Lagos 1963 — the city breathes in short, nervous
bursts. Colonial roads now bear new names, but
the old fears still run beneath them like
cracked pipes. The air hums with speeches, radio
broadcasts, and the weight of a nation learning
to speak for itself.
He wakes before dawn, the floor cold under his
bare feet. The house is quiet except for the
distant rhythm of a neighbour’s generator. He
moves through the rooms like a ghost: water
drawn from the shared tap, bread bought from the
woman who never asks questions. His wife stands
at the kitchen door, arms crossed, eyes fixed on
the street beyond. She has not spoken since the
letter arrived last week — the one that named
him as a potential suspect in a sabotage case
linked to the Eastern Region’s growing unrest.
She is his rival wife — not by blood, not by
choice, but because they both carry the same
burden: the unspoken understanding that their
marriage was a transaction made during the war
years, sealed with a promise neither trusted.
He sees her once more in the market, standing
near a stall piled high with palm oil and dried
fish. A man approaches — young, clean shirt, tie
loose around his neck. They exchange words too
soft to hear, but he watches how her fingers
twitch against her thigh, how her gaze lingers
longer than it should. Not love. Not desire. But
recognition. A secret passed in silence, a look
that says you know what this means.
That night, he finds the notebook hidden beneath
the floorboard. Pages filled with calculations,
names, dates — all tied to the railway strike
planned for next month. The handwriting matches
hers. The same pen she used to write their
wedding vows.
The rule bites then: no citizen may hold or
carry information deemed subversive without
immediate reporting. No exceptions. Not even for
family.
He burns the notebook in the back yard, smoke
curling upward like a prayer denied. The ashes
cool into dust.
Next morning, he walks to the office where he
works as a clerk. At the gate, he stops. The
guard checks his bag. He holds out his hands,
palms open. “No documents,” he says. The guard
nods. He walks in.
At noon, the train explodes near Enugu. The news
spreads fast. By dusk, police cars rattle down
every street. Houses are searched. Names are
called.
He returns home to find his wife gone. Only a
note remains, folded into the collar of his
favourite shirt: I kept us safe. Now you must do
the same.
He stands in the empty house. The walls press
inward. The radio crackles with a new
announcement: a reward offered for information
leading to the sabotage network.
Outside, the city does not sleep. It listens.
He picks up the phone. Dials a number he has
never used. Speaks only three words: I know
where she is.
The line goes dead.
The first rain of the season begins. It falls
hard, washing the streets clean, filling the
gutters, turning the earth dark.
He sits at the table. Waits.
The world has changed. Not with revolution, not
with war — but with the quiet, unbearable cost
of knowing.
