Chasing Halima – Chapter 6

The neon glow of White Lagos Lounge bled into the oppressive darkness of the Ilorin night. Kelechi walked, not towards a destination, but away from the suffocating realization that he was a pawn.

Alhaji Nuradeen. The name tasted like ash in his mouth.

He was being used, a puppet on strings, dancing to a tune he couldn’t hear, all to flush out Halima.

The latest @iseeu video played on a loop in his mind: the blue scarf, the narrow street, the subtle tilt of her head.

“Some people hide. Some leave breadcrumbs.”

Was it a plea? A warning? Or was Halima, too, a player in this dangerous game, leaving a trail for him to follow into a trap?
He needed to think, to untangle this web.

He couldn’t trust I.B. anymore, not fully.
He needed a different kind of insight. Someone who understood the digital whispers, the hidden language of the internet.

Then it clicked. Amina Suleiman.

He’d met her briefly at a tech meetup in Abuja months ago. She was a digital artist, known for her intricate, almost forensic analysis of online trends and urban legends. She ran a niche blog called “Ilorin Unseen,” dissecting local mysteries and digital breadcrumbs.

If anyone could decipher Halima’s cryptic TikToks, it was Amina.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the keypad. He found her contact, a forgotten entry from a business card he’d almost thrown away.

“Amina, this is Kelechi. From the Abuja meetup. I need your help. It’s urgent. I’m in Ilorin.”

He sent the message, then hailed a Keke, giving the driver the address of a small, nondescript guesthouse he’d found online.

He needed a place to regroup, away from the prying eyes of Alhaji Nuradeen’s network.

Hours later, as the first hint of dawn painted the sky, his phone buzzed. A reply from Amina: “Kelechi? Wow. Urgent? Ilorin? You’ve piqued my interest.
Send me the details. And maybe a coffee. My studio is near Tanke. I’m usually up by 5 AM.”

Kelechi sent her the links to the @iseeu videos, a brief, almost frantic summary of his situation, and the polaroid photo.
He didn’t mention Alhaji Nuradeen yet.

He wanted to gauge her reaction first.

He arrived at Amina’s studio just as the sun began to peek over the horizon.
It was a small, cluttered space above a tailor shop, filled with glowing monitors, half-finished digital art, and the faint smell of incense and strong coffee.

Amina, a slender woman with vibrant purple braids and intense, intelligent eyes, was already at her desk, two screens displaying the @iseeu videos.

“Kelechi. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” her voice calm, almost detached.

She gestured to a beanbag chair. “Coffee?”

He nodded, collapsing onto the beanbag.

“So,” she began, her eyes still fixed on the screen, “this ‘I see you’ account. Fascinating. I’ve been tracking it for a few weeks. It popped up out of nowhere, posting these oddly specific, almost personal videos. No face, no clear location, just… vibes. And then you send me this.” She gestured to the polaroid. “And the story. Wow.”

She turned to him, her gaze piercing.
“You think this is her, don’t you? Halima.”

“I know it’s her,” Kelechi said, his voice firm. “The scar, the boubou, the way she moves. And the sketchbook. She left it for me.”

Amina nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s assume it’s her. And let’s assume she’s leaving you clues. But these aren’t just random breadcrumbs, Kelechi. There’s a pattern.”

She pulled up a complex network of lines and nodes on one of her screens.
“I’ve been mapping the subtle background elements, the time stamps, the light quality, even the ambient sounds.
The first two videos, the ones you sent earlier, have a faint, almost subliminal hum. A specific frequency. It’s consistent.”

Kelechi leaned forward. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a low-frequency hum, almost imperceptible to the conscious ear, but it’s there. And it’s unique. I’ve cross-referenced it with known industrial sounds, power grids, even specific types of generators. And it matches a very particular type of industrial generator used in only a handful of locations in Ilorin.
One of them is an old abandoned mill.”

It sounded dangerous.

“And the latest video,” Amina continued, pulling up the grainy footage of the blue scarf trailing on sand.

“No hum this time. But the sand… it’s not typical Ilorin sand. It’s finer, almost like beach sand, but with a reddish tint.
And the way the wind moves it… it suggests a very open, exposed area. Not a street in a suburb.”

She zoomed in on a tiny, almost invisible detail in the background of the video.

“See that? Just a flicker. A reflection.
It’s a specific type of reflective material, used in high-security fencing.
The kind you find around… well, places that don’t want to be found.”

Kelechi’s mind raced. An abandoned mill. High-security fencing. This wasn’t just about a woman running from the past.

This was something far more organized, far more sinister.

