 
Wura's Woodin Adventures: A Novella (The Aso-Ebi Chronicles, Part 2)

By

Sharon Abimbola Salu

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Abimbola Salu

Cover Illustration by Qaaim Goodwin

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Discover other titles by Sharon Abimbola Salu at Smashwords.com:

Short Stories:

Stay in Berlin

The Piano Book

Nosa's Wedding

Three Mangoes

The Last Komole

1, 2, 3 Disappear

The Life and Times of Two Flared Nostrils

Novellas:

Bewaji's Ankara Adventures: A Novella (The Aso-Ebi Chronicles, Part 1)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author
One

A young woman crossed a busy road in Apapa, and narrowly missed being knocked down by a motorcycle. The okada driver swerved just in time to avoid colliding with the absentminded girl. She paid no attention to the vehement curses he hurled at her, and kept walking. She did not see him crash, mere seconds later, into a pile of empty cartons in front of a shop. Thankfully, nobody was hurt and the okada driver lived to see another day.

After his crash, his cursing subsided significantly, and he began to speculate as to the cause of his "almost" accident. His superstitious mind readily presented the answer: the girl who had crossed his path minutes before. He concluded that she was a witch, a principality or worse still, an evil spirit in human form, on a mission. The same mouth that had just uttered multiple curses said a quick prayer and the okada driver hurried along. The girl, unaware of the terror she had inspired in this man's heart, continued on her way, still deep in thought.

The young woman in question was a petite - actually, 'short' was the correct word - woman in her early 20s. Her thick hair was locked into tight braids, special cornrows popularly known as _Ghana weaving_. The way the skin on her forehead was tightly drawn was irrefutable proof that the hairstyle was fresh. She was on her way back from the salon where she had gone to get her hair braided. It was while she was there that her friend and classmate, Chinyere, had given her some very bad news: not only was she on the verge of being disqualified from the Mr. and Miss UNILAG Beauty Pageant, but she was also lacking a pageant-winning accessory: jewelry. Chinyere Uba, who brought her the news, was the only woman on the pageant planning committee. The rest of the committee members were men and most of the contestants, if not all, were their past or current girlfriends. In fact, Kunle Balogun, who was the Committee Chairman, was reported to have four of the girls he was dating simultaneously as contestants. But that shameless polygamist was not her immediate concern. Her potential disqualification was.

Wuraola Oyelese was a second year student at the Department of English at the University of Lagos, otherwise known as UNILAG. However, she had gotten into UNILAG as a pre-degree student.

The original plan was to study law, but after scoring below the JAMB cut-off mark four times in a row, and after dealing with the pain of seeing junior girls she used to boss around in secondary school, pass the same exam and enroll in different undergraduate programs, she decided, for the sake of her sanity and optimal mental health, to initiate Plan "D."

Plan "B" was to take the SATs and study abroad, but no one would pay the school fees. Plan "C" was to join a jazz band as a backup singer, but she knew her father would skin her alive if he so much as _smelt_ the idea. The look her mother had given her when she jokingly brought up the idea was what made her decide that Plan "C" was crazy, and needed to be snuffed out. So, Plan "D" had surfaced: enroll in a pre-degree course and somehow try to get into an undergraduate program. Eventually. That plan was the one that worked.

Wura was just rounding off her first "Jambite" year, when she heard of the Mr. and Miss UNILAG Beauty Pageant. To tell the truth, she was less concerned about Mr. UNILAG, and more interested in the Miss UNILAG part. Recalling how she had won _Miss Scruples_ and several other awards in secondary school, she decided to contest. She would be representing the Department of English.

At the time she turned in her application, all students of the university were allowed to contest. But now, according to reports from the meeting held by the student-run planning committee, they were on the verge of making a decision to eliminate contestants who came in as pre-degree students.

According to Chinyere, this idea originated from one of Kunle's girlfriends. The other three girlfriends, who were also contestants, had come into the school as pre-degree students. This _bad belle_ girlfriend was the only one of Kunle's girls who came into UNILAG based on her JAMB results. Whether her JAMB results were real and not fabricated was a totally different question. The school campus was rife with rumors that she did not even take JAMB, but how were rumors going to help Wura's case?

Wura was furious that she was being roped into a plot masterminded by a jealous girlfriend. Another woman might have quit the competition at that point, but not Wura. She was very competitive and that nervous, restless energy was what drove her in moments when defeat seemed inevitable.

At that moment, she was deep in thought, analyzing the best possible way to handle the situation. Strangely enough, she was not on her way to school. No, she was on her way to visit Alhaja Rahman, her aunt.

Before she left the salon, at the moment when she was sure the girl braiding her hair was braiding even her hair follicles, she had received a phone call from her mother, Mrs. Oyelese. Her mother wanted Wura to pick up some yards of lace fabric from Alhaja Rahman, Mrs. Oyelese's younger sister.

After paying the hairdresser for intentional infliction of pain, as well as a brand new hairdo, she set out for Apapa GRA, where her aunt lived.

Alhaja Rahman or "Alhaja" as most people called her, was a very successful business woman who traded in textiles, jewelry and similar accessories. Her store was regularly stocked with the trendiest fabrics ranging from the least expensive to the downright overpriced. With all the social events that Lagosians and Nigerians generally were known for, it was no wonder that her business was thriving. Women, who never wore the same outfit twice, patronized Alhaja's shop to find those one-of-a-kind fabrics.

Although the _Ankara_ craze was sweeping across the nation that year, 2008 was also the year that saw another kind of fabric stealing, or perhaps sharing, the limelight. It was known as _Woodin_.

Mrs. Oyelese had sent Wura to pick up some yards of fabric she had reserved for a birthday celebration she would attend in less than a month. That was Wura's mission at Alhaja's house that afternoon. But even though the girl's feet marched towards this destination, her mind was miles away. All those brain cells in her tiny, braided head were working overtime, wondering how to deal with this pageant business.

As soon as she arrived at her aunt's modest four bedroom bungalow on a very quiet street, the gateman, who had spied her approaching from his duty post under the shade of a tree, began to hail her. Wura had made her way mechanically from the salon, which happened to be thirty minutes away, to her aunt's house. Her feet knew the path by heart, but her mind was not in Apapa. It was in Yaba where her school was located.

The gateman's praises dragged her back to Apapa in a flash, and for a minute, she almost forgot who he was. After greeting him and parting with N 100 naira, which the gateman eyed in disgust, she entered the spacious compound, made her way past a few cars in the yard, and walked around to the back entrance. The front door was for visitors, and Wura was family.

Rebecca the house girl, met her there, since the back door opened into the kitchen. She quickly ushered Wura into the only living room in the house. As she sat waiting for her aunt to join her, she looked around the well-furnished room.

Alhaja's immaculate taste was not limited to fashion; she had a knack for interior decoration and the pieces in the living room, came from all over the world, and yet their arrangement reflected a bias towards modernity. The long yellow silk curtains gave the room an unparalleled elegance that was accentuated by the plush red carpet and leather chairs. Yes, the chairs had to be leather. Every Nigerian knew that authentic imported leather chairs, not the ones made by local carpenters, were the ultimate symbols of opulence. Those who believed this tried to style their homes using leather. Upholstery was for the pre-colonial generation or for those who were simply not moving along with the times. At present, Wura lounged on a single seater beige leather chair, which Alhaja had told her was imported from Italy. Although it was set up for one person, it was quite large and swallowed Wura's small frame. In fact, that chair could easily have fit three Wuras!

As she looked around the room, her eyes were drawn to picture frames hanging on the walls. Some sat casually on a display shelf. The largest frame was taller than Wura and stood on the wall directly opposite the chair Wura occupied. It was a painting of Alhaja and her _current_ husband, Mr. Rahman. He wore a flowing, cream-colored _agbada_ with a red cap and Alhaja who stood with one hand on his waist, wore an _iro_ and _buba_ made from the same expensive-looking fabric her husband donned. A red gele was tied elegantly on her head. They were both smiling.

