Chapter 30: THE RECKONING

The paperwork towered over him like a punishment. Karim sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes sunk deep into the grey light of morning. Case files, cold cases, surveillance reports — stacked, spilling, suffocating. The kind of work that was supposed to make a man feel useful. Instead, it made him feel buried.

The air in the SCID office was still, too still. No Salako’s banter. No bark from the DSP down the hall. Just the ticking of the clock and the low hum of ceiling fans struggling against the heat.

He had been reinstated two days ago. No meeting. No explanation. No welcome. Just a letter with the Inspector General’s seal and the instruction to

“resume duties immediately.”

He flipped open another file, skimmed the page, and shut it again. His mind wasn’t here. He thought of Jemima, of her face when she had told him

everything, of Aisha’s cold smile. He thought of the numbers carved into men’s flesh. He thought of how all of it led nowhere.

Something about this silence was wrong.

He grabbed his keys and left.

—

DSP Bako’s house smelled of whiskey and damp air. Curtains drawn. The television flickered with no sound, bathing the room in ghostly blue. The man himself sat hunched in an armchair, bottle half-empty beside him.

When Karim entered, Bako didn’t look up. “Ah,” he said after a long pause, “the great detective. The one they brought back to bury me.”

Karim frowned. “Sir—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Karim,” he slurred, pointing with a shaky hand. “You want to know why you’re back?

Why I’m sitting here like a drunk fool? You want to know where Salako is? Ask your saint Irene.”

Karim froze. “What are you talking about?”

Bako laughed bitterly, then coughed. “You really don’t know? That girl—your Irene—she figured it

out. Knew Jemima was behind everything. She saw it in your face, boy. Said you were falling apart. Said the tears you shed when she came to your

apartment… the way you passed out at Okoro’s scene… only one reason for that kind of guilt.”

He leaned forward, voice low and vicious. “She went

to the IG. Asked for your reinstatement so they could keep you busy while she and Salako took care of the

mess. Formed a special task force — under her command. Her idea of justice. I was suspended so I wouldn’t interfere.”

Karim’s throat tightened.

“Justice,” Bako spat. “We built a system that eats its own and calls it justice. You should’ve left it alone.”

Karim turned and walked out before the man could say more.

—

The road blurred under his tires. His mind raced faster. Irene. Salako. Jemima. Aisha. Samuel. Yua.

And somewhere in the middle, a campaign rally for Moses Agbor — the last worm.

He dialed Jemima again. No response. Again. Nothing.

The sound of his horn drowned his thoughts. Posters for Moses Agbor for a Better Tomorrow lined the streets, half torn, flapping like dying wings.

He pressed harder on the accelerator.

—

At the rally grounds, the crowd was chaos and color. Flags waving, chants rising, speakers booming

promises nobody believed. Security was tight but disorganized — too many men shouting orders, too few listening.

Karim flashed his badge, forcing his way through. He scanned faces, scanned corners. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

Then the air shifted.

A sharp pop cracked through the chant. Then another.

Screams erupted. Smoke. Panic. People running in every direction, stumbling, falling.

He pushed through the blur, coughing, eyes stinging. Somewhere ahead, men were hustling Moses Agbor away, dragging him toward a black SUV. One of them had scars across his right hand — deep, familiar.

“Samuel…” Karim muttered.

He started running.

Gunfire split the air again. Samuel jerked backward, blood blooming across his shirt. Yua turned — a flash of confusion — then another shot dropped him beside Samuel.

Karim froze, the scene spinning in slow motion.

Then he saw her.

Jemima, behind the stage, slipping through the smoke, her face calm — eerily calm — knife in hand. She was moving toward Moses Agbor.

“Jemima!” he shouted.

She didn’t look back.

The next shot caught her clean in the chest. No scream, no struggle — she just stumbled forward, fell to her knees, and with her last breath, drove the blade into Agbor’s neck.

Blood sprayed across the podium. The governor’s aides scattered. Jemima collapsed beside the man she came to kill.

Karim rushed forward, dropping beside her. Her eyes were open but empty now. There were no final words. No explanations. Just silence.

He looked up.

Through the thinning smoke, the shooter lowered her gun.

Irene.

Her hands trembled. Her face was wet. She didn’t

speak.

Aisha was gone — vanished in the chaos.

Sirens began to wail, closing in. Officers stormed the scene, shouting commands lost to the wind. Karim

didn’t move. He just stared at Jemima, the blood on

his hands mixing with hers.

He had chased the truth until it broke him.

—

Two Weeks Later

Karim’s desk was empty. The office smelled of dust

and old sweat. His badge and sidearm lay on the

table, next to a sealed envelope addressed to the Inspector General.

He stood there for a while, staring at the sunlight crawling across the wall. Then he turned, walked out, and didn’t look back.

Outside, Lagos buzzed and roared, indifferent to everything that had just ended.

He lit a cigarette, inhaled once, exhaled slowly.

“He’d chased justice until it bled into vengeance — and somewhere in between, they’d both died.”

He dropped the butt to the ground, crushed it underfoot, and walked into the noise

THE END