Set me free

Captured

Damilare’s face was blank as they shoved him into the police vehicle. Sirens wailed in the distance, but his mind was eerily quiet. He didn't resist—he didn't scream or beg. He just sat back, his wrists in cuffs, as the vehicle took off toward the station.

At the station, the air was heavy with grief and unanswered questions.

Zainab’s mother was seated beside Amara’s mother in the waiting area, both women weary from days of crying, praying, hoping. They stood up sharply the moment they heard a commotion at the entrance.

And there he was—Damilare—being dragged in by two officers.

“There he is!” Zainab’s mother screamed.

“You!” Ada Nwokedi lunged forward, grief and rage burning in her eyes. “Where is my daughter?! What did you do to my Amara?!”

Zainab’s mother joined her, her voice cracking, “Why?! Why did you take her?! Why did you steal my baby from me?!”

Both women beat at his chest, fists trembling, grief pouring out as sobs.

Damilare didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight. He didn’t even look at them.

“Where is she?!” Amara’s mother screamed again, gripping his shirt until an officer gently pulled her back.

“Madam please… please… we will get to the bottom of this,” one of the officers said, guiding both women away.

“Get him into the room,” barked Detective Ifeanyi, jaw tight, voice firm.

The officers dragged Damilare into the interrogation room and shut the door.

Inside, the detective stood across from him. A file was opened on the table. Photographs. Notes. Questions scribbled in red.

Damilare sat down slowly, eyes steady, expression blank. He placed his cuffed hands on the table.

“You’ve been caught, Damilare,” the detective said coldly. “You want to tell us where the girl is, or should we start digging up every place you’ve ever stepped foot in?”

Damilare didn’t answer. He tilted his head slightly and said, calm as stone:

“I want my lawyer.”

Detective Ifeanyi stared at him, jaw clenched. His patience was wearing thin. “Fine,” he said, standing up. “But the clock is ticking. And we’re not stopping until we find her. Dead or alive.”

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Outside, the mothers were still weeping, their cries echoing in the station. The weight of pain, of waiting, hung in the air like smoke.

And somewhere—not too far away—Amara remained hidden, waiting for someone to finally find her.

Damilare’s face was blank as they shoved him into the police vehicle. Sirens wailed in the distance, but his mind was eerily quiet. He didn't resist—he didn't scream or beg. He just sat back, his wrists in cuffs, as the vehicle took off toward the station.

At the station, the air was heavy with grief and unanswered questions.

Zainab’s mother was seated beside Amara’s mother in the waiting area, both women weary from days of crying, praying, hoping. They stood up sharply the moment they heard a commotion at the entrance.

And there he was—Damilare—being dragged in by two officers.

“There he is!” Zainab’s mother screamed.

“You!” Ada Nwokedi lunged forward, grief and rage burning in her eyes. “Where is my daughter?! What did you do to my Amara?!”

Zainab’s mother joined her, her voice cracking, “Why?! Why did you take her?! Why did you steal my baby from me?!”

Both women beat at his chest, fists trembling, grief pouring out as sobs.

Damilare didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight. He didn’t even look at them.

“Where is she?!” Amara’s mother screamed again, gripping his shirt until an officer gently pulled her back.

“Madam please… please… we will get to the bottom of this,” one of the officers said, guiding both women away.

“Get him into the room,” barked Detective Ifeanyi, jaw tight, voice firm.

The officers dragged Damilare into the interrogation room and shut the door.

Inside, the detective stood across from him. A file was opened on the table. Photographs. Notes. Questions scribbled in red.

Damilare sat down slowly, eyes steady, expression blank. He placed his cuffed hands on the table.

“You’ve been caught, Damilare,” the detective said coldly. “You want to tell us where the girl is, or should we start digging up every place you’ve ever stepped foot in?”

Damilare didn’t answer. He tilted his head slightly and said, calm as stone:

“I want my lawyer.”

Detective Ifeanyi stared at him, jaw clenched. His patience was wearing thin. “Fine,” he said, standing up. “But the clock is ticking. And we’re not stopping until we find her. Dead or alive.”

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Outside, the mothers were still weeping, their cries echoing in the station. The weight of pain, of waiting, hung in the air like smoke.

And somewhere—not too far away—Amara remained hidden, waiting for someone to finally find her.

Detective Ifeanyi stepped out of the interrogation room, his face set in frustration. At that moment, two uniformed officers walked briskly toward him.

“You’re the search team?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” one of them replied. “We’re heading to Damilare’s residence now.”

“Good,” the detective said. “Search every inch of that place. I don’t care if you have to dig up the floors—bring me anything. A sign, a clue. Anything that leads to the missing girl.”

Amara’s mother, who had been sitting restlessly nearby, jumped to her feet. “Please! Please take me with you!”

One of the officers raised his hand. “Ma, we understand how you feel, but we can’t take civilians to an active search scene. Please, wait here. We’ll bring back any development.”

“No! I can’t sit here and wait anymore,” Ada Nwokedi cried, her voice already cracking from days of weeping. “That boy came to my house. Sat in my sitting room. Ate my food. And now my daughter is missing! Let me go with you! Let me go!”

The detective gave her a long look, then sighed.

“Let her come,” he said quietly. “But she stays outside.”