’s shoulder, her dress stained with foundation and sweat and panic. She clutched Agnes like a drowning girl clinging to driftwood.

When the ambulance arrived twenty minutes later, she refused to let go.

“I was just talking to her,” Amaka kept repeating. “She was fine. She was fine.”

By evening, the estate was sealed off. Police cars lined the gates. Detective Musa arrived just before midnight.

Amaka, still in her wedding dress, sat beside her husband in the main sitting room. Her eyes were swollen. Her bouquet had long been discarded.

“I want answers,” she said to the officer. “My mother was everything to me. Please—find who did this.”

And when she said it, even Musa believed her.