Damilare is scared
1629 Words
The afternoon sun baked the earth, casting golden light over the rooftops and iron gates of the neighborhood. The streets buzzed with soft noise—distant chatter, moving cars, the clatter of footsteps—but for Ada Nwokedi, the world remained quiet.
She was in front of her small gate, folding up freshly printed flyers. They bore Amara’s face, smiling in a photo taken just last year. Underneath: MISSING: AMARA NWOKEDI. LAST SEEN—
She couldn’t read further without her eyes clouding.
She wiped them and kept folding. Another street. Another wall. Another hand to give it to.
A knock at the gate startled her.
She turned.
Damilare stood there, holding a nylon bag with bottled water and snacks.
“Good afternoon, ma,” he said gently. “I thought you might need something. You’ve been out here all day.”
Ada nodded, her voice tired. “Thank you. Just trying to do what I can. The police are slow, and I can’t just sit around.”
He walked closer, offering her the bag. She didn’t take it immediately.
Instead, she sighed and looked up at him. “They say she might have run away. But I know my daughter. She wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me. Not Amara.”
“I believe you,” Damilare said. His voice was low, sympathetic. “I know how painful this must be for you. Losing a child… it’s something no one should ever go through.”
Ada gave a small, bitter laugh. “It’s worse when it’s your only one.”
Damilare crouched beside her, his eyes fixed on the scattered flyers. “The first foot of your womb…”
She turned to him sharply. “What did you say?”
He smiled. “It’s just a phrase I heard once. Meant to say… your first child. It must hurt in ways no one else can understand.”
She swallowed hard and looked away, brushing a tear with the back of her hand.
Damilere leaned in, voice softer. “You know, sometimes the past finds its way back. Unfinished stories… unfinished pain.”
Ada frowned but said nothing.
He looked at her carefully. “Can I ask you something personal, ma?”
She blinked slowly, but didn’t stop him.
“Have you ever… had another child? Before Amara?”
Ada stiffened.
There was a pause—brief but heavy. Then she resumed folding the next flyer, slower this time.
“No,” she said flatly. “Amara is my only child. Why?”
Damilare’s jaw tightened, but he smiled as though the question had been casual.
“I was just wondering,” he said. “Sometimes… I think about mothers. About how hard it must be to lose a child and still find the strength to keep going. I never knew mine.”
Ada glanced at him, surprised by the sudden shift.
“You’re an orphan?”
He nodded. “Adopted. My mother left me at a hospital when I was a baby. No note. No name. Nothing. I’ve always wondered who she was. Why she did it. If she ever thinks about me.”
A shadow crossed Ada’s face, but she turned her eyes away.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “No mother should ever do that.”
He smiled tightly, hiding the storm beneath. “Yes. I agree.”
She didn’t speak further. And neither did he for a long moment.
Then he stood. “I’ll help you paste more flyers if you don’t mind.”
Ada nodded slowly. “That would be kind of you.”
As she handed him a bundle, she didn’t notice how his hand trembled slightly.
And as he took it, Damilare looked at her again—not like the boy who was helping her search, but like a puzzle trying to solve its missing piece.
---
The detective sat at his desk, elbows resting on a cluttered surface of reports, photographs, and scraps of handwriting he’d been staring at for the past three hours. The old ceiling fan above buzzed, slicing the silence in a rhythmic hum, but his mind wasn’t on the heat. It was on the girl. Amara Nwokedi. Nineteen. Missing.
He leaned back, cracked his neck from side to side, and sighed deeply.
A knock sounded on the door. His colleague, a plainclothes officer named Chima, stepped inside.
“I just got back from Sam’s place,” Chima said, tossing a folder onto the table. “He swears he never met Amara. Said he’d never seen after their meeting in her mother's shop.”
The detective narrowed his eyes. “You believe him?”
Chima shrugged. “I’ve been tailing him for two weeks now. Watching from afar. No strange calls. No unexplained outings. No contact with anyone suspicious. Guy seems… clean.”
