Set me free

Freedom at lass

The drive to Damilare’s house was tense. The sky hung low with thick grey clouds, as if even the heavens refused to be silent.

When they arrived, yellow police ropes already circled the perimeter like a warning. A few neighbors peeked through their windows, curious but too afraid to step outside.

Ada tried to push through the tape, but an officer blocked her gently. “Madam, please. You have to stay outside.”

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, gripping the rope as if her life depended on it.

“Please… find my daughter. Please…”

Inside, the officers moved like clockwork—opening drawers, lifting carpets, unzipping bags. One officer opened a wardrobe and found two travel bags, both half-packed.

“Sir,” he called out to the lead. “He was packing for two people.”

More officers swept through the rest of the rooms, noting ropes, a half-eaten plate of food, a second set of toothbrush and clothes. All signs that someone else had been living there… someone who was not free.

Outside, Ada was still crying, still praying, her voice growing hoarse.

“Please, find my daughter… Please, God… let my daughter be alive…”

Downstairs, hidden behind a false wall, in a room dark and cold, Amara stirred.

Her hands were bound tightly, her mouth gagged, her eyes swollen from tears.

And then…

She heard it.

Her mother’s voice.

Faint… distant… but clear.

“Please… find my daughter!”

Her heart stopped.

Then it raced.

She began to cry.

Then she screamed—behind the gag, against the pain, against the ropes. Her body trembled violently as she writhed, trying to make a sound. Anything. Anything to let them know she was there.

But no one heard her yet.

She kept struggling.

Hope had returned in the sound of her mother’s voice.

And hope… was stronger than fear.

The search team moved with urgency. Every minute felt like an hour. Detective Ifeanyi had joined them at Damilare’s house, ignoring the drizzle now falling from the grey sky. His eyes scanned every detail—every corner, every shadow—for the slightest clue.

One of the officers in the kitchen stopped, frowning.

“Sir… do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” another replied.

“Listen—everyone quiet,” the detective ordered.

They all froze.

At first, there was nothing—just the distant murmur of Ada’s voice outside. Then, faint and muffled, came a strange sound… almost like someone crying. The detective’s pulse quickened.

“It’s coming from below us,” the officer said.

“Check the basement,” Ifeanyi barked.

The basement door was locked. They forced it open, but the sound grew no louder.

“That’s odd,” one officer muttered. “It should be louder if she’s down here.”

They searched the walls, knocking in sections. One spot gave a dull, hollow thud.

“Here,” an officer said, pointing to a section of wall covered in plywood. “This isn’t part of the original structure.”

“Break it,” Ifeanyi ordered.

With a crowbar and heavy boots, they pried and kicked until the plywood splintered. A burst of stale air and darkness greeted them.

“Hello? Amara?” Ifeanyi called.

A faint whimper came back.

“She’s here!” an officer shouted.

Inside, Amara sat on the floor, trembling, her face streaked with dirt and tears. The gag muffled her cries until the officer quickly removed it. She gasped, sobbing, “My mum… I heard my mum… she’s here?”

“Yes, she’s outside. You’re safe now,” Ifeanyi said, his voice firm but soft.

They cut the ropes from her wrists and ankles. Her legs buckled the moment she tried to stand, but the detective caught her.

“Easy. You’re going home.”

When they stepped outside, Ada saw her daughter and ran forward, screaming her name. She nearly collapsed as Amara fell into her arms.

“My baby! My baby! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you!” Ada wept, holding her as if she’d never let go.

The neighbors, the officers, even strangers who had gathered—everyone was silent, watching the reunion.

But Ifeanyi wasn’t smiling. His eyes were hard.

Damilare was in custody now, but this was far from over.

Amara clung to her mother like a child afraid of being taken again. Ada’s arms were wrapped tightly around her, her hands trembling as she stroked Amara’s hair again and again, as if touching her was the only way to be sure she was real.

“I thought I lost you,” Ada whispered brokenly. “I thought I buried you in my heart already.”

“I’m here, Mama,” Amara said softly. “I’m here.”

They were taken to the station shortly after, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by officers. Amara sat beside her mother, still holding her hand, afraid to let go. Her body ached, but her heart felt strangely light.

Then her eyes searched the room.

“Mama,” she said quietly. “Where is Zainab?”

Ada stiffened.

She didn’t answer.

“Mama?” Amara pressed. “Where is she? She would have been here. She would have been shouting by now.”

Ada swallowed hard, her eyes filling instantly.

“Amara… rest first,” she said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“No,” Amara insisted, her voice rising. “Tell me. Where is Zainab?”

The room grew heavy. Officers exchanged looks. Ada turned away, unable to hold her gaze.

“Please,” Amara begged. “Just tell me.”

Ada broke.

“Zainab is gone,” she whispered. “They… they found her.”

For a second, Amara didn’t understand the words. Then they hit her all at once.

“No,” she said, shaking her head violently. “No. Not Zainab. She was with me. She was looking for me.”

Her chest tightened. Her breathing became uneven.

“She wouldn’t leave me,” Amara sobbed. “She promised me she wouldn’t.”

She slid off the chair and crumpled to the floor, screaming into her hands. Her mother dropped beside her, holding her as she cried—deep, painful sobs that came from a place too broken to mend.

After a while, Amara lifted her head, her eyes burning with grief and anger.

“I want to see him,” she said hoarsely.

Ada froze. “Amara—”

“I want to see Damilare,” she repeated. “I want to look at him. I want him to hear my voice.”

Detective Ifeanyi stepped forward calmly.

“Not now,” he said firmly. “I understand what you’re feeling, but you’re not ready for that. And neither is he.”

“I’m not afraid of him anymore,” Amara said, her voice shaking but strong.

“I know,” the detective replied. “But justice is not rushed. You will see him—when the time is right.”

Amara looked away, tears sliding silently down her face.

Zainab was gone.

And nothing would ever be the same again.