The rain had stopped falling, but the smell of wet sand and soaked gutters still lingered in the air.
It was that kind of damp Lagos evening—where the clouds hover like they're watching you, the air is heavy with secrets, and Mushin begins to prepare itself for another night of noise, smoke, and survival.
Zainab stood outside her shop, a cup of warm Lipton in her hand, steam rising from the rim. She wore a simple brown gown and a black scarf tied neatly around her head. Her eyes scanned the road lazily as she leaned on the wooden frame of the shop she built with her own sweat and silence.
ZAINAB STITCHES wasn't much to look at from the outside. Just a small shop with dusty curtains and a flickering bulb. But inside, it was a different world. Neatly arranged fabrics from lace to cashmere. Shelves with zippers, threads, needles. Her sewing machine stood at the center like a quiet throne. Her tools were her soldiers.
At 27, Zainab had made a name for herself—not just as a tailor, but as a mystery. She was the girl who didn't talk too much, didn't laugh too loudly, and didn't mix with the other girls in the market who gossiped about customers and men in crisp kaftans.
Zainab didn't have time for that.
Not anymore.
Not since Ilorin.
Not since Dapo.
She sipped her tea slowly, but her mind had already drifted away—to that day the police stormed the flat. The suitcases. The calls that stopped coming. The betrayal that still made her chest burn like acid.
A Toyota Corolla drove past, splashing muddy water near her slippers. She didn't flinch.
She was used to being stained without warning.
Just as she turned to go inside and lock up for the day, a black Benz pulled up slowly in front of her shop.
It wasn't the flashy kind. It was sleek, silent, like it belonged in Lekki but had gotten lost in Mushin.
Zainab squinted slightly.
The passenger door opened, and the first thing that hit her was the scent.
Not sweat.
Not cigarette.
Oud.
Thick. Expensive. The kind that lingers in your lungs.
Then came the man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Beard trimmed with purpose. Skin the color of smooth honey. His agbada was black with golden embroidery—subtle, not loud. A man who didn't need to speak loudly to be heard.
"Salam Alaikum," he said as he approached the shop.
Zainab didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, eyes unreadable.
"I need something tailored. Senator style," he added, offering a folded navy-blue fabric and a fat white envelope. "For a friend's engagement. This Sunday."
Zainab looked down at the fabric, then at the envelope. She didn't need to open it to know the money was much more than the job required.
She took a deep breath.
"We don't take express jobs," she said flatly, turning her back to him and walking inside.
But the man didn't leave.
He followed her in, slowly, respecting her space, yet with an aura that said he was used to getting what he wanted.
"I'm not trying to stress you," he said gently. "I just… heard you're the best."
Zainab turned slightly. "From who?"
He paused, smiled faintly, then answered, "People talk."
That was the first red flag.
She never advertised. Never handed out flyers. Never even posted on social media.
But somehow this man knew her name, her shop, her work.
He placed the envelope on her table. Neatly.
₦50,000 in new notes.
The type of money that comes with conditions.
"Name?" she asked finally, picking up her tape measure.
"Obinna. But you can call me Obi."
She scribbled it down, then signaled for him to stand.
He did.
She took his measurements. Her fingers were steady, but her eyes kept drifting to his wrist—left hand, a faded scar. Thin. Clean. Like a healed chain mark.
Handcuffs.
Zainab didn't say anything. But her instincts, honed by years of heartbreak and survival, screamed something was off.
"Pick-up is Saturday evening," she said.
"Perfect," Obi replied. "I'll be here."
As he turned to leave, he stopped by the door.
"I like your silence," he said. "It's rare."
Then he stepped outside.
Zainab walked to the window slowly and watched him enter the Benz. The car didn't start immediately. The driver seemed to be watching her shop through the side mirror.
Finally, the car drove off. No plate number. Or at least, nothing visible. The rain had muddied the metal.
She stood there, heart beating steadily. Not fast. Not scared.
But alert.
She turned back to her table, touched the fabric he left behind. Navy blue. Smooth. Imported.
She opened the envelope and counted.
Exactly ₦50,000.
Zainab sat on her sewing stool and looked at her hands.
The last time someone dropped money like this, she ended up sleeping in a police cell in Ilorin with mosquitoes biting every part of her body and her ex-boyfriend nowhere to be found.
That was two years ago.
She was wiser now.
Or so she told herself.
But one thing was certain.
Obinna—Obi—was not just here for tailoring.
And Zainab… might not be ready for what he brought with him.
Not again.
Not this soon.
But the needle had already entered the cloth.
And this thread? It was about to stitch something dark.