The questioning
1184 Words
The door creaked open again, just past 9 p.m.
Amara jerked from where she had been lying on the bare floor, weak, her arms trembling slightly as she tried to sit up. Her stomach had long since settled into a dull ache of hunger again, and her lips—still cracked—twitched faintly when the familiar sound of Damilare's boots echoed through the dark passage.
He stepped in with his usual calm swagger, carrying a nylon bag. He dropped it beside her like he was handing over a gift.
“I brought rice this time. White. With stew. And boiled egg,” he said casually, crouching near her—but not too close. Never too close.
Amara blinked up at him, her voice scratchy. “Damilare, please. Just let me go. I swear… I won’t tell anybody. I can make up a story—say I got lost. Ran away. Anything.”
He smiled—wide and amused like she had just told a good joke.
“You think it’s that easy? After everything I’ve done?” He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the wall.
“I just want to go home,” she whispered, tears threatening her voice. “Please. You don’t have to keep me here.”
Damilare ignored the plea. “You know your friend Zainab came to see me today,” he said instead, his tone turning light, like he was recounting gossip. “She’s trying to play smart. Act like she’s on my side. Smiling like a lizard. Telling me we should become detectives together.”
Amara swallowed hard.
“She’s just worried. That’s all.”
“She’s nosy,” he corrected. “And very stupid if she thinks I don’t see what she’s doing. I’ll play along. But if she keeps pushing…”
His voice trailed, and then he smiled again—too casually.
“…I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”
Amara’s eyes widened. “No! Please—Damilare, don’t touch her. Please, she’s my best friend. Zainab has nothing to do with this—”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Nothing to do with it? She’s the only one who suspects me.”
“Then let me talk to her. If I go, I can make her stop. I can make her believe I ran away—”
He laughed again, louder this time. “You think I’m stupid? That I’ll just let you go? You’re sweet-talking now, Amara. You’re trying too hard.”
Amara's voice softened, trembling, reaching for whatever sliver of emotion might still exist in him. “I’m not sweet-talking. I mean it. I… I care about you.”
Damilare’s expression froze.
He stared at her for a moment, as though trying to decide if she was mocking him. Then his lips curled slowly into a grin.
“Now you love me? After everything?” He bent slightly forward, eyes gleaming. “Too bad, Amara. I don’t need your love. I just need your silence.”
She flinched at the finality in his tone.
Damilare stood, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “Eat your food before it gets cold. You’ll need the strength.”
As he turned toward the door, Amara pushed herself weakly up on her elbows. “Please… just don’t hurt Zainab.”
He paused but didn’t look back. “That depends on her.”
Then the door slammed shut.
Amara stared at it in the darkness, heart racing.
She didn’t eat immediately. Instead, she dragged herself toward the doorway again—toward that small sliver of hope—but the same truth hit her: beyond that door wasn’t freedom. It was another passage, darker and emptier than before. There was no light. No windows. Just endless concrete walls.
No way out.
Eventually, she pulled the plate close and forced herself to eat. Every bite felt like betrayal—to herself, to Zainab—but she needed the strength. When she finished, she gripped the metal spoon and crawled back to the wall.
She began scraping again, digging slowly, furiously.
But the wall was solid.
The spoon barely scratched it.
She kept going, her hands trembling, the metal biting into her fingers.
Finally, her strength gave out.
She dropped the spoon and let out a soft sob.
It echoed, weak and lonely, into the darkness around her.
---
The next day
The workshop buzzed with the low whine of machines and the distant clang of metal against metal. The detective walked in slowly, eyes scanning the cluttered space until he spotted Damilare hunched over a bench, pretending to be absorbed in a welding project.
“Damilare Adigun,” the detective called firmly.
Damilare turned, wiped his hands on a rag, and gave a sheepish grin. “Ah, officer. I was planning to come by later today—work has just been crazy.”
“You were supposed to report to the station yesterday,” the detective said flatly, stepping closer. “You ignored a direct invitation.”
“I didn’t ignore it,” Damilare replied. “I… I lost track of time. I’ve been printing fliers, helping with the search—Amara is important to me.”
The detective didn’t smile. He studied the young man, noting the composed posture, the unusually calm eyes.
“I just have a few questions,” he said, flipping open his notepad. “What exactly is your relationship with Amara Nwokedi?”
“We’re friends. Close friends,” Damilare said easily. “We met earlier this year—became close quickly.”
“When last did you hear from her?”
“A day before she went missing. She said she was going to hang out with friends. We had dinner plans but she never showed.” he said sadly.
The detective made a note, then narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever been questioned before in a missing person case?”
Damilare froze. It lasted only half a second, but the detective caught it.
“I… yes. That was Sandra. But I had nothing to do with that! They questioned me, but I was cleared.”
“Now Amara’s missing too. And you’re linked again,” the detective said slowly. “That’s more than coincidence, Mr. Adigun.”
Damilare forced a calm laugh. “I get it. It looks strange. But I swear—I would never hurt Amara. I’m doing everything I can to find her. I’ve even gone door to door with her mother.”
The detective's eyes didn’t move from Damilare’s face. “Two girls. Both close to you. Both vanished.”
Damilare spread his hands. “I love Amara. I’ve spent nights searching for her. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”
The detective held his gaze a second longer, then closed the notepad. “You’ll come to the station next time I ask. No excuses.”
“Of course,” Damilare said quickly, nodding. “Anything you need.”
The detective didn’t reply. He walked away slowly, his instincts prickling as he stepped out of the workshop.
- Writer