The detective rubbed his jaw slowly, lips tightening.
“That’s what bothers me. If he’s telling the truth — and it’s starting to look like he is — then someone lied using his name. Someone set things up to make it look like Sam might be involved.”
He reached for a photo from the edge of the desk. It was one of the many he had taken during the protest Amara’s mother organized. There, beside Ada Nwokedi, holding a placard and even comforting her, stood a familiar face.
Damilare.
Always present.
Always helpful.
Too helpful.
Chima raised an eyebrow as the detective stared at the image.
“What?” he asked.
“Damilere,” the detective said, almost in a whisper. “He’s been everywhere. First at the police station, then joining Ada for flyers, helping with the search parties, standing beside the press team, comforting her in front of cameras.”
“That’s not unusual,” Chima said. “He’s her friend’s boyfriend, right?”
“Allegedly,” the detective replied flatly. “But tell me — have you seen anything solid on him? Any school ID? Utility bills? Any past record of who he was before showing up around Amara?”
Chima didn’t respond immediately.
The detective continued, flipping through his notes. “I checked a few things. No medical registration in his name. No driver’s license. No traceable address. Every time I get close to pinning something down, it slips.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“I think...” he paused. “I think someone carefully inserted themselves into this story. Close enough to observe… but too clean to leave traces.”
He dropped the photo back on the table.
“Maybe he’s just a concerned friend,” the detective muttered. “But maybe… he’s the one we should’ve been watching all along.”
Chima nodded, now frowning.
“So what’s the next move?” he asked.
“We keep eyes on him,” the detective said. “Discreetly. No confrontations yet. Just… watch. If he’s hiding something, it’ll show. Eventually.”
He leaned forward and added under his breath, “The cracks always come.”
---
Later in the evening
Damilare paced the narrow corridor of his apartment, fingers tightening around the edge of the windowsill. Outside, the sky was grey — like his mood. His jaw clenched as his phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number. He didn’t answer. He knew who it was.
The police had started calling again.
Too soon.
It was far too early for them to start circling him. He hadn’t even enjoyed enough of her pain — the desperation in Ada Nwokedi’s eyes as she handed out flyers, the c***k in her voice when she called out her daughter's name. He wasn’t done watching her fall apart. Not yet.
He slammed the window shut.
Then, he picked up a second phone. One he never used around Ada. One Zainab didn’t know he had.
He dialed her number quickly, and she picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” Zainab’s voice came through, cautious and tired.
“Zee, it’s me,” he said, softening his voice. “I think… I have something.”
There was a pause. Then she spoke, alert now. “What do you mean something?”
“I’ve been following a few online threads. Some anonymous tips… someone said they saw a girl matching Amara’s description just outside the city last week.”
Zainab sat up straighter. “Wait, what? Where exactly? Did you tell the police?”
“No,” he replied, quick. “Not yet. I didn’t want to give them false hope. You know how they are — they’ll dismiss it outright. I wanted to confirm it first before raising any alarms.”
“Damilere,” Zainab said sharply, “this isn’t about pride or who finds her first. If there’s even a chance this is real—”
“I know, I know,” he cut in. “But please. Just trust me. I’ll check it out tonight. If it leads to something solid, we’ll call the inspector directly. I just… I don’t want to waste more time chasing ghosts.”
Zainab hesitated. She didn’t like this. Something about it felt off — but her desperation to find Amara overpowered her doubts.
“Alright,” she finally said. “But please, Damilere, don’t play with this. Don’t give us hope if there’s nothing there.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “I just want her home… as much as you do.”
They hung up.
But as Damilere dropped the burner phone back into the drawer, a cruel smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. He had no trail. No tip. No thread.
He just needed Zainab distracted. He needed her to look away for a moment longer… before things started to unravel.
And the noose around his own neck began to tighten.
- Writer
