CRUDE INSTINCT (11)
MINA’S PlLAY
Police Headquarters
Abuja
9:12 a.m.
The air in the Inspector General’s private office was still, the blinds half-drawn, reducing the world to a series of vertical slits. Outside the sealed windows, the morning light of Abuja fell hard and colourless across the parade ground.
The IG sat behind the wide desk, one hand resting on his second telephone. He had already placed the first call ten minutes earlier. Now he waited for the return.
The line clicked.
“Sir.”
The voice belonged to the Commissioner in charge of the southern zonal command, a man who understood that certain instructions were never written down and certain names were never spoken twice.
“Update,” the IG said. Nothing more.
There was a brief pause, the kind that precedes carefully measured disappointment.
“We have circulated the description and the photographs to every stop-and-search checkpoint from Edo to Rivers, Bayelsa, Delta, Akwa Ibom and Cross River. Alerts are active, but there is nothing yet.”
The IG’s free hand closed slowly around a pen until the plastic creaked.
“Yenagoa?”
“Covered. Also the creeks leading out of Brass and Nembe. If he is still in the south, someone will eventually see him. But so far…”
“It’s okay.”
The IG ended the call without gratitude or farewell. He remained motionless for several seconds, staring at the blank surface of the desk as though the polished wood might offer a solution the telephone had not. Then he lifted the same handset again and dialled a number known only to a handful of men in uniform.
This time, the voice that answered carried the crisp authority of the naval high command.
“Inspector.”
“I have a person of interest,” the IG said, his tone level, almost conversational. “One of the men who may have been on the vessel your people intercepted off the coast. His name is Timothy. Any intelligence from your side would be useful.”
There was a short silence on the other end.
“Understood.”
“I appreciate it.”
The call ended. The IG set the telephone down and leaned back in the high-backed leather chair. He let his gaze travel across the photographs on the far wall. Framed photographs of formal ceremonies, handshakes with presidents and the carefully curated evidence of a career that had climbed without public stain stared back at him.
All of it was now at risk of unravelling because of a young man who had become a floating question mark. A body that had not yet been accounted for. A mouth that might still open.
The IG rose, walked to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Through the slits in the blinds, he watched a pair of junior officers crossing the parade ground in perfect step.
Their lives were simple. Orders given, orders obeyed. No private telephones. No midnight conversations with men who called him Chairman. No barges that suddenly appeared on national television under the white glare of a naval searchlight.
He returned to the desk and sat. The decision arrived without drama, the way certain necessary decisions always did: quietly and without hesitation.
The IG opened a drawer, withdrew a plain notebook that never left the office and wrote a single line in a hand so small it was almost code. Then he closed the notebook, locked the drawer and reached again for the telephone that did not officially exist.
********************
Marine Beach
Apapa, Lagos
11:47 p.m.
The room was small and airless. A single bulb hung from a frayed cord, casting a dull yellow circle across the cracked concrete floor. Timothy sat on the edge of the narrow mattress, bare feet pressed to the cool floor, the documents still pressed flat against the skin of his lower back beneath the borrowed shirt.
He had kept the phone switched off for days. The battery had drained to nothing, the SIM removed, the device itself wrapped in cloth and buried at the bottom of a plastic bag. Only tonight, when the silence had begun to feel heavier than the risk, had he slipped the battery back in and powered it on.
The screen lit. Notifications cascaded across it. Missed calls. Messages. Most from numbers he recognised. One name appeared more than the others.
Hosea.
The phone rang almost immediately, as though the device itself had been waiting for him to surface. Timothy stared at the name for three long seconds before answering.
“Timo? Timo? How far?”
The voice was low, urgent and edged with anxiety.
“I don call you tire. I think say you drown for water or dem don catch you.”
Timothy kept his own voice flat. “How far?”
Hosea did not waste time. “You collect any paper from that boat before we jump? Any document? Manifest, log, anything?”
The question landed with the precision of a blade. For a moment, the small Apapa room dissolved.