To Wura, they looked striking, like a power couple. In her head, she captioned the portrait, "Mr. & Mrs." Looking at that picture, no one could possibly guess that Alhaja was eight years older than her husband. She was blessed with a youthful face.

That picture was not there the last time Wura visited a few weeks back, but the other pictures were familiar to her. They were pictures of Alhaja with her four children in various poses, and in different countries. She loved telling people who came to visit, which countries the pictures were taken in, and what adventures they had on these family vacations. She had three sons and one daughter, and they were all in the UK going to school.

Those pictures of Alhaja and her children were the only constants in that room and possibly in the entire house. In the past years, the same spot occupied by the portrait of Alhaja and Mr. Rahman had been occupied by pictures of Alhaja and four different men: her ex-husbands. Each time she re-married, that wall was adorned with the picture of Alhaja and her new husband. Uncle Taofeek was husband number 5.

Alhaja and Uncle Taofeek had been married for five years, the longest she had ever spent married to any man. As far as Alhaja was concerned and to anyone who cared to listen, Taofeek was a keeper, and the happiness and contentment she felt shone on her face in their joint portrait.

Just then, Wura heard a woman's voice in the kitchen giving instructions to the house girl. Something about boiling beans on low heat. Seconds later, the door to the living room opened, and a woman walked majestically into the room. It was Alhaja.
Two

Although Alhaja's picture was a true representation of her youthfulness, it did not do justice to her personality. She had a commanding presence such that when she stepped into a room, people automatically rose to greet her.

Alhaja Munirat Rahman was in her late 40s, but looking at her, one would probably guess that she was in her early 30s. Good genes, not beauty products, were responsible for her youthfulness. It did not, however, stop women from pestering her with questions about her beauty routine. Most of them did not believe her when she mentioned soap and water. But it was the truth. Nothing complicated there.

But her personal life was _very_ complicated.

After studying Banking and Finance at the university, she worked for a finance company for a few years before going into business full-time. Success, however, did not come immediately. She lost a lot of money first in an office supplies business, and then in a catering business. It was after the catering business packed up that she began to seriously consider what her strengths and talents were. Back in school she had helped dress friends for important occasions, and had a reputation for having impeccable taste in fashion. That was when she decided to go into the clothing and textile business. Alhaja had finally found her calling.

Alhaja was able to move from a tiny shop in Tejuosho market to an expansive shop in Surulere. That was the current location of the business that had made her name famous: _M & K Fabrics_. The "M" was from her first name, "Munirat," and the "K" was from her only daughter's first name, "Kafilat."

Alhaja carried herself with an air of refinement, a sharp contrast to the nature of her trade. Selling fabrics was no joke, and the business required a certain amount of grit and brashness to run smoothly.

Her physical attraction was accentuated by her good taste in fashion, and even while she was married, she had more than a few male admirers. But after tasting the pain of marriage followed by separation and finally divorce several times over, she had learnt to keep the admirers far away.

Alhaja's beauty was not the kind that struck you immediately. It was the kind of beauty that crept up on a person unawares and was more pronounced when her face was expressing joy or sadness. At the moment when she walked into the living room, she was smiling and looked radiant in her tie and dye _boubou_. Wura half knelt, half crouched low to greet her aunt. Alhaja returned her greeting and hugged her lightly before taking a seat opposite Wura. For the next ten minutes, they both gisted like teenagers about school and of course, men. Wura informed her aunt that she was not dating anyone at the moment. Her last boyfriend had relocated to Canada for his Masters and the long-distance relationship had only lasted two months before they mutually agreed to part ways.

"Aunty, I'm taking a break from men. Their _wahala_ is too much!" said Wura rolling her eyes.

"You're saying that because you're still young," said Alhaja. "My dear, youth does not last, neither does beauty. Believe me, this is the time your dating life should be in full bloom."

Wura promised to take her aunt's advice to heart and promptly reminded her of the fabric her mother had sent her to pick up. Alhaja disappeared into a nearby bedroom and came back with a nylon bag with the fabric inside.

"Give these to your mother," said Alhaja. "And tell her that I'm coming to see--"

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The phone in the sitting room rang loudly, interrupting Alhaja's message to Mrs. Oyelese. She told Wura to hold on, while she grabbed the phone and answered the call.

"Hello. Who's this? Oh, sweetheart! Why didn't you call me on my cell phone? Awww! Ma binu, s'ogbo? I forgot it in the bedroom. It's on vibrate... Ehn, that's why I didn't hear it. Yes, the money is ready. Where do you want to pick it up? At home or in my shop? At home. Okay, I'll wait till you get here. Leave it with Rebecca ke? Rara o! I don't want any stories. _Rebe, rebe, olowo sibi_! You want her to become _Rebe, rebe, ole ajibole_? Ehn... I'll wait for you."

There was a long pause as Alhaja listened to the person on the other line, and then she said:

"No, no, Taofeek! Stop that. You know I don't like it. If I can't support my husband, then who will I support? _Oko mi_ , look things will improve. I know you're trying your best. That's how business is. Ehn... And it's just over the last couple of months. Things will change, I'm sure. Stop worrying. Me? Mind ke? I've told you I don't mind now. Okay, okay. I'm at home. See you!"

_Click_.

Alhaja replaced the handset and turned around to face her niece, who had listened, rather uncomfortably to the private conversation between Alhaja and her husband. Wura's mother, Mrs. Oyelese, had complained bitterly to her husband, who refused to interfere in matters pertaining to her own side of the family, about Alhaja and her husband. _Why should a woman be the breadwinner in her home_? _How could Taofeek be comfortable taking money from his wife_? As Wura stood there facing her aunt, the same questions her mother had asked, came to mind.

"Well, if she's happy, who are we to judge her?" Wura thought to herself.

Alhaja who was neither privy to these family discussions centered on her domestic affairs, nor Wura's private thoughts, gave Wura some extra messages to pass to her mother. She was about to send Wura on her way, when her niece said:

"Aunty, I don't know if I told you this, but I'm running for Miss UNILAG."

"Really? Ehn, I'm not surprised now. Did your mother tell you I won several beauty pageants and even Miss NYSC back when we were in school?"

"Yes, aunty. A million times!" Wura responded with a laugh. "But, what I really need now is jewelry. I was wondering maybe you could... Aunty, what's the matter?" Wura asked in alarm.

The smile had disappeared from Alhaja's face. Her brows were knitted together in a frown. Clearly, something had upset her.

"Aunty, what's the matter? Did I offend you?" Wura asked again.

"No," replied Alhaja, dismissing her niece's theory with a wave of her hand. That hand, her right hand, was covered in assorted rings. She believed in advertising her wares 24/7 and had transformed herself into a walking billboard for her merchandise.

"No, Wura," she repeated. "You've not offended me. You see..." she began, her voice dropping low, almost to a whisper. "Someone has been stealing from me. Stealing jewelry from my shop."

"Stealing ke? Aunty, why would... I mean, who would--"

"Look, Wura, I don't know either. In fact, the whole thing just baffles me. It happens while I am in the shop. Never in my absence. I have changed my shop girls several times in the past months, thinking they were the ones stealing from me, but the jewelry still goes missing. I've done all I can to catch the thief, but no result. I even called the Police, but--"

Here, Alhaja slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other as she pursed her lips and continued.

"...But even they have not caught the thief."

"Ah, so the police cannot catch an ordinary thief? No wonder armed robbers are multiplying in this country," said Wura.

"You can't blame the police for everything, Wura. They're incompetent, yes. But, there's no single factor that's responsible. There are many factors at work--"

"Which is why they can't catch a jewelry thief, abi? From what you're telling me, aunty, the thief has outsmarted you _and_ the police, right?"

"Yes," replied Alhaja puzzled.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

"At this point... I don't even know. You know the thief didn't break the display case, the one where customers can see the jewelry. The burglary proof on the windows is still intact. I don't even leave the expensive jewelry in my shop. I carry them home with me every day. Yet, somehow, between bringing them into my shop in the morning and closing time, they disappear."

"And you're sure it isn't one of your shop girls?"

