The cab jerked as it turned into a narrow alley, dust kicking up like secrets in the wind.

“Don’t lose him,” Kelechi barked.

“Na wetin I dey try do, oga,” the driver muttered, weaving between danfos and keke riders who didn’t believe in brakes.

Kelechi’s eyes stayed locked on the cab ahead, the one with the man in the face cap, the faint scar peeking out near his cheek. The burn. The same one described by the market woman. The same one Halima might have been running from.

The cab they chased swerved again, then slowed near a corner where old houses huddled together like gossiping neighbors.

“Oga, he stop… see am!” the driver said.

But just as Kelechi prepared to jump out, the man stepped down, looked straight toward them, and vanished into the warren of alleys behind a mechanic’s shed.

“Wait here,” Kelechi said, flinging the door open and ignoring the driver’s insult.

He ran. Dust coated his shoes. Children shouted as he brushed past. His lungs burned. Left. Right. A rusted zinc gate slammed shut ahead of him, but there was no sound of footsteps.

Gone.

Kelechi stopped, chest rising, sweat clinging to his back like a second skin. The alley was quiet. The world felt paused. And that’s when he saw it. Nailed to a power pole at eye level, like someone had been waiting:

A polaroid photo.

Halima.

Wearing the same blue boubou, sitting at a bench in what looked like an open-air market. She was laughing. Beside her, barely visible in the frame, was the man in the cap. The caption scrawled on the back in rushed handwriting said:

You always arrive late, lover boy.

Kelechi’s breath hitched.

He didn’t know if it was fear, anger or heartbreak rising in his throat, but he turned, leaned on the pole, and let his eyes flutter shut.

And just like that, Halima was back.

Not physically, but inside his chest. Not the woman in the polaroid or the one in the blurry TikToks. No. The Halima that lived in his memory. The one from before everything turned to smoke.

Their love hadn’t started like a hurricane. It had begun like harmattan. Slow, creeping. The kind that cracked lips and lit fires.

They’d met at a wedding, sure, but what happened after was what stuck. She’d called him a week later just like she promised and dragged him to a book café in Wuse 2. It smelled like old novels and freshly fried akara.

She ordered zobo. He got a malt.

She asked what book changed his life. He said Things Fall Apart. She laughed.

“Predictable. Chinua’s every man’s fallback.”

He asked her the same. She leaned in, eyes blazing.

“Zadie Smith. White Teeth. Because it reminded me that we’re all contradictions. And I live for contradictions.”

He didn’t know he was in love until three months in, when they fought about Babangida. She was convinced the man orchestrated more than he let on.

Kelechi had stared at her, half in love, half confused.

She was brilliant. Maddening. She could spend an hour explaining why Michelle Obama was the true brain behind Barack’s presidency, then turn around and argue passionately about pepper placement in asun.

The Halima he knew didn’t just walk into rooms. She disrupted them.

She hated fried plantain but adored Bounty chocolate. She said she liked sad books and hated happy endings. And her favorite thing to do was draw people when they weren’t looking.

And Kelechi, poor unsuspecting Kelechi, had become her favorite subject.

He remembered once waking up to find a sketch on his nightstand. Him, asleep. Hair messy. A line under the drawing that read: You look peaceful. Rare.

Then NYSC came. She was posted to Kwara. He stayed in Abuja. The calls got shorter. The silence grew longer. Then the fire happened.

That had been the end.

Until now.

The wind rustled the leaves of the lone pawpaw tree nearby. The streets were still quiet. But something had shifted in him.

Then, without thinking, he pulled out his phone and dialed Fatima.

She didn’t pick the first time.

He tried again. The line clicked.

“Hello,” her voice was groggy. Cartoon sounds played faintly in the background.

“Fatima, it’s Kelechi. I found something. A picture. She was here. I swear it.”

Fatima was quiet for a beat. Then sighed.

“Kelechi… I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I asked around. I asked Aisha. You remember Aisha? Our friend from uni. Halima’s roommate back then.”

Kelechi nodded to no one. His hand tightened around the phone.

“She told me about Alhaji Nuradeen. About the kind of man he is. Not just rich, not just connected. He owns things, Kelechi. Places. People. What he wants, he gets. And Halima… Halima was his.”

“She was never anyone’s property,” Kelechi hissed.

