The Weight of Light
1167 Words
Nathaniel’s voice sliced through the moment. “Jane. A word?”
He stood in the hallway, crisp white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a file tucked beneath his arm.
Tara whistled. “Careful, boss. The board’s still watching.”
“Noted,” he said dryly—but his eyes never left Jane.
She followed him to the rooftop. The harmattan wind carried the acrid tang of burning trash from the nearby market. Without a word, he handed her the file.
“Dele’s back. He’s launching a rival firm.”
Jane flipped through it—business licenses, investor names, a Lagos address. “And?”
“He’s poaching our clients. Starting with the Women in Tech Accelerator.”
The words struck like a blow. That project was hers—*theirs*—a fragile promise of something better.
“Can we stop him?”
Nathaniel leaned against the concrete ledge, his silhouette etched against the bleached sky. “We can try. But Dele doesn’t fight fair.”
“You think I do?”
His gaze lingered on the scar above her eyebrow—a childhood fall she’d never explained. “No. You fight *better*.”
The compliment warmed her. She buried it.
---
Mama arrived unannounced that evening, armed with a woven basket of *moin moin* and *ewa agoyin*.
“You’re too thin,” she declared, steamrolling into the kitchen. “City air is starving you.”
Jane lingered in the doorway, torn between irritation and gratitude. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Your father sent me. He thinks you’re cursed.”
“What?”
Mama unwrapped the *moin moin*, the scent of banana leaves thick in the room. “Three times now, men have tried to break you. Jide. Linda. This Dele. Papa says it’s *aíbánujẹ́*—envy.”
Jane scoffed. “It’s not witchcraft. It’s capitalism.”
“Same thing.” Mama slapped a portion of beans onto a plate. “Eat. Then call your brother.”
“Why?”
“He’s a lawyer now. Let him sue someone.”
Jane stared. “Since when do you trust lawyers?”
“Since you became one.” Mama’s grin was all teeth.
*Sender: Unknown*
*Subject: You forgot someone*
Jane opened the attachment. A scanned photo from her university days—her and Femi, laughing under the Ilorin sun, his arm draped around her shoulders. A ghost from a life she’d left behind.
The message was brief:
*“Ask Nathaniel what happened to your first love. Then decide if you’re still on the right side.”*
Her fingers trembled. Femi had vanished after her engagement to Jide, ignoring her calls, her letters. She’d assumed shame. Betrayal.
But this? This reeked of secrets.
---
The office felt colder the next morning. Jane waited for Nathaniel to close his door before storming in, the photo clenched in her fist.
“What did you do to Femi?”
He froze mid-sip, coffee spilling into the saucer. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb.” She slammed the photo on his desk. “Someone sent this. Said *you* ruined him.”
Nathaniel studied the image, face unreadable. “I’ve never seen this man.”
“Then why target him? Why now?”
He met her glare. “You’re asking the wrong question.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Who gains if you doubt me?”
The answer slithered in—Dele. Linda’s ghost. Enemies with nothing left but spite.
Nathaniel stood, closing the distance between them. “I don’t know Femi. But I’ll help you find him.”
She searched his face for cracks. There were none—only resolve worn thin.
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only thing in this city I still believe in.”
The words hung in the air, delicate as a moth’s wing. Jane stepped back before they could land.
“Find him. Then we’ll talk.”
---
Tara tracked Femi to a law firm in Port Harcourt. Jane called the number, heart pounding.
A woman answered. “Hello?”
“Is Femi Adesanya there?”
Silence. Then, soft and low: “He’s gone, Jane. Two years ago. Car crash.”
The world tilted.
“Who… who is this?”
“His wife.”
Jane hung up, the truth thick in her throat. Femi wasn’t a pawn. He was a ghost.
And someone wanted her to haunt herself.
---
At the rooftop’s edge, Jane clutched her phone, the city’s noise fading to a dull hum. She dialed the last number in her call log.
“Amara. I need your help.”
A pause. “What kind?”
“The messy kind.”
Amara’s laugh was a blade. “Finally.”
---
The safe house Amara chose was a crumbling Lagos apartment above a *suya* joint. Smoke and generator hums filled the air. Jane climbed grease-slicked stairs, heels slipping, and knocked three times.
Amara opened the door, pistol tucked into her waistband. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Jane said. The truth was simpler: fear.
Inside, the room reeked of burnt coffee and paranoia. Maps of Lagos and Abuja papered the walls, red yarn connecting photos of Linda, Dele, and strangers. A shrine to vengeance.
Amara handed her a lukewarm Coke. “Talk.”
Jane slid the photo of Femi across the table. “Someone’s using him to get to me. He’s dead—but they’re tying Nathaniel to it.”
Amara studied the photo. “Femi Adesanya. Law graduate. Died en route to Port Harcourt. No police report.”
Jane’s breath caught. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been tracking Dele’s emails. Femi’s name came up in a deleted chain.” She pulled a file from a drawer. “Dele paid Femi’s firm six months ago. For ‘consulting.’”
Jane’s stomach flipped. “He worked with *Dele*?”
“Or got blackmailed.” Amara lit a cigarette, flame trembling. “Dele’s signature move—find your weakness, then hand you the knife.”
Jane leaned back, chair creaking. “Why me?”
“Because you’re Nathaniel’s weakness now.” Smoke curled toward the ceiling. “And weaknesses get exploited.”
Outside, a street preacher shouted: *“Repent! The devil wears a suit and tie!”*
Jane stood. “I need to find Femi’s wife. She answered his phone.”
“I already did. Ngozi Adesanya. Pharmacy in Surulere.” Amara grabbed her wrist. “But Jane—Dele’s watching her. Walk in blind, you’ll get them both killed.”
---
Nathaniel found her on the office rooftop at dawn, laptop on her knees, Femi’s photo glowing on the screen.
“You should’ve told me,” he said.
She didn’t look up. “Would you have?”
The silence stretched. He sat beside her, the warmth of his arm a quiet apology.
“I hired a PI,” he said. “Femi’s crash wasn’t an accident. His brake lines were cut.”
- Writer