"No, Wura. I'm telling you it can't be. I even took my shop girls to swear before the oracle at--"

"Ehn? Aunty, which oracle? Ha! But you didn't--" Wura began.

"Yes, I did. I took them there. The _baba_ said that in seven days, the thief would develop a strange illness and confess. So I waited for seven days. Nothing happened."

"Who recommended this _Baba_?"

"My friend, Mrs. Lawal."

"Aunty, if you don't mind me asking, how long have you known Mrs. Lawal?"

"She's a childhood friend. Look Wura, she was doing me a favor. Leave her out of this."

"Okay, aunty. Apart from the police and that _Baba,_ who else have you involved?"

"I went to see some other _babas_ and they all said the same thing: the thief is someone who knows me. That is all. No specifics, no names, no descriptions. And you know, when you someone tells you that kind of thing, you begin to suspect everybody. I suspect my neighbors, friends _gan-an_. I haven't been in business for this long to be made to look like a fool," said Alhaja, a certain edginess settling into her voice.

"I set up so many traps, but none of them worked. At some point, I began to think that maybe the thief was a spirit."

"Aunty, spirits don't need jewelry."

They both laughed.

"But, aunty, swearing before an oracle... Is it that serious? That's a little extreme."

"Ehn, ehn," said Alhaja jeering. "You're saying that because you're still a child. We're talking about hundreds of thousands of naira worth of jewelry just vanishing into thin air, and you're talking about being extreme. If it was your own business, what would you have done?"

"I would have hired--"

And then Wura stopped in mid-sentence.

"Aunty, I have an idea!"

Leaning closer, Wura whispered something to her aunt. Alhaja looked very skeptical and asked:

"Are you sure this will work? If it doesn't, I'll have to fire and hire new girls again and I'm not looking forward to that at all, at all."

"Aunty, don't worry. It will work. In fact, it _has_ to work."

Truthfully, Wura was not sure her plan would work, but considering what she stood to gain, she decided it was worth a shot.

Alhaja reluctantly accepted Wura's proposition and told her to visit her at her shop the following day. As soon as Wura was a few houses away from Alhaja's house, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had not called in a long time. A man's voice answered the phone.

"Mr. James. Good afternoon, sir. This is Wura. Are you at home right now? I need to catch a thief."
Three

One of the highlights of a beauty pageant, not just for the contestants, but for the audience too, is the array of carefully-selected outfits the contestants are decked in. Call it eye-candy. The Mr. and Miss UNILAG pageant was no exception.

Apart from the evening wear and swim wear segments of the show, there was a traditional wear segment. And for that, Wura needed a traditional outfit.

For her traditional wear, Wura decided to get a tailor to sew a new outfit. _Woodin_ was popular, for some reason, around that time, even though many people could not tell the difference between _ankara_ and _woodin_. People often called ankara, "woodin" and vice-versa. It was a mess.

Nevertheless, for her custom-made outfit, Wura had purchased what she believed was woodin, with a simple orange and green pattern. She had also purchased a burnt orange gele to compliment the outfit. On Chinyere's advice, she decided to sew the fabric into a mono strap dress with the top half made of a satin material, the same shade of orange as the gele. The tailor made the outfit, and Wura tried it on weeks before her visit to Alhaja. It fit perfectly. She now waited impatiently for the day of the pageant to arrive.

Meanwhile, a friend of hers had gotten married the weekend before she went to visit Alhaja. Wura deliberately avoided buying her friend's _aso-ebi_ , and so was not formally recognized as one of the _ore-iyawo_ , friends of the bride, in their matching outfits. In fact, she did not know what the _aso-ebi_ for this friend's wedding looked like until she arrived at the reception. That day, she did not know whether to be happy or angry, because the _aso-ebi_ fabric her friend had picked for her _ore-iyawo_ , was none other than the exact fabric Wura had picked for the Miss UNILAG pageant. She even saw someone wearing a similarly styled mono strap dress, except that this other person had used a sickly green satin fabric for the upper half, and carried a similarly colored purse.

"Na God save me!" Wura thought, as she hissed inwardly for the 100th time that day. "I would have come here looking like her twin, while these guests would have been asking each other, 'Who wore it best?' Who has time for that?"

She fervently prayed that her eyes would not behold anyone else abusing that fabric in the name of fashion, at least, until the day of the pageant. No such luck. On her way home from the wedding, she saw two different women rocking the same fabric in what she deemed matronly styles. By the time she got home that night, she had come to one conclusion: she should have bought lace instead. _Woodin_ was far too popular and too easily accessible. Unfortunately, she did not have _expensive lace_ money.

That day, after leaving Alhaja's house, she headed straight to Mr. James' house. When she was a few meters from the house, she saw a woman dragging two little children, still wearing their school uniforms, behind her. Wura cursed aloud when she saw the woman's outfit; it was made from _her pageant_ woodin fabric.

"Maybe I should just burn this dress when I get home," she said to herself in anger. "At this rate, our landlady _gan-an_ will be using this same material."

As much as Wura detested their landlady, a loud obnoxious woman, she did not have time to test her presumption, as she was far from home. But the closer she got to Mr. James' house, the more she detested woodin.

"Too late to take it back. Just my luck!" she thought to herself as she entered the compound where Mr. James' flat was located.

Mr. James Aigbokhaevbo was many things to Wura. Notably, he was a former school teacher and former lesson teacher. Before he ever became a teacher, he used to be a policeman in the '60s and '70s and often told his students stories of his adventures from his past life. But having retired from both police and teaching duties, he was more than happy to receive visitors.

Many people knew him simply as "Mr. James." They were not aware of his last name, and in fact, he discouraged people from trying to pronounce it after suffering the agony of hearing even well-meaning people butcher his surname. So, he was "Mr. James" or sometimes "Uncle James" to many and had learnt to live with that.

Now in his '60s, he enjoyed a peaceful life in retirement with his wife of more than thirty years, whom everyone, except their children, referred to as Aunty Mary.

They both lived in a three-bedroom flat about two hours away from Alhaja's home.

Mr. James himself answered the door when Wura knocked. He was a tall, well-nourished man with an infectious laugh and intelligent brown eyes. Wura sometimes called him "Father Christmas" because she said that if he wore the costume, he would look the part. Plus, he was very generous with his time.

As Wura went into the parlor, the aroma of something delicious cooking in the kitchen lured her there. After greeting Aunty Mary warmly and volunteering to help with the cooking, which Aunty Mary of course declined, she reluctantly joined Mr. James in the parlor. But, before long, Aunty Mary herself joined them in the parlor at her husband's request. You see, Mr. James belonged to that tiny, fast-disappearing class of men who saw their wives as partners, co-laborers in life, and not just senseless beings who loved to have orders barked at them by insensitive, egotistic men. Mr. James involved his wife in almost every conversation, especially when people came to seek his advice on an issue. His usual response when asked was this:

"If a man with two perfectly good eyes, covered one eye with his hand, and said he could perform a very delicate surgical operation on you with just one eye, would you trust him? Of course not. Mary is my wife and my other half, so I cannot function properly without her."

What he never said was that her input was critical, although that was implied. By the time the person left, he or she would understand fully why Mr. James insisted on his wife's presence during any discussion: they were a team.

Aunty Mary was a quieter version of her more outspoken husband, which made the few words she said very important. She called Mr. James "Papa Clement," a name that was derived from fathering their only son, Clement. As soon as she joined them, Mr. James suspended all the small talk and asked Wura to proceed with her questions. They had a standing agreement, that if she ever needed advice on any issue at all, she could come and seek their counsel. In fact, that open door policy coupled with his widely-regarded wisdom was what made Mr. James well-loved in his community.

"Well, Uncle James, it's my aunty, sir. You remember the aunty I told you sells lace in Surulere?" Wura began.

"Oh yes! The one who was forced to move after the fire at Tejuosho?" asked Uncle James.

Wura nodded in assent.

"Yes, I remember her. I remember her very well," said Uncle James, nodding his head slowly, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

"I just came from her house, sir," Wura continued. "And she said that someone has been stealing from her."