“Try telling that to a man who built half of Ilorin and probably owns the other half.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And now you’re chasing her like a movie, Kelechi. But maybe this isn’t your fight anymore. Maybe you should let the dead rest.”

He was quiet.

Fatima lowered her voice.

“I got a message too. Anonymous. It said if I kept digging, I’d regret it.”

“Did you save it?”

“Of course I did. But Kelechi, I have kids now. I can’t… I just can’t. Please. Be careful.”

He ended the call. The silence left behind buzzed louder than the conversation.

He turned back to the photo. Something about the smirk on Halima’s face haunted him.

Then his phone pinged.

A message from I.B:

Come White Lagos Lounge. I get something wey go help you.

Kelechi didn’t trust the timing, but he had no other lead. He flagged down a keke, heart pounding. Something itched in his spine.

By the time he arrived, the sky was bleeding into dusk. Neon lights flickered over rows of parked cars. Inside, the bar reeked of sweat, smoke and desperation.

He found I.B at the far end, lounging with a plate of peppered snails and a cup of Fanta.

“Omo! Detective lover boy!” I.B grinned, waving. “Sit down jare. You look like person wey just come back from burial.”

“What do you have for me?”

I.B laughed, took a slow bite, then leaned in.

“Omo, the kain wahala wey you dey enter no be small. You dey chase Halima, abi?”

Kelechi didn’t blink. “Yes.”

“She fine sha. Even with all the palava. But you too dey follow your heart. That one na wetin dey kill man.” He paused. “There’s a man wey say make I monitor you.”

Kelechi blinked.

“Alhaji Nuradeen. You think say na only you dey find her?”

The world tilted.

“You work for him?”

“Not like dat. I just… deliver small info. No be like say I be assassin o. Just street runner. I give gist. Collect my pay. Everybody dey alright.”

“You set me up.”

“No o. Not yet. I still dey loyal. But make I talk true… he wan find her. You just make the finding easier.”

Kelechi stood.

“Omo, no vex,” I.B said quickly. “I never talk anything serious. I no mention say you be Abuja boy or say you sabi sketchbooks. I just talk say one guy dey ask of her.”

“And what do you get for it?”

I.B shrugged. “Small change. You sef for collect if you smart.”

Kelechi turned to leave.

“Wait,” I.B called. “One last thing. He get plan. Alhaji. He say she go come out if she see you.”

Kelechi froze.

“You dey hear me? He go use you. Make you lead am to her. Whether you know am or not.”

Kelechi didn’t respond. He walked out into the night, I.B’s voice still in his ears.

His phone buzzed again.

A new video.

@iseeu had posted.

It was silent this time. Just wind and feet shuffling on sand. The camera zoomed toward a narrow street. Someone was walking away, blue scarf trailing behind her. Then the feed cut.

Caption: “Some people hide. Some leave breadcrumbs.”

Kelechi stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the replay button. He watched it again. And again. That blue scarf. That street. That slight tilt of the head. She was close.

She was reaching out.

Or was she warning him?
And suddenly, it wasn’t just about finding her. It was about what would happen when he did.

Alhaji Nuradeen was a step ahead. I.B had already sold him out. Halima might think she’s in control, but someone else was pulling strings. Watching. Waiting.

A part of him wanted to call it off. To go back to Abuja. To pretend this was all a dream born from grief and guilt.

He took a deep breath and slid his phone into his pocket. The air felt thick, like the city was holding its breath.

He whispered to himself, “This isn’t over.”

Then he turned and walked into the night, chasing the next breadcrumb. Knowing full well it might be the one that leads them both to ruin.

NEWLY ADDED CHARACTERS

1. Aisha

✨ Why This Chapter Won!

• Word count excellence – The chapter met and exceeded the required length, giving space for deeper character development, atmospheric pacing, and layered conflict.
• Emotional depth – Through introspective moments and well-placed flashbacks, the story reminds us why Kelechi is chasing Halima, grounding the mystery in real feeling.
• Organic progression – It continued directly from Chapter 4 without any awkward shifts in tone, pacing, or style, making the transition feel effortless.
• Strategic tension – The photo clue and I.B’s unexpected betrayal elevated the stakes and added new narrative dimensions without breaking the story’s logic.
• Voice consistency – Dialogue, narration, and inner monologue all remained true to the established tone and characters, especially Kelechi.
• Room for continuation – The ending leaves enough open threads for the next writer to pick up naturally, with strong hints, rising stakes, and a sense of urgency.