Set me free

small detective

The late afternoon sun burned through the sky as Damilare raced down a dusty, winding path on his motorcycle. He had just completed a delivery when he suddenly remembered—he hadn’t given Amara food.

His chest tightened.

He spun the bike around with a sharp jerk and gunned the engine. The secluded building where he kept her was nearly fifteen minutes away, but he rode like he was chasing time.

By the time he got there, his face was blank. He pulled a black plastic bag from the delivery box, inside was a container of cold rice and oily sauce. He didn’t care to heat it. He just needed her alive.

He approached the metal door, twisted the lock, and walked in.

The room was silent, save for the creak of the hinges. Amara was curled in a corner, her body weak, face pale, and her lips dry and slightly cracked. Her clothes clung to her damp skin. But her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Damilare…” she breathed, her voice trembling with emotion—desperation, fear, relief.

He shut the door behind him and dropped the food carelessly on the floor.

“You’re still breathing. Congrats,” he muttered, not moving closer.

She stirred slowly, pushing herself up with all the strength she could muster. Her body trembled from weakness, but her eyes were fixed on him.

“Why… why are you doing this?” she asked softly. “You were kind to me. You made me laugh. I thought… I thought we were friends.”

Damilare scoffed. “You thought wrong.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “I care about you, Damilare. I really do. I love you.”

He laughed—a dry, bitter sound. “You love me?” he echoed, taking a slow step toward the wall but keeping his distance from her. “You love me after all this? Wow, you’re even more naive than I thought.”

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “You’re not like this. I don’t believe you are. Whatever it is… whatever pain you’re carrying, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“You don’t know me, Amara,” he said coldly. “And I don’t need your love. I never did.”

She tried to smile. “Then why keep me here? Why not just let me go?”

He smirked. “Because you’re here now. And I decide when you leave.”

Her shoulders sank. She wasn’t getting through to him.

He stepped toward the door again and unlocked it, ready to leave.

But before he stepped out, Amara tilted her head, watching closely. The door opened—not to the outside—but into a pitch-black hallway. Her heart dropped.

The room wasn’t connected to the outside at all. She had hoped… maybe… if she could rush past him or trick him into coming closer… But now she realized the horrible truth: even if she escaped that room, she wouldn’t be outside. Just deeper into wherever he was hiding her.

Damilare stepped into the shadows, tossing his last words like a stone behind him.

“Eat. Get strong. You’ll need it.”

The door slammed again.

Silence.

Amara stared at the food. Her stomach churned with both hunger and disgust. Slowly, she dragged the container to herself and ate. Every bite felt like a betrayal, but she needed the energy.

When she was done, she picked up the metal spoon.

Dragging herself across the floor, she leaned her body against the concrete wall and began to scratch at it.

It was hard. It barely made a mark.

But she kept going—clink… clink… clink.

Minutes passed. The wall didn’t give. Her wrist began to ache. Her breath came faster. Her arms were weak. The spoon wasn’t sharp enough.

Still, she scratched. Still, she tried.

And then… she broke.

The spoon fell from her hand with a soft clatter. Her back slid down the wall. Her hands trembled as the tears finally came.

She sobbed silently, her chest heaving with muffled cries, the weight of her helplessness crashing down like a flood.

---

Zainab had never truly trusted Damilare.

It wasn’t just a hunch—it was something deeper, something she couldn’t shake off. Weeks before Amara’s disappearance, a mutual friend had told her in passing that Damilare “wasn’t quite right.” According to the friend, he had moments where he acted completely normal, but other times... he seemed off. Too cold. Too detached. Like he could switch between charming and chilling without blinking.

“He acts like a psychopath sometimes,” the girl had said with a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.

Since then, Zainab had watched him more carefully. The way he smiled too quickly, or stared too long. The way he showed up, uninvited, just to be around Amara. And though everyone else brushed him off as “just a helpful guy”, Zainab always felt the undercurrent of something darker.

That was why she kept speaking up.

That was why she couldn’t sit still.

That was why she was here—following him.

Zainab had been watching him for three days now.

Damilare’s routine was frustratingly consistent. He left his small roadside delivery stand by 9 a.m., rode off to a nearby kiosk—a small provision shop tucked behind a narrow junction—then returned home for exactly thirty minutes. Every single time. Then he’d be back at the delivery stand before noon like nothing had happened.

She didn’t know what she was looking for. But she knew one thing—no one is that predictable unless they had something to hide.

Today, she followed him again, sitting in a keke parked far enough to not raise suspicion. She watched as he stepped out of the house, adjusted his backpack, and headed back to the stand.

That was her moment.

She got down, smoothed her jeans, and walked with calm purpose toward his kiosk. She plastered a smile on her face—the same one she used when trying to win over difficult lecturers or nosy neighbors.

“Damilare,” she called out, waving casually as she approached.

He looked up, his brows slightly raised in surprise. “Zainab.”

“Hi.” She leaned on the counter like a friend just passing by. “I just thought I’d stop and check in. Any news? About Amara?”

He blinked slowly, then shook his head. “None yet. Still waiting on the police.”

Zainab sighed, playing along. “It’s just so strange. She vanished without a trace. But I’ve been thinking…” She paused, then grinned, “Maybe we should play small detective, just me and you. What do you think?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Detective?”

She laughed. “Yeah, you know… like investigate on our own. Ask questions, check places, look through her social media. Maybe we’ll see something the police missed.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She leaned in closer.

“I noticed you live alone,” she added casually. “That’s perfect. We can use your place as a kind of base. Quiet. No distractions. I can bring snacks,” she said playfully, trying to sound as harmless as possible.

Damilare studied her.

His expression was unreadable, but behind his eyes, his mind was racing.

She suspects something. She’s not as dumb as the rest.

He forced a smile. “Sure, why not. You can stop by later. We’ll talk.”

Zainab beamed. “Perfect! I’ll come around, say, tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine by me.”

He watched her leave, and once she turned her back, his smile vanished.

He knew exactly what she was trying to do.

But she had no idea who she was playing with.