Here, Wura paused. She knew Uncle James would have something to say.

"But your aunty has been in business for years. She must know or at least have a fairly good idea who the thief is. Does she?" he asked. Before Wura could answer, his wife interrupted:

"If she knew who the thief was, Papa Clement, Wura would not be here. This is not a typical robbery," she said to her husband. Turning to Wura, she added: "Your aunty is too sharp to fall for a regular thief."

"Yes, ma," said Wura. "By the time she finished telling me what happened, I came to the same conclusion myself. Either the thief is smarter than Alhaja or he or she has just been lucky not to get caught."

"There's no such thing as luck," said Uncle James. "There are opportunities and people who take advantage of them. But luck? No way!"

"My dear, I don't agree with you," Aunty Mary said gently. "But let's focus on this robbery."

"Who says it's a robbery? I think 'theft' is the proper term," said Uncle James.

Aunty Mary ignored him and charged on. Her little eyes were gleaming with a certain brightness, which reminded one of diamonds in the light. She had an idea and was bursting to share it.

"There's no need to get carried away with these distractions. The bottom line is this: Alhaja is losing money through this continuous theft, and if she doesn't catch the thief, it could escalate into something else," said Aunty Mary, urgency ringing in her voice.

The other two people nodded. Uncle James took off his bifocals and began to clean them with the hem of his white t-shirt, inscribed with the words, "I Love New York," in chunky red letters. Aunty Mary wore a similar t-shirt, except that hers was blue and made of a thinner, more elastic cotton material. She wore a green and black wrapper, tied gracefully on her waist. Wura wondered when she would be able to tie her own wrapper so firmly without using the extra tailor-made rope that was sewn into the fabric to make tying the wrapper easy, like they did for children.

The group fell silent for about two minutes, and then Uncle James finally broke the silence with:

"Mama Clement, oya speak up! I know that look. Let's hear it."

Aunty Mary smiled shyly, and Uncle James grinned in response. For a moment, they ignored Wura and were like two school children who had discovered their love for each other for the first time. Uncle James got up from where he sat, and joined his wife on the sofa. Draping his left arm around her, he whispered a joke into her ears, at which she burst out laughing. When the laughter had simmered down to a mere giggle, Aunty Mary finally spoke up, turning to a smiling Wura, who wondered why her parents were not this affectionate towards each other.

"This man ehn..." Aunty Mary started in between spurts of giggling. "But he's right o. I have an idea."

She sat up straight, and let her hands nestle in her laps. Then, she spoke.

"Right now, we don't know if this is an inside job or if the thief is an outsider. Alhaja is a successful businesswoman, so she is bound to have enemies. The best place to start is from the inside and work your way outwards. So, Wura here's your task: look for someone you can trust, a girl who is of the same age as the girls who work for Alhaja. Introduce her to Alhaja and explain the plan to her."

"What's the plan, ma?" Wura asked puzzled yet excited. A sudden wave of excitement rushed over her and she could not explain why. Aunty Mary's plan was bound to turn up a few surprises.

"Shebi you will let me finish first?" Aunty Mary said jokingly. "Look, there's no need to re-invent the wheel. Here is the plan: Plant a mole inside Alhaja's shop. Let her report to you, what goes on, especially in Alhaja's absence and that should provide a clue as to what is going on. Now, this is the critical part: although Alhaja will know the girl is a mole, don't let the mole report her findings to Alhaja. Let the reports go directly to you."

Uncle James nodded gravely, opened his mouth to say something, but beckoned to his wife to carry on.

"That's only one part of the plan. After this, we'll move on to Phase Two," said Aunty Mary.

"So you won't tell me Phase Two, Aunty? But I'm the one doing all the leg work. Don't I deserve to know or don't you trust me?" Wura asked.

"That's not it, Wura," said Uncle James soothingly. "This has more to do with you trusting us. The less you know at this stage, the better. Just work on Phase One first. Trust me... or rather, trust us. It's better that way."

The frown on Wura's face deepened and she began to sulk. She felt like she had made a mistake by coming to Uncle James and his wife in the first place. She ought to have done it her way then they would not be here, treating her like a child. After all, she was an adult, even in the eyes of the law.

"Look Wura, don't be angry. Remember the last case you brought to us: the little boy who was missing and how we found him?" said Uncle James.

Wura nodded reluctantly.

The boy, the son of Wura's neighbor, had been kidnapped by one of his uncles and while the wealthy businessman father had rallied a team of policemen to comb the entire city of Lagos, the boy was in a nearby street unharmed. It was Aunty Mary's suggestion to check close family members' homes _thoroughly_ that had led to the discovery of the boy. Just as in this case, Aunty Mary and Uncle James had revealed the plan step-by-step. Wura who was impatient had wanted to know the entire plan from Day One, but putting her trust in these two had paid off massively. Now, she was asked to do the same thing again: trust them.

"Well, if you say so, Aunty and Uncle," she conceded reluctantly. "Your methods are strange to me, but they deliver results, so why not?"

Wura got up and after declining Aunty Mary's invitation to dinner on account of the fact that it was getting dark, she left, and made the one-hour journey home with a head full of thoughts.
Four

That night, Wura barely slept. There were two things, no, two people on her mind: the "mole" she would have to plant in Alhaja's shop and Kolawole. At first, she consciously devoted the same amount of mental energy to worrying about both people. But, as she let her mind wander, her thoughts shifted naturally and completely to Kolawole.

Kolawole Adegbenro, who was also a student at UNILAG, albeit a 200 level Economics student, was an interesting character. Those were the literal words Wura had used to describe him within twenty minutes of their first meeting.

Wura had gone to visit a friend at Fagunwa Hall and they were eating lunch at the hall's buttery. In between shoveling grains of rice into their hungry mouths, the girls were carrying on a lively discussion on wearing traditional outfits in the Nigerian corporate world. Wura was of the opinion that it was an alternative mode of dressing, reflecting the hybrid of African and British values that Nigeria had invariably adopted.

Her friend, Henrietta, on the other hand, took a different view. To her, traditional outfits had no place in the modern workplace because corporate Nigeria was just a photocopy - albeit a poor one - of Western corporate culture. So it was not enough to adopt these practices, with respect to modes of dressing, halfway. Total, undiluted acceptance was necessary, and the _hybrid_ Wura suggested was just a fallacy, an in-between stage that existed because perfect duplication had not yet been attained.

The ladies were so engrossed in their discussion that they did not notice a young man with a very amused look on his face, watching them quietly from a corner of the buttery. He had come to visit his cousin in the same hall, and had offered to pay for her lunch. The cousin, who believed that _anybody wey go chop alone, must die alone_ , decided to round up a few of her roommates to share the day's spoils. She had gone to her room and left him in the buttery, when Wura and Henrietta's discussion was just warming up.

The young man listened attentively, waiting for a lull in the conversation to add his ten cents. That opportunity came sooner than he anticipated, and he neatly inserted himself into their conversation as if he had been a part of it from the beginning. Without batting an eyelid, he launched into a condensed five-minute unrehearsed lecture of the evolution of Nigerian traditional clothing beginning from the 18th century to the present. His lecture was general enough to not get bogged down by exploring the specifics of each tribe's cultural attire, but it was detailed enough for his audience of three to appreciate that the speaker was well-informed on these matters. With his words, and occasionally, with his hands, he painted a picture of creativity that left the ladies beaming with admiration.

His audience had of course grown to three because the buttery attendant had left her post where she had been tending to assorted pieces of fried fish, beef, dodo and other kinds of food, which students could cook but would rather buy. She sat looking at the speaker with the same enraptured look as Wura and Henrietta, who had temporarily abandoned their lunch. No one interrupted him, and when he was done, they all gave him a standing ovation. They were still clapping when Olamide - that was his cousin's name - and two hungry-looking girls, walked into the buttery bearing empty food flasks, ready to claim their bounty. While Kola was paying for their meals, Henrietta had to leave because she was told that she had a visitor waiting for her.