“And the caption,” Amina said, her voice dropping. ‘Wealth chased me here.’
And the song, ‘Kajẹ wa o.’ Let wealth come. It’s not just about money, Kelechi.
In some circles, ‘wealth’ can refer to something else. Something… valuable. Something that people would kill for.”

She turned to him, her eyes serious. “Halima isn’t just hiding. She’s either being held, or she’s involved in something very, very deep. These breadcrumbs… they’re leading you into a very dark place.
A place where ‘wealth’ isn’t just currency.”

Kelechi felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. “What kind of place?”

Amina hesitated, then pulled up a satellite image on her screen. “The abandoned mill. And a few other locations that match the hum and the reflective material.
They form a kind of triangle. And at the center of that triangle… is a private estate. Owned by a man who buys up old, forgotten properties. A man who has a reputation for getting what he wants, no matter the cost.”

She paused, her gaze fixed on him. “Alhaji Nuradeen.”

Kelechi felt the air leave his lungs, He hadn’t mentioned the name to her.

“He’s been acquiring properties in that area for years,” Amina continued, oblivious to his shock. “Quietly. Under shell companies, and the security around his main estate… It’s legendary. No one gets in. No one gets out without his say-so.”

She leaned back, her expression grim. “Kelechi, if Halima is leaving you breadcrumbs, she’s leading you straight to the lion’s den. And if Alhaji Nuradeen is involved, this isn’t just about finding her. It’s about surviving him.”

She pointed to a specific point on the satellite map, a cluster of buildings within the estate. “This section here. It’s new. Built recently. And it doesn’t show up on any public records. It’s almost like it’s designed to be invisible.”

Kelechi stared at the screen,the satellite image of Alhaji Nuradeen’s estate a cold, stark reality.

A chilling realization dawned on him. Halima wasn’t just running, She was trapped. And the breadcrumbs weren’t just clues; they were a desperate plea for help, leading him into the heart of the danger.

Amina’s question, “So, Kelechi. What’s your next move, detective?”
hung in the air, heavy with unspoken danger.

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted from the glowing monitors to the cluttered, vibrant studio, then to his own trembling hands.

The voices of Fatima and I.B. echoed in his mind: “….But maybe this isn’t your fight anymore. Maybe you should let the dead rest. ,” and “….He go use you. Make you lead am to her…..”

A part of him, a small, terrified part, screamed for him to walk away.

To go back to Abuja, to the comfortable lie that Halima was gone, that the fire had claimed her, and that his grief was a closed chapter.

But then, his eyes fell on the polaroid photo he’d pulled from his pocket, the one he’d found nailed to the power pole.

Halima laughing, a faint smirk playing on her lips. He remembered her telling him once, during one of their late-night walks, about a dream she had.

A dream where she was a bird, trapped in a gilded cage, but still singing, still finding ways to send messages to the outside world.

“My art,” she’d said, “will always find a way out.”

That was it. That was the “wealth” Alhaji Nuradeen wanted.

Not just money, not just power, but Halima herself. Her spirit, her defiance, her unique way of seeing the world, her ability to create, to disrupt.

He wanted to control it.

And Halima, even from within that cage, was still singing, still leaving breadcrumbs, still fighting.

A tremor ran through Kelechi, but it wasn’t fear. It was a raw, burning resolve.
He clenched his fists, the polaroid crinkling slightly in his grip. The cold knot in his stomach dissolved, replaced by a fierce, protective heat.

He had chased a ghost, then a mystery, then a trap. Now, he was chasing a woman he loved, a woman who was sending him a desperate, defiant message.

He looked at Amina, his eyes no longer haunted, but blazing with a singular purpose. His voice, when it came, was low, rough with emotion, but unwavering.

“My next move,” Kelechi said, the words a vow whispered into the quiet dawn

“is to bring her home. And if Alhaji Nuradeen stands in my way, he’ll have to go through me.”

He was no longer just a man searching for answers. He was a man fighting for the woman he loved, ready to walk into the lion’s den, knowing full well he might not walk out.

NEWLY ADDED CHARACTERS

1. Amina Suleiman

✨ Why This Chapter Won!

• Continuity (Excellent): Directly addresses Chapter 5’s end—Kelechi processes I.B.’s betrayal, seeks tech help to decode Halima’s clues.
• Linkage (Strong): Amina’s analysis ties the TikTok breadcrumbs (“wealth” = Halima’s artistry) to Alhaji’s estate. Expands the conspiracy logically.
• Character Consistency (Outstanding): Kelechi’s resolve hardens believably; Halima’s defiance shines through her digital clues.
• Thematic Resonance: “Wealth” as Halima’s spirit/artistry elevates the chase beyond physical pursuit.
• Pacing: Tense but controlled, balancing tech exposition with emotional weight.