Finding Love

The Ghost We Feed

I ane’s fingers froze above the keyboard. “Who?”

“A mechanic. Paid in cash from a numbered account—untraceable.” He hesitated. “But the PI found something else. Femi was looking into Ayocom’s Lagos scandal before he died.”

The pieces clicked: Femi digging into Nathaniel’s past. Dele silencing him. Jane—next in line. A perfect loop.

Nathaniel gripped the window ledge, knuckles white. “This is my fault.”

Jane turned to him, anger flaring. “Don’t. Don’t make this about your guilt. Femi was *mine*. My past. My failure.”

“And you’re mine.” The words slipped out—raw, unguarded.

Jane stood, the wind whipping her skirt like a flag. “I’m not something to be claimed.”

He rose slowly, like a dethroned king. “I know. But I need you to trust me.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever’s behind this won’t stop until we’re both broken.” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. “And I’d burn the world before I let them touch you.”

She wanted to hate him for that vow—for the way it warmed the frozen parts of her. Instead, she handed him Amara’s file.

“Then let’s burn it together.”

Mama arrived with holy water and a live chicken.

“What the hell is that?” Jane blocked the doorway.

“Protection,” Mama said, muscling past. The chicken clucked, wings flapping indignantly. “The herbalist says you’re cursed.”

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not cursed. I’m being gaslit by a corporate psychopath.”

Mama began sketching chalk circles on the floor. “Same thing.”

Jane’s phone buzzed—Tara. *Dele’s here. With the board. Looks like a coup.*

“Mama, I have to go.”

“Not until we finish.” Mama sprinkled dried herbs into a clay pot. “Sit.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“SIT.”

The command dropped like a hammer, dragging Jane back to childhood punishments. She sat. Mama lit the herbs, chanting in Yoruba as smoke curled toward the ceiling.

*“Ẹni tó ń lé e lẹ́rù ẹ, á máa rí i.”*

The one chasing you with a load will stumble under it.

The smoke stung Jane’s eyes. “Is this supposed to help?”

Mama cupped her face, her calloused palms warm. “You fight with your mind, *ọmọ mi*. But the war is here.” She pressed a hand to Jane’s chest. “Stop running. Face the storm.”

The chicken pecked Jane’s toe.

The boardroom was a warzone.

Dele lounged against the head chair, flanked by three stone-faced investors. Tara hovered near the door, eyes wide with warning.

“Jane.” Dele smiled. “We were just discussing your… *resignation*.”

Nathaniel burst in, Amara on his heels. “This meeting isn’t on the calendar.”

“It is now.” Dele tossed a contract across the table. “Sign over the Women in Tech Accelerator, or I leak every secret your pet detective dug up.”

Jane picked up the document. “You think we’re afraid of your threats?”

“No.” Dele pulled out a USB drive. “But you’ll care about this.”

The screen lit up with rooftop security footage—Jane and Nathaniel, too close. His hand brushing hers.

Tara gasped. “That’s illegal surveillance!”

“So sue me.” Dele grinned. “But first, explain this to the press. And your *Mama*.”

Nathaniel moved first, slamming Dele against the wall. “You’re done.”

Jane stepped in, her voice sharp with icy calm. “Leak it. But remember—I know where Ngozi Adesanya lives. And I’ll make sure she knows who killed her husband.”

Dele’s smirk flickered.

Amara leaned against the doorway, her pistol visible. “Walk away, Dele. Before the ghosts bite back.”

Ngozi Adesanya’s pharmacy was a cramped closet of pills and desperation. Jane waited until closing time, Amara’s men watching the street.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ngozi whispered, counting naira with shaking hands.

Jane slid a photo of Femi across the counter. “I loved him once.”

Ngozi’s tears hit the glass. “He loved you too. Even after…”

“After I left?”

“After you chose the wrong man.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a sealed envelope. “He wrote this the night he died.”

Femi’s name stretched across the paper in messy script. Jane didn’t open it. Not yet.

“Who threatened you?” she asked.

Ngozi hesitated, then scribbled on a receipt: *Senator Oduma*.

The storm cracked open.

The envelope felt like a live wire in Jane’s hands. She sat on the floor of her Abuja apartment, the generator humming outside, Mama’s pots clattering in the kitchen. Femi’s name stared back at her—jagged script, ink smudged by time… or tears.

*Jane,*

*If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Don’t blame yourself. You were always too good at that.*

She paused, throat tight. His voice echoed from the page—warm, teasing, like when they studied under the mango tree in Ilorin, sharing stolen sips of palm wine and dreams too big for their dusty campus.

*I need you to know the truth. I took a job with Ayocom Lagos last year. Not for the money—though God knows I needed it—but because I heard whispers. About Nathaniel Ayodele. Fraud. And a senator whose name turns men to stone: Senator Oduma.*

Jane’s pulse jumped.

*Oduma funded Ayocom’s early projects. When the scandal broke, Nathaniel took the fall. But the money trail… it leads to Oduma’s offshore accounts. I tried to go deeper. Bad idea.

They threatened Ngozi. Said they’d burn our clinic in Surulere if I didn’t stop. I’m writing this from a bus station in Benin. They’re following me. If you’re reading this, tell Ngozi I’m sorry. And Jane… don’t trust anyone.*

The letter ended there. Jane pressed it to her chest, the paper catching her silent tears. Outside, Abuja’s life droned on: a drunk man singing Fuji, the sizzle of suya, a baby crying below. Life moved forward, indifferent.

Mama appeared in the doorway with a plate of *moin moin*. “You’ve been staring at that paper for an hour.”

Jane folded the letter. “It’s nothing.”

“Liar.” Mama sank beside her, cross-legged, the scent of *efo riro* clinging to her dress. “You look like you did when Jide left. Like the world ended.”

“The world *did* end. For Femi.”

Mama’s calloused hand covered hers. “Then rebuild it. For him.”