Agnes

Detective Musa sat in the back booth of a quiet lounge in Surulere, stirring a cup of coffee he had no intention of drinking. Across from him, the journalist—Aisha Tunde—scanned the timeline pinned to her notebook.

“She controlled every narrative,” Aisha said. “Every leak. Every retraction. Even the people who hated her were afraid to speak.”

“She was trained by the best,” Musa muttered.

“Her mother.”

He nodded.

“Agnes was a tyrant, but she was obvious. Amaka? She smiles while burying bodies.”

Musa reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black device.

“Let’s make her smile on tape.”

At the estate, Amaka reviewed the new Foundation campaign footage.

She gave notes on lighting, music, phrasing. She asked for more emphasis on ‘resilience,’ less on ‘charity.’

Mama Tutu entered softly. “Detective Musa is at the gate.”

Amaka didn’t hesitate. “Let him in.”

She wore black again.

Not mourning.

Command.

They met in the drawing room, where Agnes had once hosted governors and terrified journalists.

Amaka stood. “No warning today?”

“I figured you'd already see me coming.”

“Still chasing ghosts?”

“I brought you something.”

He placed a file on the table.

Photos. Documents. Screenshots.

Amaka flipped through them.

Moses. The cook. Alive.

The burner transactions.

The photo of her and the white envelope.

The footage frame analysis.

It was everything. All laid bare.

“Why show me this?” she asked calmly.

“Because I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I thought you didn’t arrest ghosts.”

“I don’t,” Musa said. “But I talk to them. One last time. Before they vanish.”

She studied him. “What do you want, Musa?”

“Closure.”

She stood, walked to the window, then turned back.

“You want a confession.”

“I want to know why.”

She was silent for a long moment.

Then: “She made me into a weapon. I simply aimed myself.”

“Was it worth it?”

“She would have destroyed me, Musa. You know that now.”

“I do.”

“She tried to disinherit me. Replace me with a lie. Humiliate me even in death.”

“But she didn’t kill herself.”

“No,” Amaka said softly. “But I gave her the fear that finished the job.”

He hit stop on the recorder under the table.

She hadn’t confessed directly. But the weight of implication was undeniable.

“Is that enough?” Aisha had asked earlier.

“It’ll never be enough to arrest her,” Musa had said. “But it’ll be enough to ruin her.”

The next morning, the clip hit the press.

Not the full conversation.

Just Amaka’s voice:

“She made me into a weapon. I simply aimed myself.”

The public response was immediate.

Praise turned to doubt. Op-eds questioned the carefully curated legacy. The Foundation’s upcoming partnership with the federal government was ‘indefinitely postponed.’

Corporate sponsors began pulling out.

And for the first time, Amaka had no counter-narrative.

She said nothing.

No statement.

No press release.

No Instagram post.

She simply… disappeared.

Three days later, Musa received a package at the station.

No return address.

Inside: a single item.

A gold bracelet with the inscription: "To my Amaka — The last flame.”

And beneath it, a note:

You’ve played your part well, Detective. But this is not a game I intend to lose.

That same evening, a fire broke out at the Emecheta Foundation headquarters.

No injuries.

No suspects.

But every file, every contract, every record… gone.

The building was declared a total loss.