The Other Thing

Emeka called Biodun back.

Not because he forgave him. Not even close. But something else you need to know was the kind of sentence that didn’t let a man sit still. It had hooks in it.

Biodun picked up before the first ring finished.

“Talk,” Emeka said.

“Where are you?”

“Talk Biodun.”

A pause. The kind that meant the person on the other end was choosing their words the way you choose steps across a surface you’re not sure will hold your weight.

“Dayo is not just — he’s not a regular guy, E. He’s connected. His uncle is Commissioner Adeleke. Sulaimon Adeleke.”

Emeka knew the name. Everyone in Lagos knew the name. Commissioner Adeleke had been in the papers three times this year alone — land grabs in Ibeju-Lekki, a police brutality case that quietly disappeared, a contract scandal that somehow became nobody’s business by the following week.

“So he has a powerful uncle,” Emeka said. “What does that have to do with my wife?”

“It’s not just that.” Biodun exhaled slowly. “E, Dayo doesn’t — this is not the first time he’s done this. There was a woman in Abuja. Married. Her husband found out and tried to report him for something. I don’t know the full story but the husband — nothing happened to Dayo. Something happened to the husband.”

The neem tree shadow was still moving on his windscreen.

“What does something mean?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just know the man lost his job. Lost his contract. Within two months of trying to move against Dayo everything in his life just, fell apart. And Dayo never even looked uncomfortable about it.”

Emeka said nothing.

“I’m not saying don’t do anything,” Biodun said quickly. “I’m saying be careful how you do it. This is not a regular man you’re dealing with. He has cover. You go at him the wrong way and he will bury you before you even know what happened.”

Outside a danfo bus screeched past, conductor hanging off the door, shouting a destination like it was an argument.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Emeka asked.

“Because you called. Because you found out. Because I’ve been carrying this for three months and it’s been killing me.”

“It’s been killing you.” His voice was flat. “Okay.”

“E—”

“I’ll call you.”

He hung up.

He sat there and let everything settle into place like sediment in water. Dayo was not just a man sleeping with his wife. Dayo was a man with a shield. A man who had done this before and walked away clean while someone else’s life became rubble.

Emeka started the car.

His mind was already moving — not with anger, not anymore. Anger was for men who didn’t know what they were dealing with. What he felt now was colder than anger.

More useful.

He pulled into traffic.

He needed to know everything about Dayo Adeleke before Dayo knew he existed.

Because the man in Abuja had gone at Dayo loudly.

Emeka had no intention of making that mistake.

His phone buzzed on the seat.

A text from Sade: Did you forget the tomatoes? With a small emoji. A tiny laughing face.

He looked at it for exactly three seconds.

Then he drove.