MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

HIS MOTHER IS MISSING.

By morning the rain had stopped, but Lagos still smelled like wet cement and danger.

Tunde drove in silence. Kunle was slumped in the passenger seat, a bottle of water and paracetamol on his lap. His face was pale, but his eyes were alert.

“We need to tell Dad,” Kunle said.

“We will,” Tunde replied. “But first, Oke-Ayo Estate. If Mama Nkechi is missing, that’s our next clue.”

Chief Adeyemi picked up on the second ring. His voice was sharp. Military.

“Report.”

Tunde gave it to him straight. The missing 20 million. The python in Ojuelegba. The poisoned vape in Ikorodu. Chief Martins. The text message.

There was a long pause.

“Martins Adebayo,” Chief Adeyemi said slowly. “I know that name. Import/export. Shady. We investigated him in 2019 for smuggling. Case died.”

“Dad, we need backup. They’re targeting us now.”

“I’ll send two of my boys,” Chief Adeyemi said. “DSP Ayo and Inspector Nnamdi. Trusted. They’ll meet you in Abeokuta. But Tunde... don’t trust anyone else. Not even in the force. Not until we know who’s leaking.”

An hour later they pulled up to Oke-Ayo Estate, Abeokuta. Big gate. Security house. Guards in black.

The head guard, a man with tribal marks, looked at their ID and frowned. “You’re late. Madam left yesterday.”

“Left?” Tunde stepped out of the car. “Where to?”

“Didn’t say. Just packed one bag and entered a black GLK. No driver. She drove herself.”

Kunle and Tunde exchanged a look. That didn’t sound like Mama Nkechi. A 52-year-old woman who never drove past Ikeja.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The gate was slightly open.

Inside, the living room was neat. Pictures of Emeka on the wall. Family portraits. But on the marble floor, near the front door, was one thing:

A single red heel. Size 38.

And on the gate outside, drawn in white chalk: A coiled python.

Kunle’s stomach turned. “Bro... that’s Eku’s signature.”

Just then, two SUVs pulled up. Doors opened and out stepped DSP Ayo and Inspector Nnamdi. Both in plain clothes, but with the DSS bearing. Ayo was tall, scar on his jaw. Nnamdi was shorter, always chewing gum.

“Chief Adeyemi’s boys,” Ayo said, shaking their hands. “What do we have?”

Tunde showed them the shoe and the chalk drawing. Nnamdi took pictures, dusted for prints. Nothing.

“We ran the CCTV from the gate,” Ayo said after calling his team. “Footage for the last 48 hours is corrupted. Someone wiped it professionally.”

“So inside job?” Kunle asked.

“Or someone with police-level access,” Ayo said grimly. “We’ll put out an APB for Mama Nkechi and the black GLK. But don’t get your hopes up. If this is Martins’ gang, they’ll dump the car in two hours.”

They searched the house for three hours. Emeka’s room was untouched. His laptop was gone. His wardrobe was neat. But under his pillow, Kunle found something: a folded paper.

It was a bank deposit slip. Twenty million naira. Deposited into an account in Cotonou, Benin Republic. Name: 'E. Okoro Holdings.'

Date: 3 days ago.

“Emeka moved the money out of the country,” Tunde said. “Then he disappeared.”

Ayo took the slip. “This is federal. We’ll need EFCC on this.” He made a call. 10 minutes later he hung up, jaw tight.

“EFCC says the account was closed yesterday. All funds withdrawn in cash at a branch in Cotonou.”

Nnamdi kicked a chair. “They’re always one step ahead.”

As they were leaving, Ayo pulled Tunde aside.

“Listen. Your dad and I go way back. But I’m telling you as a friend, not as DSS. Drop this case. These people killed a judge in Port Harcourt last year and walked free. They use juju, they use police, they use everything. And now they know you’re Chief Adeyemi’s sons.”

Tunde met his eyes. “Sir, with respect. We can’t. Someone has to find Emeka and his mom.”

Ayo sighed. “Then be smart. Call me on this private line only. No station lines.” He slipped Tunde a card.

They were driving back to Lagos when Kunle’s phone rang. Unknown number.

He answered on speaker.

A woman’s voice. Shaky. Whispering.

“Kunle? Tunde? It’s me. Mama Nkechi.”

“Mama! Where are you?” Tunde grabbed the phone.

“I don’t know. Somewhere near the border. They have me. They say if I talk, they’ll”

The line cut.

Then a text came in from the same number. A photo.

Mama Nkechi, blindfolded, sitting on a concrete floor. Behind her, painted on the wall: 'A giant python.'

Caption: 'One more move and she dies. This is your last warning.'

Kunle threw the phone. “They have her!”

Tunde’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white.

His phone buzzed again. Chief Adeyemi.

“Boys. We have a problem. Martins just posted bail for 3 of his men arrested in Oshodi. And our informant inside his house... he’s dead. Found this morning. Snake bite.”

The rain started again.