The naval searchlight had already swept once across the water when the deck erupted. Men scrambled, feet slamming against metal, voices overlapping in panic.
“Leave am! Leave am! Leave everything!” Hosea had shouted, already half over the rail.
“Abobi, run!”
Daniel, the meticulous one, had yanked open the locker near the wheelhouse and pulled out the clear ziplock bag, six sheets sealed inside, their edges still sharp from recent printing. He had started to shove phones and papers into the black water, then hesitated, the bag still in his fist.
“Leave am!” Hosea had barked again, closer now, almost shoving him. “You no dey hear?!”
Daniel had turned, thrust the ziplock back into the narrow space beneath the console where it had been hidden, and gone over the side without another word.
Timothy had been last. In the chaos, while the others dropped into the darkness, he had reached back. His fingers closed around the plastic. He squeezed the air out until the bag lay flat as a second skin, folded the six sheets once, twice, then a third time into a thin rectangle, and slid the packet deep into the waistband of his trousers, against the small of his back. The cold plastic bit into his skin as he went over the rail and into the water.
“Timo? You still dey there?”
Hosea’s voice pulled him back. The bulb above him hummed. Somewhere outside, a motorcycle engine snarled and faded.
Timothy’s hand drifted instinctively beneath the hard, lumpy pillow beside him, confirming that the papers were still there, still dry, still dangerous. Caution settled over him like a second skin.
“I no carry anything,” he said. The lie came out clean and steady. “I just jump inside water.”
“Okay. Where you dey now?”
Timothy looked at the thin curtain that barely covered the single window, at the unfamiliar streetlight leaking through the gaps. He chose a place far enough from both the creeks and this room.
“Abraka. I dey with one of my cousin.”
“Abraka,” Hosea repeated, as though tasting the name. “Okay na. I just say make I check. Chairman been dey ask of everybody. E dey vex say you no report.”
The call ended. Timothy sat unmoving, the phone still warm in his palm. He powered it off again, removed the battery and placed both pieces carefully on the floor beside the mattress.
In his experience, men who wielded real power were rarely patient and never trusting. They lived inside a permanent weather of suspicion. A missing body, a delayed report, a single unanswered call: any of these could be read as betrayal.
Hosea’s questions had not been casual. They had the feel of an assignment. Timothy believed, with the cold clarity of someone who had survived the water once already, that a target now rested between his shoulder blades.
He rose, crossed to the small window and looked out over the darkened roofs of Apapa. Somewhere beyond the port lights lay the city, the roads, the possibilities of disappearance. He would need money. He would need a new phone. He would need a route that did not lead back to any of the names that had once called him Timo on the deck of a barge that no longer existed.
He turned from the window and began, quietly, to plan his way out.
********************
Assured Trust Bank
Central Area
Abuja
2:34 p.m.
Edafe sat behind the wide expanse of polished mahogany, turning pages of memos and internal reports with the quiet absorption of a man who had long since learned that power lived as much in the small print as in the grand gesture.
His friends were visiting. George, lean and precise, stood near the window, his hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers. Kunle lounged in one of the leather armchairs, scrolling absently through his phone. Chike, broader and quicker to smile, perched on the edge of the opposite sofa, one ankle crossed over the other. A soft knock interrupted them. Edafe looked up.
“Come in.”
The head of marketing entered with a slim folder. Nneka’s charcoal suit was immaculate, her braids drawn into a neat knot. She placed the report before Edafe, but the fraction of a second they held each other’s gaze suggested a conversation that had begun long before that morning.
She crossed to the desk and placed a slim folder precisely in front of him.
“The team’s findings on the third-quarter retail campaign, sir. I’ve summarised the key metrics on the first two pages.”
Edafe offered a small, formal nod.
“Thank you, Nneka. I’ll review them this week.”
Their gazes held a fraction longer than necessary. Memory, heat and the residual intimacy of closed doors and unfinished evenings passed between them in the brief silence. Then she inclined her head, turned and left the room with the same controlled elegance with which she had entered. The door closed with its soft hydraulic sigh.
Chike’s voice broke the quiet, dry and amused.