So, she left Wura to finish her food. While Wura was eating, the stranger walked up to her, and lowering himself into a seat beside her, he introduced himself as Kolawole Adegbenro. Although she had a lot of questions for him, especially after his lecture, she kept a reserved, cool exterior. Wura's aversion for short men was legendary and since Kola was barely taller than her, making him a certified "shorty," she put up her guard trying to appear as aloof as possible.

But Kola was not to be so easily deterred. He gradually warmed his way into her heart with his jokes. His sense of humor was infectious and Wura found herself laughing with reckless abandon as if he was an old friend. Kola had that sort of effect on people. Wura was certainly smitten.

They talked about the source of his knowledge on the topics he had just covered and he named a few books he had read in the library. They both connected intellectually, and by the time they parted ways that day, Wura was calling him "The Suave Efiko." In his characteristic manner, he jokingly responded:

"I'll take Suave Efiko any day anytime. It's better than being called the Awfully Awkward Anti-social Geek!"

Over the next four months after their initial meeting, Kola relentlessly pursued Wura on and off campus. She did not know how he pulled it off, but Kola had managed to divine her love language: quality time. He spent as much quality-infused time as he could with Wura in spite of his academic commitments. Wura certainly enjoyed all the attention Kola gave her.

A week ago, Kola had officially asked Wura to be his girlfriend, but she did not want to be rushed. Favoring caution over spontaneity, she had given him what he termed an "odd" condition: she would give him an answer exactly one week from the date of his request. During that waiting period, he was not to call, text, visit or otherwise communicate with her until the day they had previously agreed upon. Kola had unwillingly agreed to these terms, adding that if she said "No," he would double his aggression in pursuing her. He promised her that she would not forget him.

Wura smiled as she remembered those words. She had a fairly good idea what her answer would be, but she was still unsure about the timing. She had decided long before meeting Kola to devote herself exclusively to her academics, until she raised her GPA from the domain of second class lower to a second class upper. She felt that involving herself in a relationship at this time, might detract her from this singular goal.

At the same time, she was worried that she would be losing out on a very rewarding and fulfilling experience with a man whom she knew had a very bright future. She feared that saying "No" to Kola at this time would mean losing his friendship forever. Even though he had said he would double his aggression, she knew that there was a huge difference between making plans and executing those plans. _Rejection can be a terrible thing and can bore a hole in a man's heart, a hole so deep, in fact, that no amount of subsequent "Yes"-es can heal that wound_. So, Wura weighed these options in her heart before she finally succumbed to sleep that night.

The following day was the day she had agreed to meet Kola to give him her answer. Their meeting place was a local suya joint close the school campus. It was called _Doctor Suya_.

Everyone assumed that the suya spot was owned by a Northerner, but it was actually owned by a man called David Ekanem, an indigene of Cross-River State. His employees, however, were mostly Northerners whose skill with this local delicacy was unparalleled.

David was a savvy businessman. His mantra was that _suya cured all ailments_. In fact, like one customer had heard him say one evening, "Suya can heal a broken heart." While his claims were still untested, this simple idea thrived and Doctor Suya became a local watering hole of sorts. David himself doubled as a sort of therapist and people often sought his advice for relationship issues. In fact, it was quite common to see people, students included, come there just to see David for advice. They invariably left beaming with smiles, and a nicely-wrapped bundle of well-seasoned spicy suya in tow. David himself did not do the cooking, but was the manager, and truthfully, the live wire of the business. He even sold t-shirts and had been featured on several travel shows, documentaries and news reports.

That day, Wura had only one lecture: an afternoon lecture scheduled for 2:00pm. The plan was to attend the lecture and then meet Kola at Doctor Suya around 4:00pm.

As at 10:00am when she woke up, she still had no idea who would play the role of the mole as Uncle James and Aunty Mary had recommended. However, she felt sure that the identity of that person would no longer be a mystery by the end of the day.

Everyone else had left the house before 8:00am. Her mother and father had gone to their respective places of work and her elder brother, Debo, had gone to visit a friend. He was waiting for his NYSC call up letter to know which state he had been posted to. Finally, her younger sister, 'Denike had gone to the telecoms firm where she was doing her internship, popularly known as "Industrial Attachment."

Wura was three years older than 'Denike, but her younger sister had overtaken her in school and was in her third year at the University of Ibadan. She had moved back to Lagos for a few months because the company where she was doing her internship was located in Ikeja, Lagos.

The sisters looked incredibly alike. But for the gap in Wura's front teeth, they could have passed for twins. In fact, when they were younger, people thought they were twins and jokingly called them "Wura ati Fadaka," which in Yoruba means "Gold and Silver." Perhaps those people felt those were the names they ought to have been christened. However, Wura was always quick to point out their age difference, which had little to no effect on the name-calling.

By the time Wura woke up, _Fadaka_ or rather, 'Denike had also gone to work, leaving her all alone in the house. By 11:00am, when she was trying to prepare something to eat, she got an unexpected call: Alhaja was in the neighborhood and wanted to know if Wura would like to accompany her to lunch at Sweet Sensation. Her husband had cancelled on her at the last minute due to a business meeting with an associate, and she did not particularly feel like eating alone.

Wura happily jumped at the offer, and fifteen minutes later, was in Alhaja's air-conditioned BMW on her way to eat free lunch.
Five

When Alhaja stepped out of her car at Sweet Sensation, Wura for the twentieth time that day gazed at her aunt in admiration.

"This woman get taste sha!" Wura thought to herself as she assessed Alhaja's outfit and accessories.

Alhaja wore a long, yellow silk kaftan with elaborate embroidery on the front and on the sleeves. Her braided hair was tied in an elegant bun on top of her head. The hairstyle was deliberate. With her hair pulled away from her face, her earrings were conspicuous: golden chandelier-style ear-rings, which looked specially crafted and nothing like the costume jewelry Wura was used to buying on her student budget. This was the real deal and although the metal weighed down Alhaja's ear considerably, she did not seem to care or mind.

The decorative pattern on the ear-rings reminded one of tassels along the hem of a priest's robe. The only other piece of jewelry Alhaja wore was a beautiful ornate turquoise ring on the fore-finger of her right hand. She was a walking advertisement of her wares without the gaudiness that was typical of other women who seemed to think that it was in good taste to wear every single item of jewelry they owned on the parts of their bodies people could see: hands, wrists, fingers, ankles, toes, nose, head. These women adorned themselves in this manner everyday with no theme, no order, just a mess. Alhaja certainly did not look like a mess that afternoon, and Wura was glad to be seen in her company.

They ordered their food and sat down to eat, Wura with her burger and fries, and Alhaja with a plate of jollof rice, fried chicken and coleslaw. Two bottles of Eva water were on standby to ensure the smooth transition of the food from mouth to stomach.

"This chicken is too dry," Alhaja said as she tore apart the chicken's flesh with a fork and knife and promptly stuffed her mouth with a piece of the _dry_ bird.

Wura pretended to look concerned, but she internally rejoiced that she had chosen the burger instead. She was definitely enjoying her own meal.

"Aunty, drink water. It's better that it's dry than for it to be undercooked."

"Well, I'm paying them to get it right, not to overcook or undercook anything," Alhaja said, in between gulps of water. The red lipstick she wore stained the glass as she drank water, and Wura wondered why women bothered to paint their faces when the makeup would eventually come off anyway. She reasoned that it was the same reason why they wore jewelry: to enhance their beauty, brighten their appearances and make themselves more attractive. There were so many pros that there was no use arguing the cons.

"If not because I know that these people will cook up an excuse for not correcting my order, I would have complained about this chicken. I mean, my house girl wouldn't dry out my chicken like this," Alhaja said. "Maybe I should have ordered some kind of _okele_ instead. A bowl of amala would not be dried out, I promise you."

Desperate to change the subject, Wura said:

"So Aunty, do you come here regularly?"

"No. Actually, I usually eat lunch in my shop. When I eat in restaurants, I typically go with my husband or a friend. For some strange reason, everyone was busy today, and the _asaro_ I brought from home didn't look so appetizing anymore. So, here we are."

