Set me free

The report

The room was dim again. Or maybe her eyes were still adjusting from sleep—or unconsciousness. Amara wasn’t sure anymore. She blinked slowly, but the ceiling above her was unfamiliar. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, a rhythmic plink, plink, plink that only heightened the stillness around her.

She tried to move. Her arms felt heavy, her legs limp, her throat dry and raw. There was something cold beneath her—concrete, maybe. And something scratchy—an old blanket? A mat?

The smell was the first thing that hit her: a stale mix of mold, sweat, and something chemical she couldn’t name. Her stomach turned. Fear tightened in her chest like a fist.

Then she remembered—the car ride. Damilare. The way he smiled at her as she laughed at a joke, the music playing softly, the way her head suddenly felt light. And the spray. That scent. It wasn’t cologne.

She jerked up—but her body only twitched. Her limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. Her head throbbed, her lips cracked from dryness. Her voice croaked out: “Help...”

Nothing. Not even an echo.

Her heart pounded.

Her chest tightened as the realization sank in. Damilare. Damilare did this to me.

Tears stung her eyes but couldn’t fall. She blinked into the shadows, trying to see more—trying to find a door, a window, anything. All she saw was the outline of something in the far corner—maybe a small table. Maybe a camera. She wasn’t sure.

She tried to scream again, but her voice came out like sandpaper. No strength. No sound.

Her body began to tremble—small at first, then harder. Her fingers clenched the thin fabric beneath her. Where am I? Why would he do this? Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, panic rising like a storm inside her.

---

Back in town, Ada sat in the police station, her hands shaking as she held a photo of Amara.

“She’s been missing since yesterday,” the officer repeated. “And this is the first report?”

“I didn’t know—she said she was going out to meet her friends. But she never came home.”

Zainab stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes sharp. She had said little since Damilare left their house earlier.

“We’ll need to track her last known movements,” the officer said, scribbling on a form. “Do you know who she was last seen with?”

Zainab stepped forward. “We don’t know for sure. But I think she left alone.”

“She said she was meeting me,” Zainab added quickly, “but I never heard from her.”

The officer nodded. “We'll need her phone number and any recent contacts.”

Ada swallowed, her voice weak. “Please... please find my daughter.”

"We will. Just give me time to file the report". The officer said.

Outside, Zainab turned to Ada. “I’m going to the café down the street—she goes there sometimes. Maybe someone saw her.”

Ada nodded, distracted.

Zainab didn’t say what was really on her mind: Why did Damilare show up so quickly? Why was he so calm?

For now, she didn’t have proof.

But her gut was whispering again.

---

The sky was darkening as Ada paced outside the station, clutching her headscarf and wringing it repeatedly in her hands. Her eyes were red from crying, her voice hoarse from pleading. People moved past her, busy with their own complaints and emergencies, but Ada was frozen in her own storm.

Zainab sat beside her on the bench, drained, barely able to speak. They had gone from house to house—Kamsi’s, Chuka’s, even Nneka’s boyfriend’s place. No one had seen Amara.

Finally, an officer emerged from inside.

“You can come in now, Madam.”

Ada sprang to her feet, her wrapper slipping slightly, and followed the officer into the small, crowded station. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the air smelled of sweat, ink, and faint cigarette smoke.

Inside, a young detective named Ifeanyi leaned over a desk, scribbling into a worn notebook. He looked up when Ada entered.

“You’re Amara’s mother?”

“Yes, sir,” she croaked. “Please, help me. My daughter didn’t come home. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.”

He nodded solemnly and motioned for her to sit. “Tell me everything. When did you last see her?”

Ada clasped her hands together. “Yesterday morning. I told her I was traveling for a fashion event in Nsukka. I asked her to take care of the house. She agreed. Later in the day, she texted me that she might hang out with Zainab and Kamsi. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Did she go out?”

“Yes, but she didn’t tell anyone where. That’s the problem. Zainab didn’t see her. Neither did Kamsi.”

The detective frowned and tapped his pen. “Do you have anyone in mind who might want to hurt your daughter?”

Ada’s head jerked up. “No… no one! Amara is a sweet girl. She doesn’t fight people. She’s not rebellious. She goes to school, she works at my shop...”

“Anyone suspicious? Anyone who may have approached her or your home recently?”

Ada bit her lip, thinking. “Well… there was this boy… a customer. Sam. He came to my shop a few times and once flirted with Amara. I didn’t really like the way he looked at her, but… I don’t think he’s the type to do something like this.”

Detective Ifeanyi raised his brow. “You can’t trust anyone, ma. Even the people you think can’t do it.”

Ada exhaled shakily and looked down at her hands.

“Boyfriends?” the detective continued.

Ada hesitated. “There’s one... Damilare. He’s been around. But he’s kind. He even came to look for her when she didn’t show up for their date.”

The door opened again, and another officer walked in, followed by a female constable. She paused at the desk and looked at the file.

“Detective Ifeanyi,” she said softly, “I know the girl.”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yes. She’s not the type to run away. That girl is respectful, smart, always greets me when I pass her mother’s shop. If something happened to her, it wasn’t by choice.”

Detective Ifeanyi leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. “Then we treat this like a possible abduction.”

Ada felt her chest tighten. She gripped the edge of the chair.

“I want to assure you, ma,” he said, looking at her directly, “we will do everything we can to find your daughter. But we need as much information as possible. Friends. Phone calls. Messages. Anything strange you can remember.”

Ada blinked rapidly, her mind scanning. “I just… I just want her back. Please.”

The detective nodded again, more firmly this time, and waved for another officer to take a statement.

In a separate office, after Ada was led out, Ifeanyi sat with the older officer and the female constable.

“What’s your take?” he asked.

“She’s not a runaway,” the constable said again. “She’s well known in the neighborhood.”

“And no witnesses?”

“None. Except the boyfriend. But he seemed... very concerned.”

Detective Ifeanyi scratched his chin. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Quietly. For now, let’s pull her call records and see who she last contacted.”

As the constable left, Detective Ifeanyi looked down at the case folder, a photo of Amara clipped to the top. He stared at her soft, confident eyes and whispered to himself.

“Let’s bring you home.”