The devil's soft spot

The questions

They came on Monday.

Two men. Plain clothes. The kind of plain clothes that were trying too hard to be plain — pressed trousers, neat shirts, the particular posture of people who were used to being obeyed.

They came at ten in the morning when the pharmacy was quiet and Tolu had stepped out for supplies and Kamsi was alone behind the counter doing inventory.

The taller one showed a badge. briefly. Too briefly to read properly.

"Miss Kamsi Obi?" he said.

"Yes." She set down her clipboard.

"We're conducting an investigation into an incident that occurred at Eko Hotel last Thursday evening." He looked at her steadily. "We have reason to believe you were present in the building that night."

Kamsi looked at him.

She thought about a plain white card in her pocket.

She thought about: call that number before you answer them.

"Can I see that badge again please?" she said.

The man's expression didn't change. He showed it again. Slower this time.

She read it.

No department name. Just a number and a stamp she didn't recognise.

"I'd like to make a phone call before we continue," she said.

"That won't be necessary—"

"I think it will be." She kept her voice completely even. "I'm sure you understand. Standard procedure."

The two men looked at each other.

"We just have a few questions," the second one said. Softer. More reasonable. The good version. "Nothing serious."

"Then a phone call won't delay you long." She picked up her phone. "Excuse me one moment."

She walked to the back of the pharmacy.

She dialled the number.

It rang once.

"You called," he said. Not surprised. Not anything she could name. Just his voice — quiet and controlled and somehow steadying.

"Two men," she said quietly. "Plain clothes. Badge I don't recognise. Asking about Thursday night."

A pause. Short.

"Don't tell them anything," he said. "Ask for their full identification and the name of their supervising officer. Write it down. They'll leave."

"How do you know they'll leave?"

"Because they're not here for information," he said quietly. "They're here to see if you'll talk."

She held the phone.

"Kamsi." His voice was calm. "You're doing well. Go back out."

She went back out.

She stood behind her counter.

She looked at the two men.

"I'll need your full identification," she said. "Both of you. And the name and contact of your supervising officer." She picked up a pen. "I'll write it down."

Something shifted in the taller man's face.

"That's not necessary—"

"I think it is." She held her pen. "Standard procedure."

A long pause.

The two men looked at each other again.

"We'll come back," the taller one said.

"I'll be here," she said pleasantly.

They left.

She stood at her counter and watched them go and kept her face completely neutral until the door closed and they were past the window and then she put her hands flat on the counter and breathed.

Her phone buzzed.

One message.

Zion: Well done.

She stared at it.

He had been listening. The call hadn't disconnected. He had heard everything.

She typed back slowly.

Kamsi: Were you listening the whole time?

Zion: Yes.

Kamsi: That's invasive.

Zion: That's protection. There's a difference.

She looked at the message.

She thought about two men with badges she couldn't read and questions about a night she had promised to forget.

Kamsi: Who were they?

A pause. Longer than his usual ones.

Zion: Not police.

Kamsi: Then who?

Zion: People who work for someone who wants to know what you saw.

Kamsi: I didn't see anything.

Zion: I know that. They don't.

She set her phone on the counter.

She looked at her pharmacy — her shelves, her space, the life she had built carefully and quietly on her own terms.

Her phone buzzed again.

Zion: I need to see you tonight. Not the hotel. Somewhere you're comfortable.

She looked at the message for a long time.

Every sensible part of her — the part that had built this life carefully and protected it fiercely — said no. Said: this is not your problem. Said: you saw nothing, you know nothing, walk away.

But she thought about men with unreadable badges coming to her pharmacy. Coming to her space. Her Monday morning. Her inventory and her counter and the life she had built.

They had already made it her problem.

She typed back.

Kamsi: There's a café on Awolowo Road. Grounds. You know it?

She already knew he would know it.

Zion: 7PM.

She put her phone in her pocket.

Tolu came back twenty minutes later with supplies and the morning energy that Kamsi currently did not share.

"Everything okay?" Tolu asked, looking at her face.

"Fine," Kamsi said.

"You have the face again Ada—"

"Tolu." She picked up her clipboard. "Stock the shelves please."

Tolu stocked the shelves.

But Kamsi spent the rest of the day behind her counter thinking about 7 PM and a café on Awolowo Road and a man she had told herself she was not going to get involved with.

She was already involved.

She just hadn't admitted it yet.