"Any particular friends? Are they in the same business?"

"Some of them, yes. Mama Iyabo's shop is not far from mine, so she comes with me, sometimes. She usually has gist for me, especially with the type of customers she has. She owns a salon and is always gisting me about these high-class women who are always trying to out-do each other. It's ridiculous."

"Really?" was all Wura could mutter as she struggled to keep the hamburger patty in between the sliced bun. The beef batty was falling out with bits of tomatoes, onions and lettuce stuck to it. Where they were going, Wura could not tell. Just when she thought she had finally got them where she wanted them, they promptly fell out of her hand, and into an untidy mess. Her face was twisted in disgust as she stared at the pile on her plate. Alhaja advised her to use a fork and knife instead. It worked.

"Life is funny, isn't it?" Alhaja said, musing at Wura's burger mishap. "You can start out with one plan, and then life throws you a curve ball, so you have to come up with another plan. Or plans. Yes, they could be more than one."

Wura was almost sure that Alhaja was not just philosophizing about the burger. So, she simply grunted and waited for Alhaja to continue. They both ate in silence for two minutes and then Alhaja blurted out:

"The _babalawo_ is in the hospital. Can you imagine?"

Wura's eyes almost popped out of her head. How did the direction of their conversation turn towards a raggedy old herbalist?

"Aunty, which _babalawo_? Who told you what?" asked Wura.

Her aunt saw her genuine confusion and remedied it with an explanation.

"Mama Iyabo.... The woman I just told you about?" said Alhaja.

Wura nodded in recognition. Alhaja continued.

"Today, I went to see her briefly to see if she would take me back to that Baba's place, to see if maybe he would help me check again to see... you know... who the thief is."

"Ah Aunty, you mean you don't trust me? But you already assigned this task to me now? Is it because I haven't told you my plans?"

"Oh no. That's not it. You see, yesterday, I discovered another set of jewelry - three sets in fact - missing. In fact, _o ti su mi_. I'm tired of these... these intrigues!"

Wura felt so sorry for Alhaja that she almost told her about the plan Mr. James had shared with her, but she refrained when she remembered his words of caution.

"Aunty, I understand. You want to get it over and done with, right?"

"Yes. So, I went to her shop o, but she said she would never visit that Baba again."

"Why?"

"Apparently, one day, some customers paid a particularly hefty sum to Baba to perform some sacrifices on their behalf. Unknown to Baba, which is ironic seeing that he dabbles in the supernatural for a living, some boys were waiting for him--"

"Boys? You mean, local boys?"

"No! Armed robbers!" Alhaja said in such a loud voice that some of the other restaurant patrons looked at them with concern written all over their faces. Nobody wanted to be visited by the miscreants, and certainly did not want to think about them during lunch. They promptly went back to their meals, and Alhaja charged on, lowering her voice a bit. Wura was grateful for the show of discretion on her aunt's part.

"They came to his shrine and beat the living daylights out of him," said Alhaja.

"They didn't shoot him, then?" said Wura still trying to mentally process what her aunt just told her. How could a native doctor be attacked by armed robbers? Didn't he see it coming?

"No, he was lucky. They only took the money and left him there. Some neighbors rushed him to the hospital."

"A babalawo has neighbors? I thought they lived in the middle of evil forests."

"Not all of them," Alhaja replied laughing. "Some of them know the benefits of living in a house made of cement not a hut in the middle of the bush exposed to mosquitoes and all the elements, not to mention wild animals. This particular one, his name was Baba Shina--"

"As in Shina Peters?"

"Yes, Shina is probably the name of one of his children. Anyway, he lives in a house, a real house, and the shrine is at the back under a shed. He had several cell phones. The robbers didn't touch them, surprisingly. They were expensive handsets too."

"Wonderful. A herbalist who uses GSM phones. Wonders shall never end!"

"Yes. Anyway, Baba Shina is critically ill at the hospital. I figured that since he could neither foresee nor prevent the armed robbery where he was the victim, he could not possibly help me discover the thief in my own shop."

"But Aunty, those guys have liver o! They went to rob a herbalist. Weren't they afraid?"

"You know these robbers don't just operate like that. They fortify themselves spiritually not just with guns and such. They probably visited a more powerful Babalawo for protection before making their move."

"Power pass power!" said Wura, trying to digest all this information.

"Are you done with your food? What time is your lecture?" said Alhaja. Wura had finished her food even though there were a few ketchup drenched fries lying on her plate.

"The time is 12:13pm. Looks like I'll be late for my lecture if--"

"Don't worry. I'll give you a ride. I need to pick up a few things at Yaba market myself. I'll drop you off in school and stop by the market on my way back."

"Oh thank you, Aunty!"

They left immediately and got into the car.

The Kollington Ayinla CD that was playing when they came to the restaurant picked up from where it had stopped. But, Alhaja had lost her interest in that album. She quickly flipped to one of the local radio stations instead. The station she finally settled on was airing a relationship advice show with people calling in, sending emails, physical letters and other means to send in their questions for the presenter. After the 5th caller received the same boiler plate answer, "You need to be more patient with him/her... these things take time," Alhaja switched off the radio and began to speak to Wura.

"Would you say that after five marriages, I know _something_ about men?" Alhaja said, a wicked smile dancing on her lips. Wura almost passed out.

The number of husbands Alhaja had married was an open secret, but she did not make this the subject of any public conversations. She certainly did not discuss it with her niece. So, Wura was understandably shocked when, out of the blues, her aunt asked that question. Sensing her niece's discomfort, Alhaja sought to set her at ease by turning the conversation back to the radio show.

"You see, the 4th caller called and asked what to do to get her boyfriend of 8 years to propose. 8 years, Wura! And the presenter just told her to be patient. Patient for what? Another 8 years? She needs to leave that guy! In her own words, he has a steady job and a place of his own, but he will not discuss marriage with her. She goes to his house every weekend, cooks, cleans and services him in unmentionable ways. Ah, don't blush now, you're a woman. I'm sure you know what I mean," Alhaja said, winking at Wura.

Wura understood and Alhaja's wink was so comical that in spite of herself, she laughed out loud. Alhaja continued.

"Anybody with a brain can see that the guy is not ready to marry her. Yet, this presenter is still feeding the girl with hope, telling her, 'Oh, be patient,' 'Don't nag him,' bla bla bla... I just want to reach into the radio, slap the girl on the face and shout: " _Ode_! He's using you!" I know this because... because it happened to me."

That was how her aunt launched into what Wura termed "Alhaja's marital history."

Husband Number 1 was Bayo Oniru. She had met him while she was a student in the university, and had married him after her NYSC. They were both in love, according to Alhaja.

"... And I thought love was enough. Turns out, it isn't," Alhaja recounted bitterly. Mr. Oniru was an architect, and had to work late on some days. Two years into their marriage, Alhaja paid him an unexpected visit at the office. She brought his dinner and wanted to keep him company.

"I caught him with not one," said Alhaja, clutching the steering wheel with her left hand, and counting with her right hand, "but two young girls on his office table! I threw the flask at his head. I wish I had brought hot water _gan-an_! _Oloshi_!"

Alhaja walked out of that marriage with a broken heart, and a child who rarely saw his father. It took her several months to even consider dating again. She had even sworn off marriage, until she met Alhaji Kola Bamidele.

"He was the sweetest person I had ever met! Always so-o-o attentive. When he asked me to marry him, of course I said "Yes." But I was worried about his marital status. He told me he had divorced his wife and she had two kids for him... You know, I can't be a 2nd wife," Alhaja said, shaking her head. "I wanted it to be true... So, I just accepted what he told me. No investigation. Big mistake!"

Alhaja paused and then continued.

"We had a small private wedding ceremony. Barely one week after the wedding, a woman barged into my shop with a jerry can of acid--"

"Yeepa! Aunty! Acid ke? For what? What was she hoping to do with it? Some people are just criminals sha," said Wura. How could her aunt sit there so calmly and talk about someone coming to attack her with acid? If it was her, ehn...

