The Reckoning
1010 Words
**The Office Aftermath**
Linda’s resignation left LTS Innovations buzzing like a gutted hive. Her glass-walled office—once a throne room of icy authority—stood hollow. Desk cleared. Plants wilted. A single stiletto heel lay abandoned under her chair like a forgotten war relic.
Tara slid into Jane’s cubicle, balancing two cans of Maltina. “They’re calling her ‘Lady Macbeth’ on Twitter.”
Jane scrolled through the hashtag: **#LadyLinda**. Memes painted her as a Nollywood villainess, her face photoshopped onto a *NAFDAC* poison label.
“This isn’t justice,” Jane muttered. “It’s a circus.”
Nathaniel emerged from a closed-door board meeting, his tie askew and eyes hard. The office hushed. Everyone watched him like prey sensing a predator.
“My office,” he said to Jane, not using her name.
Tara raised an eyebrow. *Trouble.*
Nathaniel’s office reeked of antiseptic and regret. He handed Jane a letter stamped **CONFIDENTIAL**.
“The board wants you gone.”
Her throat tightened. “Why?”
“They’re purging everyone tied to Linda. You’re collateral damage.” His voice cracked around the words.
Jane tossed the letter onto his desk. “So fire me.”
“Or,” he said slowly, “you take a promotion. Head of Ethics and Compliance. Lead the rebuild.”
Jane laughed, bitter and hollow. “The optics would kill you. Promoting the woman you’re accused of sleeping with?”
He flinched. “This isn’t about optics. It’s about survival.”
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
“Ours.” His fist struck the desk. “You think I’d let you walk away after everything?”
Jane froze. The raw need in his voice terrified her—not because it was foreign, but because it mirrored her own.
“Give me tonight,” she said quietly.
—
Mama stood at Jane’s stove, stirring *efo riro* with militant precision. The scent of smoked fish and *irú* filled the apartment—a fragrant olive branch.
“Sit,” Mama ordered, ladling stew over twin mounds of *amala*.
Jane obeyed, childhood reflex trumping pride.
“I spoke to Jide’s mother,” Mama said, crushing *ewedu* leaves between her fingers.
Jane’s spoon clattered. “Why?”
“She said he’s sorry. That he wants to apologize properly.”
“Let him rot.”
Mama’s lips twitched—almost a smile. “Good.”
Jane blinked. “What?”
“You think I want you back with that *olè*?” Mama scoffed. “I just needed to see if you’d lost your spine.”
Jane gaped. “You—you *tested* me?”
Mama shrugged. “A mother’s job.”
They ate in charged silence until Mama said, “Take the promotion.”
Jane choked. “How did you—?”
“Tara called. Smart girl. Marry her instead.”
—
**Amara’s Return**
Amara waited in the LTS lobby at dawn, her silhouette cut sharp against the bleeding horizon.
“You look terrible,” she said as Jane approached.
“You look alive,” Jane replied.
Amara offered a faint smile. “I’m here to testify. To the board. The press. Whoever needs the truth.”
Jane studied her—the scarred wrists, the unblinking gaze. “Why now?”
“Because Nathaniel isn’t the only one who owes you a debt.”
Before Jane could respond, Amara pressed a flash drive into her hand.
“Linda’s offshore accounts. Burn her properly.”
—
The board filed in, all tailored suits and weaponized neutrality. Jane entered last, Amara beside her.
“This is a closed session,” the silver-haired chairman snapped.
Jane placed the flash drive on the table. “Not anymore.”
Amara testified for twenty-seven relentless minutes. She named names. Cited dates. Dismantled Linda’s empire of blackmail and bribes. When she finished, the room felt vacuum-sealed.
Nathaniel stood. “I move to dissolve the current board and appoint interim leadership.”
Chaos followed.
Jane met his gaze across the table. He nodded.
She rose. “I second the motion.”
The vote passed by one.
—
At dusk, Jane found Nathaniel on the rooftop, sleeves rolled, tie long discarded.
“Interim CEO?” she asked.
“Reluctantly.” He handed her a champagne flute—non-alcoholic, a nod to her faith. “You?”
“Interim Head of Ethics.” She clinked his glass. “Temporarily.”
He smiled. “Everything’s temporary.”
Below, Abuja sprawled—alive with honking cars, hawkers' cries, neon signs flickering like broken promises. Jane let herself imagine, for a breath, what permanence might feel like.
Her phone buzzed—a text from Tara: *Party at mine. Bring Mr. Dimples.*
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Are we... invited?”
“We’re the help now. We go where we’re told.”
He laughed—loud, unguarded—and Jane stored the sound away like a secret.
—
The plaque on Jane’s desk gleamed like an accusation:
**Head of Ethics and Compliance**.
She traced the letters, wondering when integrity had become a job title instead of a choice.
Outside her office, Abuja simmered in organized chaos. Hawkers balanced trays of *suya*, buses belched smoke, and a street preacher’s amplified prayers clashed with car horns. Survival, not harmony.
Tara appeared in the doorway with two mugs of instant coffee.
“You look like someone died.”
“My inbox did.” Jane pointed to the screen—143 unread emails, half flagged *URGENT*.
“First rule of power, love: delegate or suffocate.” Tara dropped into the chair across from her, kicking sequined sandals onto the desk. “Also, Linda’s ghost is haunting the break room. Someone taped her headshots to the microwave.”
Jane massaged her temples. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Please. I’m classier than that.” Tara sipped her coffee. “I used the copier. Made fifty posters of her face with a big red X. Very vintage protest chic.”
A laugh escaped Jane, sharp and sudden. Tara always knew how to carve airholes in the coffin of adulthood.
- Writer
