Agnes

The funeral committee insisted on a white-and-gold colour code, but Amaka wore red.

Deep crimson lace with subtle black embroidery. Not loud, but pointed. When she stepped out of the mansion and into the marquee set for the final farewell, the air shifted. Murmurs flitted across the crowd.

“She wore red?” “Tradition forbids it.” “Is it defiance or grief?”

Amaka walked past them all like royalty. The sun gleamed on the pearls she still wore, now matched with bloodstone earrings. Her steps were measured, calm. Not sorrowful. Just... resolved.

Chuka trailed behind her, dressed in regulation white agbada, sunglasses hiding the lines of confusion on his face. Uju arrived separately, and stood at the back, observing.

On the altar sat the casket—polished mahogany, framed with yellow roses. A blown-up photo of Agnes towered behind it: the carefully curated public image. The soft smile. The eyes that held a nation spellbound.

Pastor Gabriel took the pulpit.

"Today, we bury a woman of virtue," he began, hands raised like a prophet. "A mother to the motherless, a warrior of faith, a generous spirit..."

Amaka tuned him out.

She stared at his hands—those same hands that signed off fake building fund accounts, collected hush money from Agnes, laundered funds through 'missions’ in Uyo and Accra. He was still trying to survive her death, pretending they hadn't both used each other.

Her fingers curled around the program in her lap. One more performance.

Detective Musa watched from the side of the marquee, not as an invited guest, but as a quiet observer. His suit was plain. No badge. No notebook.

His eyes scanned the room.

Chief Bamidele—stone-faced, leaning on a cane. Nneka—tight-lipped, seated in the front row, barely concealing disdain. Pastor Gabriel—sweating more than usual. Ngozi—the ex-maid, sitting at the back in cheap white lace, watching everyone with a smirk. Uju—motionless, clutching a plain white clutch bag like a weapon.

Too many motives. Too many layers.

And one daughter in red.

After the service, mourners lined up to offer condolences.

Amaka received them with grace: a hand on the shoulder, a bowed head, a soft “Thank you.” She didn’t flinch at the strangers who wept or at the politicians who used her mother's name for clout.

It wasn’t until Pastor Gabriel approached that something flickered in her eyes.

"My dear child," he began, voice thick with performance. "She was proud of you. She told me so. Many times."

Amaka held his gaze. “She told many people many things. You should be careful who believes them.”

His smile froze for half a second. Then he nodded and moved on.

Uju came next.

“I almost didn’t come,” she said quietly.

“But you did.”

“I needed to see it. The show.”

“Did it live up to your expectations?”

Uju studied her. “I don’t know what to expect from you anymore.”

“Then we’re even,” Amaka said, and turned away.

That evening, Musa returned to his office to find a brown parcel on his desk. No name. No return address.

Inside was a USB drive and a single page typed in Courier font.

“Agnes wasn’t poisoned by a stranger. Follow the girl in red.”

He plugged in the drive.

Security footage—unedited, date-stamped.

Kitchen corridor. Wedding day. 2:12 p.m.

A waiter in white approaches a woman in a veil. Not Amaka. But the build is close. Face obscured.

The waiter hands over a tray with a single flute of champagne. The woman dips a vial into the glass—quick, precise—and stirs with the base of a spoon. She wipes it clean and disappears through a service door.

Musa paused. Rewound. Watched again.

Not Amaka.

But someone dressed very, very deliberately.

He ran the footage through facial enhancement software. The face never shows. The veil does all the work. But there was one clear frame—when she opens the door and walks past a mirror.

A partial reflection.

Hair. Shoulder. Jawline.

It wasn’t Amaka.

But it also wasn’t not her.

At the estate, Amaka sat on the rooftop balcony overlooking the water. A half-empty glass of wine balanced on the edge of the railing. Chuka stood a few feet away, uncertain whether to step closer.

“You don’t sleep anymore,” he said finally.

“Sleep is for the at-peace.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not yet.”

He moved closer. “You were brilliant today.”

“Of course I was.”

“But you scared me. In red.”

“That was the point.”

Chuka swallowed hard. “Did you… love her?”

Amaka’s silence stretched.

“I loved what she could have been. I loved the version of her I kept inventing to survive her.”

Chuka didn’t reply.

She turned to him.

“If you ever ask me that again,” she said softly, “I’ll answer differently. And you won’t like it.”

Detective Musa sat at his desk past midnight.

He now had motive, means, and opportunity—but the wrong suspect. Or maybe, the perfect one.

Amaka had been cold. Controlled. Composed.

But never careless.

That footage had been sent to him on purpose.

And the girl in red?

Maybe she wanted to be followed.

Or maybe she was setting the next trap.