“Still shitting where you eat?”
Edafe’s mouth curved. He gave a low chuckle, the sound easy and unrepentant.
“Occasionally.”
George turned from the window, one eyebrow lifted in mild reproach.
“I thought you and Obinna just fought about this type of shit.”
Edafe scoffed. “Fuck Obinna.”
The words were light, almost careless, yet they carried no malice. Still, Edafe gave his friends a stern look.
“Don’t tell that fucker I said that.”
The other men laughed. Edafe’s phone vibrated once against the polished surface of the desk just then. He picked it up, glanced at the screen and the faint residual smile faded into something more focused.
“Speak of the devil.”
Kunle and Chike rose. Edafe rose with them, his movement unhurried as he reached for the jacket draped over the back of his chair.
They followed him into the corridor, leaving the memos, the unfinished reports and Nneka’s folder behind on the desk.
***********************
JP Construction
Utako, Abuja
3:18 p.m.
The air conditioning in Pierre’s office hummed with steady, impersonal efficiency.
Rachel stood just inside the door, folder in hand, waiting while her boss finished the call that had already stretched longer than the summons itself.
Pierre sat angled towards the wide window, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid, fluent French. His free hand gestured once, dismissive.
“C’est insupportable, chérie. Cette humidité… on étouffe ici.”
A woman’s voice answered faintly from the speaker. Pierre’s expression softened by a fraction, then tightened again.
Rachel waited. When the conversation paused, she stepped forward and offered a polite smile towards the phone.
Pierre glanced up, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and covered the mouthpiece with one hand.
“The revised projections for the northern corridor, oui?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Merci, Rachel. Leave everything on the desk, okay? I will review.”
She placed the folder precisely where indicated, inclined her head once more towards the unseen wife and left the office without another word.
Back at her own desk, Rachel sat and opened her phone. She stared at the blank message field for nearly four full minutes before typing slowly.
Hi. Having a good day? What does your evening look like?
The reply arrived a few minutes later.
Meeting at the private lounge, Transcorp Hilton. George, Edafe and the others. Should speak after that.
A small, sharp pang moved through her chest. Unbidden, the image returned. She was at the corridor at Fraser Suites again, the door opposite hers opening and Obinna stepping out with Mina at his side.
Rachel opened the WhatsApp group with her friends immediately.
Anyone free for a drink later? I am thinking Transcorp lounge around seven.
She stared at the screen until the first reply appeared, then another. Conversation began to flow and plans began to form. Three of them would all be available. Zainab had gone with her family to Gombe to visit her sick mother-in-law.
Rachel closed the chat, returned her attention to the open spreadsheet on her laptop and forced her face into the calm, professional mask the afternoon still required. Underneath, the jealousy sat sharp and simple. She needed to see whether Mina was with him again.
**********************
Umaru Dikko
Street, Jabi
4:25 pm
Mina stood before her living-room window on Umaru Dikko Street, Jabi, a glass of water in her hand. Beyond the glass, the lake shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
She had not betrayed Obinna in a single dramatic act. It had begun with small disclosures, carefully limited, offered in exchange for assurances that had seemed harmless at the time. A meeting here. A concern there. A warning that allowed someone on the other side to prepare for a move that would otherwise have surprised them.
She had called it prudence at first. Then protection. When those explanations no longer held, she settled on a simpler truth – Obinna had ended their engagement without giving her an explanation she could accept. She owed him nothing.
By the time she admitted she was serving two masters, she had become useful to both, and trusted by neither.
The message arrived at 4:30 p.m.
Your next move is the board. Use your shares to rally the other shareholders against Obinna and force a change in leadership. Sameer is our biggest obstacle. As long as he stands beside Obinna, the plan remains vulnerable. Find a way to neutralise his influence before the next board meeting. We cannot afford another delay.
Mina read it twice and lowered the phone. She had known the plan would reach this stage. She had not expected the demand to arrive so baldly, or so soon.
Force Obinna out of the board leadership.
