Chapter 27: PROCESS

Karim shifted in his seat, jaw tight, eyes heavy with something between anger and disbelief. He had spent his career chasing monsters, but none had ever sat this calmly across from him.

“Basically,” he said finally, “that was when the killing started, right?”

Jemima looked straight at him, noting the hurt in his voice, the pull between his beliefs, duty, and the law. She spoke softly now, as though they were alone in the room.

“Not quite,” she said. “It was hard to infiltrate men like them — powerful, insulated, always surrounded by security. We had to make a plan.”

Aisha leaned forward, her tone measured, eyes

unflinching. “Fortunately, the former commissioner of police, Kola Ademola, was a patron of mine. It was easier to start with him.”

Karim blinked, his lips tightening. The words seemed to hang in the air like the edge of a blade.

Aisha continued. “He was the kind of man who spoke too much and listened too little. The kind of man who thought his money and medals made him

untouchable. He didn’t notice the glint in my eyes

when he bragged about how he’d cleaned up the

police force. He didn’t realize I was studying him — his habits, his routine, the layout of his house.”

She paused, her eyes distant. “That was his first mistake.”

Karim leaned forward slightly, voice dry. “I assume Jemima was the perfume woman. Did you bring her along for a three-way?” He asked, his hurt turning to a weapon.

Aisha chuckled dryly, her eyes flicking to Jemima, then back at him. “Not quite, detective. My father had many associates from his time inside. One of

them went by Yua — a quiet man who could slip

through vents and vanish through air ducts like

smoke. He became an important part of our plan.”

Karim scribbled something into his notepad, but his hands were stiff. The room felt heavier now, the kind of silence that carried memory.

Aisha’s voice softened, as if she were narrating a

dream she had once tried to forget.

—

The night she went to Kola’s house, the air smelled of salt and old money. The multimillion-naira mansion stood on Banana Island, glass and marble

gleaming under the moonlight. He had gone through

the trouble to pick her up himself, driving through the gates without as much as a word to the men stationed there. The police officers at the main

building however saw her. They didn’t take a second

look at her though.

Inside, Kola greeted her with the grin of a man too used to power. He changed to a silk robe and an expensive wristwatch, even in his own home. His laughter echoed across the hallway, heavy and arrogant.

“Ah, my darling!” he said, reaching to kiss her

cheek. “You disappear for months and come back

looking like sin itself. Lagos must have missed you.”

She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You know how it is, sir. A girl has to work to stay wanted.”

He laughed again, leading her to the dining room. Cognac poured. Jokes told. The night stretched, soft and calculated.

When Kola finally retreated to his study, she followed quietly. The room was lined with certificates, framed commendations, and photographs of him shaking hands with men in uniform. Heroes of their own imagination. The chandelier light fractured across the glass of the cognac she held. His voice droned on, thick with self-praise, as she

watched him, her gaze fixed not on his lips — but on the pulse at his throat.

He leaned back in his chair, still talking. “You

wouldn’t believe what we had to do back in the day. Sometimes, to protect peace, you have to bend justice. People don’t understand that.”

Aisha smiled faintly. “Oh, I understand perfectly.”

He didn’t notice the way her tone shifted — or the faint scrape of metal as she loosened the bolts of the vent above the bookshelf later that evening while he was in the bathroom .

Yua entered later, unseen, crawling through the narrow duct system with the precision of a shadow. He waited now, crouched in silence, watching through the slats.

Kola poured himself another glass. “To peace,” he

said, raising the drink.

Aisha didn’t move. “To justice,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “Justice? My dear, there’s no justice in this country. Only survival.”

That was when she stood.

Her voice was cold when she spoke again. “Do you remember Samuel Abati?”

He frowned, the name barely stirring memory.

“Should I?”

She took a slow step closer, eyes glinting. “You should. You signed his conviction papers fifteen years ago. A farmhand accused of killing a wealthy couple. But he didn’t do it, did he? You knew that. You knew he was innocent. You beat confession out of him .”

Kola blinked, confusion giving way to irritation. “I don’t know what you think you know, but I—”

“You lied,” she cut in, her tone low, trembling with years of buried rage. “You framed an innocent man to protect yourself, your job. You let them take his daughter’s life apart, piece by piece, until nothing was left.”

He stood, puffing his chest. “Watch your mouth, girl. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smiled — small, almost tender. “Oh, I do. I’m his daughter.”

The glass slipped from his hand and shattered.

He stammered. “You— you can’t be—”

But she was already moving. The knife came from her thigh holster — a small, narrow blade, sharp as her grief. He stood up reflexively unaware of the shadow in the back. Yua sprung on him grabbing him from behind. She pressed it against his throat, eyes wet but unwavering.

“You took everything,” she whispered. “Now I’ll take it back.”

He raised his hands slowly, trying to reason, but there was no mercy left in her. She pulled a handkerchief doused in chloroform and pressed it again his nose. She then dragged the body out along with Yua. They strapped him to a chair and Yua did

the knots. They bludgeoned him and then Aisha

drove the knife into his chest carving the number. Yua went around cleaning traces, spraying perfume to add the misleading lead that there had been someone else there. Someone feminine.

When the work was done, Yua whispered, “We must go.”

She nodded, her voice barely audible. “You go. I’ll handle the rest.”

He hesitated, but she met his gaze — steady, unreadable. Then he slipped away, back into the vent, vanishing like he’d never been there.

Aisha turned to the body, smirked at it. Then she poured another glass of cognac, sat across from him, and waited. After about half an hour, she began to scream.

—

Karim’s pen stopped moving. The silence in the interrogation room felt thick enough to drown in. He looked up slowly, his voice quieter now.

“So you waited for us.”

Aisha nodded once. “Yes.”

“Why?”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “To sell the story, detective. To make it believable. And to get a feel for who would be on the case — who’d come for me, and how to prepare for them.”

He studied her, his gaze sharp, searching. “You realize how insane that sounds?”

“I realize how justice works,” she said evenly. “It’s only insane when it comes from the powerless.”

Karim leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. His reflection flickered in the glass of the observation window — tired, human, haunted.

—

The interrogation the next morning had been a

performance. She’d played her part well — the trembling suspect, the traumatized escort who had stumbled onto horror. She cried when they expected her to, spoke softly, and told half-truths like confessions.

She was allowed to go home that day which was earlier than she had expected.

When she walked out of the station that morning, the sunlight felt unreal — too bright for what she had done. Jemima was waiting across the road in her car,

dark glasses hiding red eyes.

They didn’t speak until they reached the safe house near the port. Samuel was there, sitting in the corner like a shadow made of flesh.

He looked up as they entered. “You did it?”

Aisha nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Jemima looked between them, her voice breaking.

“He deserved it.”

Samuel didn’t smile. His face was calm, unreadable. “Deserve has nothing to do with it. What’s done is done. But remember this — vengeance isn’t justice.

It’s a habit.”

Aisha met his gaze, something cold flickering behind her eyes. “Then we’ll keep the habit until justice looks back.”

For a long while, no one spoke. The sound of the waves outside filled the silence — steady, eternal, like breathing. Karim’s voice, faintly from the present, broke back through the haze.

“And that was the first,” he murmured.

Aisha looked at him, her tone flat. “Yes. The first cankerworm.”