"Ah, I don't blame her. The real criminal was Alhaji who was in fact _still_ married to her. Yes, he was her husband. She was his first wife, and he had apparently promised her that he would never take another wife after her."

"And she believed him?" Wura asked incredulously. "Any woman who believes that deserves what she gets."

"Ah, omode lo n se e! You're saying that because you're still a child. People get married for many many reasons, but no marriage can survive without trust. Even if that woman doubted her husband, she invested a certain level of trust in him and had to believe him when he made that promise to her."

"Aunty, she was just too gullible! Haba! As for me, Wura, I will never--" Wura said, pounding her chest and squeezing her face like a local village champion.

"Never say never, my dear," Alhaja interrupted. "Life is full of too many uncertainties to make such absolute blanket statements at the beginning of your journey. You never know when you'll be forced to eat your words."

A few situations where Wura had regretted saying "Never" came to mind and she realized that her aunt was right. But she did not voice her agreement. She just made a mental note of it and let her aunt finish her mini history lesson.

Alhaja went on to tell how Alhaji had eventually blamed her for his first wife finding out about his now second marriage to her. The marriage deteriorated and eventually collapsed. Thankfully, there was no child between them when they parted ways.

"Good riddance!" Wura thought to herself. A man who could lie about his marital status could lie about many other things.

Alhaja's 3rd husband was a doctor. He was 46 years old when Alhaja met him and yet he had never been married.

"That's unusual for a man of that age," said Wura. "Was there something wrong with him?"

"Ah, wait now. Let me get to _that_ part," said Alhaja. "I asked him the exact same question the day I met him. A friend of mine introduced him to me. He was her only brother. He said that he had been too focused on his career to find time to start a family. It was around the time when I met him that he felt he had reached the point in his life when he was ready to settle down. "

"I was in my mid-30s then, so I didn't mind his age at all. Besides, can a woman who has had two failed marriages really be picky at that point?"

Wura understood both the question and the unspoken answer, but did not reply. The answer she had in mind was not one her aunt would welcome, so she held her tongue. Despite her aunt's openness and frankness in recounting her marital woes to her, Wura was still acutely aware that this was Alhaja, her mother's sister, and some things still needed to be withheld from her. Meanwhile, Wura drank in the gist like a thirsty camel. She actually began to feel thirsty herself, but resolved to take care of it when she got back on campus. Ignoring the fan yogurt sellers who paraded the streets, she re-focused her attention on Alhaja's story.

"Because of my past experiences, especially with Alhaji, I made sure I thoroughly investigated to make sure this doctor was not married. As it turned out, he was telling the truth. We dated for less than three months, and then got married. As soon as I married him, I knew I had made a mistake, but I was determined to make things work. Yes, he had never been married before, was charming, successful and generally an all-round nice guy, but... And this is a big "but," Alhaja said, pausing momentarily to yell at a _danfo_ driver for swerving into her lane, forcing her to dive into a large pothole to avoid him. Wura wondered why Alhaja did not reserve some of her cursing for the government who allowed the roads to deteriorate to the extent that finding potholes in the middle of an expressway was quite normal.

Alhaja's car survived the unexpected dive into the pothole and they continued along the road.

"Dr. Akinwande, my third husband, was a chronic wife-beater. I found out _after_ saying "I do" to him. We were married for four years, and as you know, that was when my other three children were born. I still think he was a great father to the kids, but a terrible husband. Each time he beat me, I was afraid that that would be my last day on this earth. But I couldn't bring myself to leave him. I felt like I was lucky to be married at all, given my history with men. Sometimes, I felt like God was punishing me for not making my other marriages work."

"What?! I can't believe you just said that, Aunty," said Wura angrily. "You just told me yourself that your first husband was a womanizer and the second one was a liar. How was that your fault? Were you to remain married to them and dumb yourself down?"

"Well, if your grandmother's words were to be taken seriously, then "Yes." She never forgave me for leaving my first husband. She said that it was perfectly normal for men to cheat, and that it is not a woman's place to quit her marriage. As far as she was concerned, as long as a man wants to stay married to a woman, and does not throw his wife out of the house, they still have a marriage."

Wura's jaw dropped open. Either there was a disconnect between the value system of her grandmother's generation and her own generation or else she was too liberal in her thinking.

"Anyway, let's leave your grandmother out of it. I endured the beating from Dr. Akinwande, until the day when he beat me so hard, I lost consciousness and had to be rushed to the hospital. I was six months pregnant at the time, and of course, lost the pregnancy. The doctor's announcement that I had lost the pregnancy and would never be able to have kids again, was my reality check. A man who thought nothing of lifting his hand against me while I was carrying his own child, could certainly kill me. Don't forget he was a doctor. It would be too easy--"

"Ahn ahn, Aunty, don't take it that far now. Doctors are not murderers."

"Well, this one was responsible for the loss of that child, and that was all that mattered to me. I left that marriage thinking that was it. No more men for me. I was thankful to have four lovely children and determined to live a peaceful life."

"I continued to raise my kids single-handedly for two years. At that point, I had sworn off men. But you know... Body no be firewood." Here, Alhaja chuckled in a knowing way.

"So, I had one boyfriend like that. Nothing serious. Just on the side, you know. I have needs now..."

"Ah, Aunty I understand," said Wura hurriedly, afraid that as her aunt was on a talk-a-thon, she might get really comfortable and divulge details of her sexual escapades with Wura.

"I won't look at Alhaja the same way again... Not if she tells me those details. No thank you!" Wura thought to herself.

"Relax! Ahn ahn, but you know I wasn't going to go there now," said Alhaja reassuringly. "Ehn? Haba! You're no longer a child."

"Aunty, I know, but sometimes I wish I could go back to being one," Wura said in protest.

"Oh, so you want to be wearing pampers, drinking milk and gassing in your nappy, abi?" said Alhaja.

They both burst into laughter. Wura pictured herself doing the things Alhaja had just described. Utterly ridiculous!

"Anyway, that boyfriend eventually became my husband. I knew it wouldn't last, but maybe I was just addicted to the security of being married. I don't even know... I guess at that point, I didn't care anymore."

"So what happened to him?" asked Wura.

"Oh, he took off to the UK with one of my shop girls and never returned."

Wura's eyes widened in disbelief. How could her aunt say that so calmly? And why was she only just learning all these details? And they lived in this same Lagos?

"I'm not done o. I met Taofeek, my current husband, at the bank, on the day I discovered that Folahan, Husband Number 4, had disappeared with all the money in our joint bank account. Taofeek - I knew him as Mr. Rahman back then - was the Branch Manager of that bank, and he was the one who gave me the bad news."

"Anyway, he waited patiently for me to get over Folahan. Taofeek already had two kids from a previous marriage, so there was no question of having any children. We understand each other."

Wura was curious about Alhaja's description of her current husband. She had willingly divulged sensitive details of her previous four husbands, but was keeping Uncle Taofeek's details under wraps? What was she hiding? She certainly hoped things would work out between them. He seemed like a genuinely nice person, but only time would tell.

By now, they had reached Akoka in Yaba, and as they neared the front gate of UNILAG, they noticed that the conspicuously marked campus buses were stopping at the school gate and turning back.

From where they were, they could see that the school gate was shut and no one was permitted inside. Very unusual. A passerby confirmed her suspicions. The Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) had declared a strike and the school was shut down indefinitely. Or at least, until they reached a consensus with the government. That meant that essentially all campus activities were suspended, including the Mr. and Miss UNILAG beauty pageant.

Wura was not exactly thrilled at the prospect of spending months at home, doing absolutely nothing. She had already had enough of that extended holiday when she was trying to gain admission into the university in the first place. She really just wanted to graduate and say bye-bye to school forever. Unfortunately, ASUU had thrown her another curve ball, and she had no say in the matter.