The words unsettled her. She still held shares in Oleo Energy. She had every right to use her vote. But there was a clear line between challenging a man she no longer trusted and helping strangers dismantle the company he had built.
And Sameer.
She set down the glass. Sameer had been Obinna’s friend long before Oleo became powerful enough to attract enemies of this calibre. Like the rest of the inner circle, he was loyal, and that loyalty still carried weight on the board.
Her phone vibrated again.
Do not contact me about this. We speak only when I reach out. And Mina? If Obinna discovers what you have been doing, do not expect him to believe you were merely helping an old friend.
She stared at the screen until it went dark. That was the trouble with Obinna. He could forgive almost anything when he believed it came from weakness. Betrayal was different. He treated it as a deliberate choice, and he had a long memory for those.
Once she had been the woman he intended to marry. Now she was being asked to help take his company from him.
Mina sat with the glass empty for a full minute. The cost of the next step was clear. So was the cost of refusing.
She opened her contacts and scrolled to the name of a shareholder who had complained, only weeks earlier, about Obinna’s increasingly unilateral decisions. She paused over the call icon. The first conversation would be easy. The ones that followed would not be.
She pressed call. When the man answered, Mina’s voice was composed.
“Hey, Danjuma. I think it’s time we had a serious conversation about the future of Oleo Energy.”
************************
Transcorp Hilton
Private Lounge and Restaurant
Abuja
7:42 p.m.
The lounge glowed with the soft, expensive light of carefully placed lamps and the muted gleam of polished wood. Low conversation and the occasional soft clink of glassware filled the space.
Rachel entered with Simi, Ronke and Linda, the latest addition to their circle, half a step behind her. She had chosen the place with deliberate precision.
Her eyes moved once across the room as she walked and found him at once.
Obinna sat at a corner table at the far end, a circle of men around him. Their presence was quiet, self-contained and assured, the sort of composure that drew attention without demanding it.
For a single suspended second, their gazes met across the length of the restaurant. Neither smiled. Neither looked away too quickly. Then Rachel continued forward, choosing a table almost directly opposite, the distance deliberate and transparent at the same time.
They settled into their seats. A waiter appeared with the menus and a ready smile. Orders were given, and the waiter beat a retreat towards the kitchen with a polite promise to return shortly.
Conversation soon rose around the table as the women settled into easy chatter, catching up on the day’s events.
Linda leaned in, her eyes bright with mischief. She had pieced together enough of Rachel’s recent history to feel entitled to commentary.
“Glad to see that you have moved on from the drama with that fling of yours.”
Rachel kept her expression neutral, mumbled something incoherent and quickly diverted her attention to her phone.
Linda, oblivious to her disinterest in that particular line of conversation, continued.
“I have never understood heartbreak. No man has power over me. I decide when, I decide how, and I decide when it ends. Simple.”
Simi raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth already lifting.
“We should call Igwe for you, ehn, madam feminist?”
Laughter moved around the table, light and shared. Even Rachel managed a smile that almost reached her eyes.
The food arrived. Plates were set down, glasses refilled. Rachel ate carefully, laughed when the moment required it and kept the greater part of her attention fixed on the far corner of the room without ever appearing to stare.
Every small movement from Obinna’s table registered. Whether it was the tilt of a glass, the shift of a shoulder or the quiet intensity of conversation maintained at the lowest volume possible. Nothing escaped her notice.
They were near the end of the meal, the wine bottle half empty, when Rachel set her glass down and spoke more quietly.
“Okay, I have a confession.”
Three pairs of inquisitive eyes turned to her.
“He’s here,” she said. “Obinna. Please don’t stare. Don’t make it obvious.”
Conversation devolved into schoolgirl squeals punctuated by a single eye roll from Linda.
As if on cue, the man in question began to rise from his table. Rachel’s voice dropped further.
“That’s him. The one standing.”
They all turned to look this time. Linda’s expression shifted in an instant. The practised cool of the avowed feminist softened into something far less disciplined. She straightened almost imperceptibly, her fingers moving to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear.
“He is quite good looking,” she murmured, her eyes slanting with interest.
