CHAPTER SEVEN: CRACKS IN THE MIRROR
Lagos in the rainy season had a smell Zainab would never forget — wet dust, diesel, perfume, and the faint rot of flooding gutters. The sky stayed gray for days, and traffic crawled endlessly through waterlogged streets. Even from her balcony in Surulere, she could hear the horns blaring through the drizzle.
She had begun to move like a stranger in her own body.
Every morning, a driver picked her up. Every evening, she returned with new clothes, new acquaintances, and a deeper silence. Tomiwa said she was living the dream.
But Zainab was starting to see the cracks.
At a charity gala one night, she sat beside Chief at a table surrounded by people she barely knew — businessmen, politicians, foreign investors. Cameras flashed; everyone smiled.
A young woman approached their table, holding a tray of wine glasses. She looked about Zainab's age, maybe younger. Her eyes met Zainab's for a moment — tired, pleading — before Chief spoke sharply.
"Hey, mind where you're standing!"
The girl mumbled an apology and hurried off. Chief chuckled and patted Zainab's hand. "Some people don't know their place."
The laughter that followed around the table made Zainab's stomach twist. For the first time, she wondered what her own "place" was — and who had decided it.
When the gala ended, Chief's driver took her home. She didn't speak during the ride. Her phone buzzed again and again — messages from Tomiwa, photos from the event, gossip about who wore what — but she couldn't bring herself to reply.
She went straight to the mirror in her bedroom. The face staring back was flawless, carefully painted, glowing with luxury. But the eyes were dull.
"This isn't me," she whispered.
Her reflection offered no answer.
The next week, she met Kunle again — the journalist she had spoken to briefly at the last event. This time, it was at a coffee shop near Marina. He greeted her with a quiet smile.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said.
"I almost didn't," she admitted. "It's… complicated."
"I can imagine," he said gently. "Chief Adewale isn't exactly a simple man."
Zainab looked at him sharply. "You know him?"
"Everyone who covers Lagos politics knows him," Kunle replied. "He's powerful, but his world isn't clean. And people around him —" he hesitated, lowering his voice — "they don't always walk away unharmed."
Zainab felt a chill. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you look like someone who hasn't lost her conscience yet," he said simply. "And that's rare in his circle."
She stared at her coffee, unable to meet his eyes. "It's not that easy to leave."
"I know. But you can start by remembering who you were before all this."
That night, Zainab dreamt of her mother's old shop in Ijebu — oranges stacked in neat rows, children laughing outside. When she woke, her pillow was damp with tears.
A few days later, Chief called her into his office. His tone was different this time — sharper, colder.
"I heard you've been talking to journalists," he said.
Zainab froze. "I only—he's just a friend, Chief."
"Be careful with friends," he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Some people don't understand the value of privacy."
He reached into his pocket and handed her a small velvet box. Inside was a diamond necklace. "A reminder," he said softly, "that loyalty is rewarded."
Zainab nodded, forcing a smile, but her hands shook as she clasped the box shut. She left the office trembling.
That night, she couldn't sleep. The rain outside pounded the roof like a heartbeat. She knew now that the life she was living was not freedom — it was a gilded trap.
And the door was starting to close.