Goldview

The companies didn’t exist.

Not officially. Not in the CAC database, not in any business registration portal he could find. Goldview. Primrose. Clean names that sounded like legitimate event vendors and left absolutely no trail online. No website, no social media, no address, no director listing.

He sat back and looked at the screen.

Over one million naira in eleven months moving out of their joint account into companies that existed only as words on a bank transfer reference. And Sade’s signature was on every single one because she was the one who initiated joint account transfers for business purposes. They had agreed that years ago. Her business, her transfers. He handled the investments. She handled the operational costs.

He had never once questioned it.

He closed the laptop and sat in the silence of the flat. Church would hold Sade for at least two hours. He had time.

He picked up his phone and called Chidi.

“I need you to do something before tomorrow,” he said when Chidi picked up.

“Talk to me.”

“Two company names. Goldview and Primrose. I need to know if they exist anywhere. Bank accounts, BVN traces, anything. I need to know where money sent to those names actually landed.”

A pause.

“E, that kind of trace is not something I can do from my sitting room.”

“I know. Who can?”

Chidi was quiet for a moment. “There’s a guy. Femi. He used to work with EFCC before he left. Does private work now. He’s not cheap.”

“Set it up. Today if possible.”

“Today is Sunday.”

“Chidi.”

A breath. “Okay. Let me call him.”

He hung up and went to the kitchen. Poured the tea Sade had left on the counter even though it was cold now. Drank it standing at the window, looking down at the compound.

The gateman was awake now, sweeping lazily near the gate. A neighbour’s child was riding a bicycle in slow wobbly circles. Ordinary Sunday morning. The kind of morning that asked nothing from anyone.

His phone rang. Chidi.

“Femi can do a preliminary today. He wants fifty thousand upfront. He says if the accounts are real he can trace the destination within 48 hours.”

“Send me his details.”

He transferred the money within minutes. Femi sent a confirmation and nothing else. No pleasantries. The kind of man who understood that people only called him when something was already wrong.

Emeka was washing his cup in the sink when he heard the front door.

Sade was back.

He checked the time. Barely an hour had passed. She never came back from church in under two hours. Never. She stayed for fellowship, for the women’s group, for the slow social ritual of standing outside the auditorium talking to people she had known for years.

He dried his hands. Turned around.

She walked into the kitchen and stopped when she saw him. Something moved across her face. Not guilt exactly. Something more complicated than guilt.

“You’re back early,” he said.

“Service was short today.” She set her bag on the counter. Didn’t meet his eyes directly. Opened the fridge and stood looking into it without taking anything out.

He watched her.

She was still in her yellow dress but something about her was different from when she left. A small thing. The kind of thing only a man who had spent four years learning a woman’s rhythms would notice.

Her earrings were different.

She had left wearing simple gold studs.

She was wearing small hoops now.

She closed the fridge without taking anything. Picked up her bag.

“I’m going to change,” she said.

He nodded.

He listened to her walk to the bedroom. Heard the wardrobe open. He stood in the kitchen and felt something cold and absolute settle in his chest.

She hadn’t been at church.

Or she had gone to church and left before it ended.

Either way she had been somewhere else this morning. Somewhere that required different earrings.

He thought about Adunola’s voice note.

Tomorrow between 10 and 11am.

Tomorrow felt very far away.

His phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Femi.

Preliminary done. You need to sit down before you read this.