Ronke noticed the gesture and the tone together. Her smile turned sharp with amusement.
“I thought no man had power over you, ehn? Madam feminist.”
Linda did not miss a beat. She leaned back, her eyes still tracking the approaching figure, and answered with perfect composure.
“The lower half of me is a misogynist. So…” She paused, then added airily, “Balance.”
Fresh laughter threatened to break the careful restraint of the table. It was cut short by Obinna’s arrival.
He stopped beside their chairs with unhurried courtesy and greeted each of them in turn with a brief, polite that seemed to encompass the small circle.
“Hello.”
He turned to Rachel.
“May I steal you for a minute?”
Linda looked up through lowered lashes, her voice light and sultry.
“A minute is fine, as long as she is coming back with you.”
Ronke, barely concealing her irritation at Linda’s blatant flirting, reached across, lifted Rachel’s small bag from the back of the chair she was sitting and pressed it firmly into her friend’s hands.
“Oh, don’t mind us. You can steal her for the night.”
Obinna’s mouth curved, genuine this time. He inclined his head in quiet thanks and stepped back to allow Rachel space to rise.
She did so, waving goodbye to her friends as she went. The two of them moved together towards the exit, the low murmur of the lounge closing behind them like a curtain drawn carefully across a stage.
*********************
Ibrahim Babangida Boulevard
Maitama, Abuja
9:12 p.m.
The night air over Maitama carried the dry scent of the approaching harmattan and the faint perfume of bougainvillea from the high walls lining the quieter streets.
Obinna drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the gear lever, the soft glow of the dashboard illuminating the clean lines of his face.
Rachel sat beside him in the passenger seat of the dark Mercedes, her hands folded in her lap, the city lights sliding across the glass in long, liquid ribbons.
She had not expected the invitation when he returned to her table an hour after leaving. Now that they were together, the interrupted kiss at Utako slithered back into her mind. The silence between them felt different, less brittle, denser with the knowledge of what had almost happened and what might still.
The house in Jahi,” she said. “You’re selling it?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the security issues?”
“Among other reasons.”
She studied his profile.
“You say that as though there’s a list.”
“There is.”
He offered no elaboration and she asked no questions after that. They approached Nile Street and turned into the quieter residential streets leading to a crescent lined with imposing houses.
The gates of the new property opened without sound as they approached. Tall, dark metal set into pale stone, the entrance was understated, almost severe, yet the security presence was immediate and invisible. Cameras nestled in the landscaping; electronic locks clicked softly, speaking of systems more sophisticated than ordinary wealth required.
Beyond the gates, the driveway curved through a garden of carefully pruned frangipani and low, silver-leafed shrubs that caught the exterior lighting like brushed metal.
The house itself was a sprawling, single storey detached residence, its five bedrooms arranged with deliberate restraint. The façade was long and low, its proportions exact, the wide eaves casting deep shadows.
A shallow reflecting pool stretched along one side of the entrance, still as black glass.
Obinna parked beneath the covered portico. He came around to open her door. When she stepped out, the night air was cooler here, filtered by the high walls and dense planting.
He led her inside. The entrance hall was double height, the floor a continuous expanse of large format porcelain that felt cool beneath her shoes. A single sculptural light fixture of brushed bronze hung above a low console of dark wood.
Everything smelled of clean linen, polished stone and the faint citrus of the air system. To the left, the living space opened into a long rectangle of understated furniture: deep sofas in oatmeal linen, a low table of pale oak and books arranged with care.
He did not linger downstairs. His hand found the small of her back, light and guiding, and they moved towards the wide staircase rising against one wall. Upstairs, the corridor was narrower, the lighting warmer. He opened the door to the primary suite at the far end.
The room was large but not cavernous. A wide bed dressed in white linen occupied the centre, its headboard a simple panel of pale oak. Floor-to-ceiling glass looked out over the dark garden; sheer curtains stirred faintly in the air conditioning.
A single armchair of soft leather stood near the window. Beyond an open doorway, the stone, glass and quiet gleam of chrome in the bathroom were visible.
