The Money

₦485,000 for a bracelet. But where is a man with no real office getting that kind of money?

Tola couldn’t sleep again. But this time it wasn’t because of heartbreak. It was because her brain wouldn’t stop doing math.

Dubem’s apartment in Lekki Phase 1. One bedroom, yes, but Lekki Phase 1. Rent alone was probably four, five million a year. Maybe more. His car, the black Camry, wasn’t cheap either. The restaurants. The trips to Abuja every other week. The ₦485,000 bracelet he bought like it was a pack of gum.

And his job? “Consulting.” That’s what he always said. Consulting. She’d asked him once, early in the relationship, what exactly that meant. He’d smiled and said, “I connect people who need things with people who have things. I’m the bridge.”

She remembered thinking that sounded cool. Smooth. Impressive, even.

Now it sounded like a man who had practiced that answer in the mirror.

The next morning, Nkem sent photos.

Not selfies. Not baby bump pictures. Documents.

She’d gone into Dubem’s home office after he left for what he said was a meeting. She took pictures of everything she could find before he came back.

Tola opened them one by one.

The first was a company registration document. “Okafor & Associates Consulting Ltd.” Registered in Abuja. Dubem listed as sole director. The registered address was the same serviced office Nkem had visited. A desk and a phone.

The second was a contract. Tola had to zoom in to read it. It was between Okafor & Associates and a construction company she’d never heard of. The contract was for “consultancy services related to federal road infrastructure development.” The amount at the bottom: ₦147 million.

One hundred and forty-seven million naira. For a company with one desk and one phone.

The third photo made her put the phone down.

A bank statement. Dubem’s personal account. One page. One month. Three deposits from different company names she didn’t recognize. The smallest was ₦12 million. The largest was ₦43 million. In one month.

Tola called Chinyere.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why?”

“Sit down.”

She sent the photos. Waited. Heard nothing for almost a full minute.

Then Chinyere said, very slowly: “Tola. What kind of man were you dating?”

They met at Chinyere’s that evening. Just the two of them. Chinyere had printed the photos, which Tola thought was dramatic until Chinyere said, “Screenshots can be deleted. Paper is paper.”

Fair point.

They spread everything on the table like detectives in a film. Contract. Registration. Bank statement. Nkem had also sent a photo of a business card she found in his drawer. It had Dubem’s name, the company name, and a title Tola had never heard him use: “Senior Government Relations Consultant.”

“Government relations,” Chinyere said. “That’s a nice way of saying he knows people in government and they pay him to make things happen.”

“Is that illegal?”

“Depends on what he’s making happen. If he’s a legitimate middleman, no. But Tola, look at these numbers. ₦43 million in one transfer? To a personal account? From a company he set up with a fake office? This is not consulting. This is something else.”

Tola sat back. She thought about all the times Dubem talked about his “clients” without ever naming them. The way he’d take calls outside, always outside, voice low. The way his apartment looked like a display home. Nothing personal. Nothing real. Because it wasn’t his real home. His real home was in Abuja with Nkem. The Lagos apartment was just another prop in a life built entirely on performance.

“What do we do with this?” Tola asked.

“Nothing yet. We keep gathering. But Tola, this is not boyfriend-girlfriend wahala anymore. This is the kind of thing that gets people in serious trouble.”

Meanwhile, Dubem was calling.

After the restaurant confrontation, Tola had expected silence. Maybe shame. Maybe a few days of him licking his wounds before he tried to reach out.

Instead, he called fourteen times on Monday. Fourteen. She didn’t pick up once.

He sent texts.

“Tola, please let me explain.”

“You don’t have the full picture.”

“I know I messed up but what we had was real. Please.”

“Can we just talk? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

She read every message and replied to none.

Tuesday, he showed up at her office. Just appeared in the reception area like it was normal. Her colleague Shade came to her desk and said, “Tola, some fine man is asking for you at the front.”

Tola’s blood went cold. She told Shade to tell him she wasn’t in. Shade looked confused but did it. Tola watched from the window as Dubem stood outside for ten minutes, looking at his phone, before he finally left.

Wednesday, flowers arrived at the office. Big bouquet. Red roses. The card said: “I’m sorry. Please give me a chance to make this right. D.”

She put them in the dustbin. Mr. Balogun saw her do it and said, “Tola, those flowers cost money oh. At least give them to somebody.”

“They cost more than money, sir.”

He looked at her, confused, and walked away.

Thursday, the calls stopped.

Friday, the texts stopped.

By Saturday, complete silence. And somehow, that was worse. Because Dubem never gave up on anything. The man who pursued her for three weeks before she agreed to a first date, the man who made a dinner reservation to apologize for being late, the man who showed up at her office and sent flowers when she wouldn’t pick up his calls… that man didn’t just go quiet.

Unless he was planning something.

Sunday night. 9:47pm. Tola’s phone rang. Unknown number.

She almost didn’t pick up. But something told her to.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice. Not Dubem’s. Deeper. Calmer. But with the same Igbo accent, the same smoothness. Like charm was something this family passed down at the dinner table.

“Good evening. Am I speaking to Adetola?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Obinna Okafor. I’m Dubem’s older brother. And I think you and I need to have a conversation.”

Tola’s hand tightened around the phone.

“I hear you’ve been talking to Nkem. I hear you’ve been… digging into things. I’m not calling to threaten you. I’m calling because I care about my family and I want to resolve this quietly. Like adults.”

His voice was polished. Controlled. Every word chosen the way a lawyer chooses words. But underneath all that polish, Tola heard something else. Something that sounded less like concern and more like a warning.

“My brother has made mistakes. I won’t deny that. But what you’re digging into right now? It’s bigger than a bracelet. It’s bigger than a marriage. And I say this with all respect, Adetola.”

He paused. The kind of pause that’s meant to land heavy.

“You should be very, very careful.”

The line didn’t go dead. He was waiting. Waiting for her to say okay. Waiting for her to fold.

Tola heard her own heartbeat in her ears. Her hand was shaking. But her voice, when it came, was steady.

“Is that a threat, Obinna?”

“It’s advice.”

“It sounds like a threat.”

“Then maybe you should listen to it.”

Click.

The room was silent. Her phone screen glowed in the dark. She put it down. Picked it up. Put it down again.

She thought about calling Chinyere. She thought about calling Nkem. She thought about calling her mother in Ibadan and crying like a child and saying “Mummy, I’m scared.”

Instead, she opened her Notes app. Scrolled to the list she started weeks ago. “THINGS THAT DON’T ADD UP.” It was long now. Two pages. But she scrolled to the bottom and added one more thing:

“7. His brother just called me. They’re scared. Whatever Dubem is into, it’s big enough for his family to try and shut me up.”

She locked the phone. Sat in the dark.

They were scared. Good.

That meant she was getting close.

END OF EPISODE 9