What She Doesn’t Know

He bought the tomatoes.

Four fat ones in a black nylon bag, bought from a woman outside the Shoprite on Admiralty Way. He paid without bargaining, took his change without counting it, and drove home on autopilot while his mind worked somewhere else entirely.

By the time he parked in the compound he had made three decisions.

One — he would not confront Sade. Not yet. A man who shows his hand before he’s ready loses before the game begins.

Two — he needed to know who Dayo Adeleke really was. Not the Facebook profile. Not what Biodun heard secondhand. The real architecture of this man’s life.

Three — he needed someone he could trust completely. And in Lagos, in this situation, that list was dangerously short.

Sade was in the living room when he walked in, legs folded on the couch, laptop open, working. She looked up and smiled.

“Tomatoes?”

He raised the nylon bag.

“You’re the best.” She was already back in her screen. Event proposal. He could see the layout from where he stood — a wedding reception somewhere in Eko Hotel.

He went to the kitchen. Put the tomatoes on the counter. Stood there for a moment looking at them.

That’s his problem.

He changed into a plain t-shirt and shorts and sat in the bedroom with his own laptop, the door half open. He could hear her on a call now — professional voice, the one she used with clients. Confident. Warm. Organised. She was good at her job. He had always admired that about her.

He opened a new browser tab.

Dayo Adeleke. He was careful, no searches from his phone, nothing that could be seen, nothing that left the wrong kind of trail. He used the laptop, private window, and he went slowly.

LinkedIn came up first. Senior Business Development Manager, Crest Energy Services. Seven years at the company. Before that, an MBA from a university in the UK. The profile was clean and confident — the kind that had been carefully curated by someone who understood that appearance was armor.

Then the newspaper archives.

Commissioner Sulaimon Adeleke — Dayo’s uncle — appeared in seventeen articles across four years. Land. Contracts. Allegations that dissolved. A reporter from a mid-sized online platform had published an investigative piece eight months ago about properties in Ibeju-Lekki illegally acquired through proxy companies.

One of the proxy company directors listed was a D.O. Adeleke.

Dayo Olumide Adeleke.

Emeka sat back slowly.

This man was not just sleeping with his wife. This man was laundering land through shell companies connected to a corrupt commissioner. Which meant he had money, connections, and something to protect.

Which meant he was dangerous in ways that went beyond a powerful uncle.

From the living room Sade laughed at something her client said. Easy and bright, the laugh that had made him fall in love with her at a mutual friend’s birthday in 2019, standing by a drinks table arguing about Afrobeats.

He closed the laptop.

The thing about Sade was that she didn’t know what Dayo was. He was almost certain of that. She thought she was having an affair with a successful, charming man who made her feel something her marriage had stopped providing.

She had no idea she was sleeping next to a lit match.

And neither did Emeka — until today.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He stared at it.

It buzzed again.

He picked up.

Silence on the line. Then a voice — male, low, unhurried.

“Mr. Emeka. I think we should talk. About your wife. And about what you’ve been looking into this afternoon.”

The call ended.

Emeka’s hand was completely still.

Someone was watching him.