Rachel stood for a moment just inside the threshold, taking in the spare opulence.
Obinna closed the door behind them with a soft click. When he turned, the distance between them was already closing.
He reached for her slowly. One hand settled at her waist, the other rose to the side of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Their mouths met in a slow kiss.
She answered by opening to him, her hands sliding beneath the lapels of his blazer, feeling the warmth of his shirt and the steady muscle beneath.
They moved towards the bed in a series of small, deliberate steps. He shrugged out of the blazer and let it fall. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt with the same unhurried care, revealing the warm skin of his chest.
When the fabric parted, she pressed her mouth there, tasting the faint salt of his skin and feeling the rise and fall of his breathing deepen.
A low sound escaped him, quieter, more controlled than the soft catch of her own breath. His hands found the zip of her dress. He drew it down with measured patience.
They undressed each other without haste. Each new expanse of skin was explored with lips and fingertips. When they finally lay down together, the sheets were cool against their bodies. He settled over her, his weight carefully distributed. The kissing resumed, deeper now, their tongues moving in slow rhythm as their hands continued their unhurried exploration.
His fingers traced the inside of her thigh, rising with deliberate patience until they found the heat between her legs. Rachel’s hand closed around him in turn, feeling the heavy thickness, the pulse of blood beneath the skin. She stroked him slowly, matching his rhythm, until his breathing roughened against her mouth. When he finally entered her, it was with one long, measured thrust that seated him fully.
They both stilled for a moment, their foreheads touching, simply feeling the stretch and heat of connection after too long apart. Then he began to move, slow, deep strokes that withdrew almost completely before sliding home again.
Rachel met each one, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels pressing into the small of his back to draw him deeper. Each time he filled her she clenched around him, the subtle pull drawing another controlled exhale from his throat.
The pace remained unhurried for a long time. Their mouths stayed joined or wandered, his to her throat, hers to the strong column of his neck. When the rhythm finally quickened, the control frayed. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, the wet sound of their joining louder in the quiet room. He reached between them, finding the swollen peak above where they joined, and stroked in tight, relentless circles timed to the movement of his body.
Rachel’s breath fractured. Her body tightened around him in long, rhythmic waves, the clench of her pulling him deeper still.
The climax rose through her like heat unfurling, sharp and overwhelming. As it crested she cried out against his mouth, her inner muscles pulsing hard around him. The sound and the fierce grip of her body broke the last of his restraint. He followed with a deep, shuddering groan, his release pulsing hot and heavy inside her as they locked together.
They remained joined, their breathing slowly settling into an even rhythm. Obinna rested his forehead against hers. She kept her legs around him a moment longer, unwilling to surrender the weight and warmth of him just yet.
Silence settled around them, broken only by the faint stir of the curtains and the gradual ebb of the passion that had consumed them.
*********************
River Kubani Crescent
Maitama, Abuja
11:48 p.m.
The house had settled into the deep quiet of midnight, but Obinna had no intention of sleeping.
He sat shirtless before the computer in his study, black slacks resting low on his hips, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. A desk lamp threw a pool of amber light across the keyboard and the papers scattered beside it, leaving the far corners of the room in shadow.
Rachel was upstairs, sound asleep. He could still feel the warmth of her against him, the unguarded intimacy of those hours when, for a little while, the world had narrowed to the rhythm of their breathing and the familiar scent of her skin.
A secure video window opened on the screen. Ofer appeared from New York, seated in what looked like a hotel suite overlooking a dark lake. His white shirt was open at the collar, and the cold light of his laptop sharpened the familiar lines of his face.
“You look like you’ve declared war on sleep,” Ofer said.
Obinna gave him a thin smile.
“I can’t help it.”
“You spoke with Edafe?”
The smile disappeared. Earlier that evening, at the Transcorp Hilton, Edafe had laid the evidence on the table between them. A transaction routed through an intermediary, the recipient concealed behind layers of corporate paperwork, the trail eventually leading to Mina.
“Yes.”
Ofer leaned back.
