Chapter 14: EMOTIONS

Karim woke on the cold tarred road, the faint perfume of wealth still clinging to the richer part of Lagos. The sharp sting of asphalt pressed against his cheek, and every breath tasted of dust, exhaust, and something sweet in the night air—perfume, lingering from a world he could never belong to. His head pulsed with a deep, pounding ache, and when he tried to move, his ribs protested.

Blue and red lights slashed across the facades of tall mansions. Police radios crackled. Indistinct voices rose and fell around him. A paramedic crouched over him, flashlight shining into his eyes.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Karim’s lips moved, but the words caught in his throat. He forced them out, barely audible at first. “Where… is she?” His voice rasped.

The medic leaned closer, mishearing.

Karim suddenly surged forward, his hands clutching the man’s shirt with desperate strength. “Where is she?” he shouted, his eyes wild, darting across the chaos.

The medic recoiled, startled. Another officer stepped in, trying to calm him. Karim shoved them both

away, staggering upright, his balance unsteady but

his obsession burning through the fog of pain. His gaze swept the road, the gardens, the lit windows. She was gone.

Salako came running, out of breath, his uniform soaked with sweat. “Where’s who, sir?” he asked, crouching low, his face etched with worry.

Karim’s fury faltered. The reality of what he had seen—her face, unmasked for a heartbeat, eyes full of something he couldn’t name—crashed over him like a wave. His strength drained. He slouched against the ambulance bumper, shoulders folding inward. His hands trembled as they buried his face.

What had she done?

The question pounded in his skull. Why Jemima? Why now? Was she the enemy all along, or had she been forced into this? Did every smile, every laugh, every gentle touch mean nothing? Or worse—had it all been for this moment, for this case?

Was happiness forbidden to him?

His mind was a battlefield, every memory of her weaponized against him.

Unseen by Karim, DSP Dewale had returned to the scene. The older man stood in silence, his frame stiff in the glow of patrol car lights. He watched Karim

with the eyes of a man who had seen too many

officers unravel. The way Karim staggered, the wildness in his voice, the collapse into grief— Dewale needed no more convincing. To him, Karim was compromised.

But Karim didn’t notice. He pushed himself away from the ambulance, brushing past Salako’s

outstretched arm. “Sir, wait—” Salako called, but Karim ignored him. His figure disappeared into the darkness, moving with the gait of a man who had lost something he couldn’t name.

—

At home, the air was unnaturally still. Karim shoved open the door, his body demanding rest, and froze.

Irene was seated on the couch, the lamp’s warm glow wrapping her in fragile light. For a second, he thought she was an apparition, conjured by his exhausted mind.

“You—” his voice cracked, his throat raw.

She rose slowly, her frame delicate but steady. Karim frowned, eyes sweeping over her. “You shouldn’t be up, Irene. You should be resting.”

Her lips curved into a tired smile. “I heard what happened,” she said softly. “The case… and your reaction. I needed to see if you were okay.”

His heart clenched. No one knew what he had seen. No one could possibly understand. And yet she had come.

Karim turned away, shoulders trembling. He bit down hard, willing himself to hold, to stay strong. But the cracks were too deep. A sob broke free, jagged and unguarded. His chest heaved as if every failure of his life had chosen this moment to collect their debts.

Irene moved closer, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. She laid her arms around him. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t demand explanations. She simply held him, firm and steady.

Karim sank into her embrace, hating himself for the weakness, for needing someone who couldn’t possibly grasp the wound. But he couldn’t stop. He let himself be consoled by her warmth, even as the truth of his devastation burned inside him like a secret poison.

—

The next morning, Karim walked into the precinct like a man condemned. The hum of voices dimmed as he stepped inside. Officers glanced up from their desks, whispers following in his wake. Files clutched tighter, conversations dropped mid-sentence.

Salako looked at him from across the hall, his face tight with unease, but said nothing.

Karim made his way to the DSP’s office. Inside,

Dewale sat stiffly, his expression carved from stone.

“You’re suspended indefinitely,” Dewale said, voice

cold, measured. “And removed from the case.”

The words landed with the finality of a gavel.

Karim didn’t argue. He didn’t ask for explanations or second chances. Without a word, he reached into his coat, pulled out his badge, and placed it on the desk. The weight of the metal on wood echoed louder than

any protest. His service pistol followed, its cold clink sealing the verdict.

He gathered his belongings into a cardboard box. The precinct watched him in silence as he walked the corridor one last time. His face was unreadable, but inside he was hollow. The weight of their stares

pressed against him, but he didn’t falter.

Outside, the sun was sharp, unforgiving. Karim slid the box into the backseat of his car. He sat behind the wheel, hands gripping it tightly, staring out through the windshield. His chest was empty, a cavern filled only with the sound of his own breathing.

The phone on the passenger seat buzzed. He picked it up.

A new message blinked on the screen.

Jemima: Meet me. Suite 407, Eko Hotel, Victoria Island. Alone.

His throat tightened. His pulse thundered in his ears. The glow of the phone lit his hand, stark against the shadows inside the car.

He closed his eyes, but her face wouldn’t leave him.

He knew what he should do. He also knew what he would do.

And in that silence, with the city pressing in around him, the decision pulled him into a darkness he wasn’t sure he would escape.