Agnes

The gates of the Emecheta estate creaked open to admit the first group of mourners. Not family—journalists, stylists, two clergymen, and a senior representative from the Lagos State Governor’s office. They came not to mourn but to be seen mourning.

Agnes Emecheta was trending.

Chuka stood at the top of the marble staircase, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looked like a man who had signed up for a honeymoon and received a funeral instead. Behind him, servants moved like whispers—carrying trays of tea, setting down condolence books, ushering guests toward the memorial portrait set up in the center of the lounge.

It was a black-and-white photo of Agnes taken last year: soft lighting, her chin slightly raised, smile warm and proud.

“She looks kind,” someone said softly.

“She wasn’t,” Amaka replied without turning.

She emerged from the hallway in a high-neck black gown, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Her gait was composed. Even graceful. Not too heavy. Not too light. Just enough to remind everyone this was her mother, and she was still in control.

Uju, who hadn’t spoken to her directly since the wedding, stepped forward.

“You’re holding up,” she said gently.

Amaka nodded. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not yet.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

They embraced briefly. Too briefly.

Chuka watched the moment from across the room. He saw something shift in Amaka’s jaw—something tight—and wondered again about the night before. When they’d gotten home from the hospital and she refused to speak. Just showered. Changed. Slept like nothing happened.

Now, she was taking visitors like a dignitary, exchanging measured words and handshakes. It unnerved him.

Detective Musa, meanwhile, wasn’t at the estate. He was downtown, hunched over a monitor in the State CID’s digital unit. The Emecheta estate’s CCTV had over 50 hours of footage for the past three days. All encrypted.

“Anything from the reception area?” he asked the tech specialist.

“Still processing. But we found something from the staff corridor. Two hours before the collapse.”

On the screen, a man in chef whites stood alone, talking into a phone. Another entered—short, slightly stooped, in waiter’s uniform. They argued. Then parted.

Musa leaned in. “Get me the names.”

“We’re cross-referencing staff photos now.”

“Also find out which one served champagne to the bride’s mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Musa waited, his phone buzzed. Private caller.

He answered. “Detective Dauda.”

A woman’s voice. Low. Nervous.

“You don’t know me, but I used to work for Madam Emecheta.”

“Go on.”

“She ruined my life. And I know others she hurt too. If your investigation is real… there are things you need to know. About what that woman did behind closed doors.”

Back at the estate, Amaka stood before her mother’s portrait, silent, until the room thinned out.

She removed her glasses and stared at the photograph.

“You would’ve loved this,” she whispered. “The press. The performance. You always knew how to die well.”

Her hand reached for the frame. She tilted it slightly, aligning it with the flowers beneath.

From behind, Chuka approached.

“They said you’re giving a speech at the memorial.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve been preparing for this my whole life,” she said without blinking. “She just died a little earlier than planned.”

Chuka flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Amaka turned to him. “It means everything is moving quickly, and I need you focused. Not scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re sweating.”

He rubbed his palms down his trousers. “People are starting to talk.”

“Let them.”

“You were the last person to speak with her.”

Amaka smiled. It was barely there. “She was the last person to speak to a lot of people. That’s how good she was.”

“Is this grief or—?”

“Grief,” she cut in, “is for the innocent. I’m just… relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“That she didn’t take me down with her.”

And then she walked away.

Musa returned to the estate later that evening, just as the sky turned from gold to bruised grey.

He was greeted by a long line of black SUVs. Politicians had begun arriving for the official condolence visit. Musa ignored them all and went around the back, where security footage had finally been traced to a name: Tunde Akanji, a freelance server hired from a hospitality app. Fake credentials. Disappeared after the wedding.

He found Amaka alone in the garden.

“The champagne server,” he said. “We’ve identified him. But he’s gone.”

Amaka turned slowly. “Gone where?”

“No one knows. He vanished two hours after your mother collapsed. Left his uniform in the changing room. No forwarding contact.”

“Sounds deliberate.”

“It was.”

She crossed her arms. “Then he’s your killer.”

“Maybe. Or he’s a distraction.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t believe anything yet. Except that your mother wasn’t nearly as loved as she seemed.”

Amaka gave a dry laugh. “She was very good at pretending.”

“Was she the kind of person who made enemies?”

“More like enemies grew around her. Like weeds. She was the sunlight.”

“Or the poison,” Musa said.

Amaka didn’t flinch. “Either way, I want the truth. I’m not afraid of it.”

“Good,” Musa replied. “Because the truth has sharp edges.”

As he walked away, Amaka’s face softened. Just for a second.

Then, as she turned back toward the house, her eyes sharpened again.

The game had begun.