“Then what do you intend to do?”
Obinna removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Without them, the computer screen blurred into a wash of pale light, but the figures Edafe had uncovered remained sharp in his mind.
“Mina still has shares in Oleo. She knows people on the board. If he gets her to turn the shareholders against me, he doesn’t need to defeat me in business. He can make my own company do it for him.”
“And if she has already started?”
“Then we find out how far she’s gone before she gets the chance to finish.”
Ofer was quiet for a moment.
“You want her out.”
“I want her out of the equation.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not tonight.”
Obinna put his glasses back on and opened a file. Names, shareholdings, voting rights, old agreements. Oleo’s corporate structure unfolded across the screen, a carefully constructed architecture of influence in which every percentage point had a voice and every voice could be bought, frightened, persuaded or silenced by the right person.
He had built the company to withstand competitors. He had not built it to withstand betrayal from someone who knew where its foundations lay.
“Can we buy her out?” Ofer asked.
“If she will sell.”
“And if she won’t?”
Obinna’s fingers rested motionless on the keyboard.
“Then we make sure she cannot use those shares to take the board from me. I want every agreement reviewed. Every restriction on transfers, every provision governing voting rights. Find me the lawful route to remove her influence before the next meeting.”
Ofer studied him through the screen.
“You know what happens if she realises you’re onto her. She’ll run straight to your opponent.”
“She’s already there.”
“Then don’t give her a reason to move faster.”
Obinna looked away from the computer to the dark velvety night beyond his windows. He thought of Mina as she had been before ambition, resentment and old wounds had poisoned everything between them. He remembered the woman who had once stood beside him, convinced that whatever they built together would outlast the world outside their door.
He had ended their engagement. He had his reasons. None of them, however, had included handing her the means to destroy him.
“There’s something else,” Ofer said. Obinna turned back.
“Edafe mentioned the timing of the transaction. It wasn’t random. Whoever paid her knew exactly when the pressure on Oleo would become useful.”
“Igbokoda?”
“Possibly. Or Oleo’s stand with the banks. Or both. Your opponent may be preparing to move on several fronts.”
Obinna’s expression hardened. It was beginning to take shape now: not a quarrel between shareholders, not a disgruntled former fiancĂ©e nursing old injuries, but a coordinated attempt to strip him of control while his attention was divided elsewhere, and Mina was one piece of it.
“Get me everything you can on the other shareholders,” he said. “I want to know who can be persuaded, who can be pressured, and who has already chosen a side. Quietly. No threats, no unnecessary calls. If they’re building a majority against me, I want to know before they believe they have one.”
“And Mina?”
“I will keep my eyes on her.”
Ofer nodded slowly.
“Understood.”
Obinna closed the file and sat back. The desk lamp caught the edge of his glasses, briefly obscuring his eyes.
“There’s one more thing I need you to do.”
“Go on.”
“Find out whether she’s acting for him or whether she’s become indispensable to him. There’s a difference between a woman selling information and a woman helping plan a takeover.”
“And if she’s doing both?”
Obinna’s jaw tightened. He remembered their meeting at Fraser. They had discussed her shares and plans for them. Her starry eyed inquiries about Oleo’s future had not fooled him. However, his meeting with Edafe had forced something to shift inside him.
“Then we treat her accordingly.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. Across thousands of kilometres, the two men regarded each other through the cold machinery of a screen, each understanding that the danger was no longer confined to boardrooms, financial statements or the polite language of corporate disagreements.
Someone was coming for Oleo.
And whoever it was had decided that the easiest way to take the company from Obinna was to make him lose it himself.
Ofer glanced towards something outside the frame, then returned his attention to the screen.
“Get some rest if you can,” he said. “You will need a clear head.”
Obinna nodded automatically.
“Sure thing.”
He did not rest, neither did he leave the study. Instead, he turned back to the computer. One by one, he began opening the files that could decide the future of Oleo Energy, his mind set on the singular task before him.
Plan a maneuver, make his opponent pay for every square they claimed.
© Umari Ayim.
2026