We pass through the Victoria Island traffic like we're skimming over the skin of the city. Kola's hands rest easy on the steering wheel, but he drives with precision he never brakes too hard, never hesitates. Every movement feels deliberate, like he's attuned to more than just the road. Like he's listening to the pulse of Lagos itself.
I steal a glance at him.
There's something about silence with certain people that doesn't feel empty. With Kola, it's... full. Still, but not hollow. Like he's waiting, but not rushing me.
The car turns toward the mainland bridge and the skyline shifts glass towers giving way to tighter spaces, the landscape rougher, more familiar.
Surulere.
The place I ran from, and the place that raised me.
"You grew up around here?" I ask, surprising myself.
He nods. "Ojuelegba."
"Hmm."
I don't elaborate. I used to take two buses from Ijesha to Yaba every morning before school. I wore my mother's secondhand shoes until the soles split, then taped them back together with cellophane. If you had told that girl she'd one day own an elevator-access penthouse and drive in leather-seated silence with a man like this behind the wheel, she would've laughed until she coughed.
I rarely come back here. Not since my mother passed five years ago. The only reason I'm returning now is to ask questions the internet can't answer.
Kola pulls into a quiet side street lined with rust-stained fences and low bungalows with concrete porches. He glances at me through the mirror.
"Here?"
"Yes. Wait here."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
The offer is casual, not invasive. But something about the way he asks makes me pause.
"No," I say. "This is personal."
I step out and shut the door. The sun hits me like it always does on this side of Lagos no luxury air conditioning, no tinted windows. Just heat and reality.
Number 18 is still the same. Cracked paint, the gate creaks when I push it open. Mrs. Oyebanjo lives here. She used to babysit me when my mother worked the evening shift. She also happens to know everything about everyone who ever passed through this neighborhood including Ada Nwankwo's parents.
She opens the door before I knock.
"Rita Amadi! In flesh and bone. Ah ah! Is the world ending?"
I smile tightly. "Good afternoon, ma. You're looking strong."
She squints at me. "Lies. My joints are doing rebellion every morning."
We share a quick hug. She smells like dust and camphor, like home and history.
"I'm not staying long," I say. "I came to ask about the Nwankwos."
Her eyes sharpen. "Hmm. What did that girl do now?"
"She worked for me. Then vanished."
"Ehn? That one is married now oh. Big wedding last month. They say the husband is one abroad returnee, but me I know when scam is dancing on somebody's forehead."
My heart skips.
"What's his name?"
She squints again. "Kolapo? Something like that. Or maybe Kolade. He fine sha. One of those smooth ones. Always greeting with small voice, but eye like hawk."
My mouth dries.
Kolapo. Kola.
It could be coincidence. Lagos has a million Kolas. But the way my stomach knots tells me it's not.
"Do you know where they live now?"
She shrugs. "Somewhere in Ikeja. I didn't go. But her mother came to collect jollof rice in cooler the next day."
I force a laugh, thank her, and leave. My pulse is tapping now, faster than it should. Something is unraveling, and I don't like the pattern I'm seeing.
When I get back in the car, Kola glances at me.
"All good?"
I nod once. "Yes."
We drive.
But now I watch him differently.
His posture. His side profile. Even the way he holds the steering wheel.
Could it really be that the man I let into my space my car, my schedule, my routine is the same man who married Ada Nwankwo just weeks ago?
No. It's too soon to jump.
Too soon to accuse.
But I don't believe in coincidence.
I believe in pattern. Motive. Proof.
And intuition. Which is now screaming at me like a market woman whose change you forgot to collect.
"Kola," I say suddenly, watching his reaction in the mirror. "Do you have family?"
He hesitates for only a second. Just one.
"No, ma. My parents are gone."
"Any siblings?"
"Yes, one younger sister. She's married and has 2 Children. She and her family lives in Port Harcourt."
I nod. Calm. Neutral. But I clock every beat. Every micro-expression. Every drop of breath between words.
I'm not afraid. Not yet.
But I am aware.
I pull out my phone and discreetly text Gloria.
> Get a private investigator. Quiet. No agency. I want a background check on the new driver. His childhood, family background, education from preschool to wherever he stopped in fact I need Full sweep of his world.
Then I slide the phone back into my bag.
The rest of the ride is smooth. Uneventful.
But I'm no longer just a passenger.
I'm watching him the way I study the market waiting for any signs of volatility, cracks in the confidence, things that don't match up.
When we arrive back at the building, I pause before getting out.
"Thank you, Kola," I say, my voice soft but pointed.
He nods, polite. "Always, ma."
I smile warm, professional. The way a woman does when she's two steps away from checkmate and still pretending it's just another game.