Alhaja volunteered to take Wura back to Yaba bus-stop where she could catch a bus home, but she declined. She had a meeting with Kola at Doctor Suya, the suya joint close to the school, and strike or no strike, she was going to see Kola that afternoon. So, Alhaja dropped her off at Doctor Suya where Wura sat pondering Alhaja's life story until Kola showed up.
Six

Doctor Suya was abuzz with life when Wura arrived at the joint. It was as if all the other students had come to celebrate their unexpected vacation at the suya spot. The crowd there was larger than Wura expected. She began to worry that she and Kola would not have the level of privacy they desired so they could really talk.

But her fears were unfounded.

Within ten minutes of her settling down with a cold bottle of Maltina, the crowd began to thin down. Oddly enough, _Doctor Suya,_ David Ekanem himself, was responsible for the dwindling crowd. He was excitedly handing out colored handbills, which were hurriedly printed out not long after the ASUU strike was announced.

SUYA EXTRAVAGANZA AT 7:00PM TODAY

That was what was boldly printed on the handbills, on top of mouthwatering pictures of suya, microphones, and what was supposed to be people dancing, but really looked like black outlines of people strewn all over the face of the handbill. Some local musicians would be present, there would be a lucky draw and winners could go home with prizes such as cell phones, t-shirts and of course, free suya and drinks. Essentially, it was going to be a party.

The people who got the handbills were already calling and texting others about it, and Doctor Suya expected the place to be packed even before 7:00pm. So, when people started leaving in droves, he was not bothered. However, Wura was very confused. She approached him and asked what was going on. In a calm voice, he explained to her that many of them had gone home to freshen up and bring other people. Guys would bring their girlfriends, and so on. They would all come back, fashionably late, ready to dance the night away. Wura shook her head in disbelief. Human beings were strange creatures.

After retiring to her seat, Wura texted Kola to let him know that their meeting had been moved forward by two hours. He happily responded that he was on his way, and within twenty minutes, he was sitting across from her, grinning mischievously.

Wura on her part, could not help doing the same, exposing her gapped front teeth.

"You're beautiful, you know," Kola said, as he drew up his white plastic chair closer to the object of his affection.

"That's what you men say when you want something," said Wura, turning her head slightly away from him in a hopeless attempt to hide her blushing face.

"Ahn ahn... But you know you're the only sugar in my tea, the only _moi-moi_ beside my akamu, the only _kuli-kuli_ in my wheelbarrow--"

Wura laughed uncontrollably.

"So, you think I'm disposable ehn? Or else why are comparing me to perishable foods?"

"No. That's not what I meant _jo_. No man can live without food, so it just means I can't live without you," said Kola, smiling. Then, he leaned forward slightly and looking into Wura's eyes, he said:

"I've really missed you, Wura. I really have. I tried to call you several times, but you've banned me for one week, so... I said, even if this is the last time I hear your voice, let me _kuku_ do it looking into your eyes."

"Mr. Kolawole, have you been reading M & Bs? Silhouette? No more romance books for you!"

"You caught me red-handed! And with this ASUU strike, I might overdose on them sef. Blame it on my sisters _jare_. They buy these books. Me? I just read them."

They both laughed.

"Okay, Kola, I thought deeply about your proposal. Wait, let me re-phrase that... Your request... and my answer is.... Yes!" said Wura exuberantly.

As soon as Kola heard "Yes," he jumped to his feet and after punching the air a couple of times, went into cultural dance mode, waving invisible handkerchiefs and moving his waist with such incredible dexterity that Wura wondered if she could keep up with him on the dance floor. Some of the few guests who sat around looked at him puzzled and Wura even heard someone say:

"Dat boy don craze finish!"

She did not care. She was enjoying the attention and basked in the joy of knowing she had made the right decision.

"Oya, let's celebrate. What do you want to drink?" an excited Kola finally asked.

"Maybe water. But bros, hunger dey catch me o. Na to chop be de koko right now," Wura said patting her almost empty stomach. She had a very fast metabolism, which she considered to be both a curse and a blessing. A curse because she was frequently hungry, and a blessing because she could eat anything and still maintain her trim figure.

Kola went and bought them some suya, water and orange juice. They both feasted, with Wura foiling Kola's pathetic attempts at PDA by clamping her mouth shut when he tried to feed her a few pieces of spicy beef. Wura condemned Kola's moves, which she labelled "village romance," and told him to go and polish his skills.

"Babe, I've got skills you've never seen before. Don't even try me!" said Kola. "Speaking of skills, how far with this ASUU strike now? What are your plans?"

Wura said she had no plans and then launched into a long narrative of Alhaja's wahala with a mysterious thief and ended it with their visit to Sweet Sensation.

"Maybe this ASUU strike is a Godsend then," said Kola, when Wura had finished briefing him. "You can use that time to conduct a private investigation."

And then, Kola asked Wura a strange question.

"What will Alhaja do with the thief?"

"I don't know," Wura replied, surprised at the question. "I never asked her but I suppose she'll put the person in jail. I mean, what else do you want her to do?"

"Even if it's someone she knows, like a sales girl who's been working for her for several years?"

"Yes now. In fact, that person will be luckier than those people caught stealing in the market. Jail time is better than jungle justice. At least, the person in jail will still be alive... if you call that living sha," Wura said, referring to the gruesome method Lagosians used to punish thieves caught in the act: piling car tires on them and setting them on fire.

"... And how do _you_ plan to catch the thief?" said Kola, stuffing his mouth with onions and tomatoes, which were left behind after the suya was devoured. Wura had done the opposite, picking off the garnish first before devouring the peppered beef.

"Honestly, Kola, I'm done asking myself that question. I want it to be over already."

"I feel you," was all Kola managed to say, before emptying the rest of the bottled water into his mouth.

After eating, they talked for about an hour. Kola told her about his plans for the indefinite holiday. Wura said she planned to get lots of rest and visit friends. Kola would be tutoring to earn money during the break.

They also laid out a few ground rules to guide their newly-commenced relationship.

It was time to leave, and as they rose to their feet, Kola turned to Wura and told her:

"Sometimes, the most difficult questions have the clearest answers. Don't over-think this jewelry thief palaver. The answer might be right in front of you."

"I hope you're right, Kola. For Alhaja's sake, I really hope so."

There was a brief pause, and then Wura asked Kola:

"Do you think Alhaja is stealing her own jewelry?"

"This world is full of strange things. That thing you mentioned, as strange as it is, is a possibility. What we don't know is the _Why_. What her motive would be."

"Ta lo ran mi n'ise?" Wura grumbled. "I've bitten more than I can chew! What if I don't find the thief?"

"And what if you do?" Kola retorted, looking directly at her. "Consider success more likely than failure. Stay optimistic."

Wura smiled. Kola's optimism was infectious and she could feel the waves of doubt subsiding even as he spoke.

"You see, the things we fear the most - failure, rejection, name it - they won't come upon us. It is wiser to pour that energy into positive thinking."

"That's not what happened to Job," said Wura. "The thing he feared the most was what came upon him."

"Are you Job?" said Kola.

They both laughed at the ridiculousness of the question.

"I see your point," Wura finally conceded. And then she added, "I wish I had met you earlier. Years before."

"That makes two of us. I wish I had said that first."

They both laughed again and Kola pushed the chair back to its place near the table. He was always so proper, so careful. That man. Yes, that man. For the first time, Wura realized that she was dating a man, and not a boy. She actually chuckled loud enough and audibly for Kola to ask what was so funny, but she dismissed his inquiry. He was leaving to work at a part-time gig he had landed, coaching students for JAMB, WAEC and many other entrance exams, which students routinely failed in flying colors. With or without the strike, he would stay busy. Wura admired that about him: his drive for excellence.

That Kola believed in Wura was obvious. But, as Wura travelled home, she wondered if she could trust him completely. Men could be funny creatures. No one is perfect, and Kolawole Adegbenro was certainly not perfect.

"Life is full of surprises," Wura thought to herself. "I just hope Kola is not one of those nasty surprises."

As she sat in the taxi Kola had hailed and paid for, she realized that both Kola and Uncle James had in essence, said the same thing.

"They can't be wrong then. I better keep my eyes peeled."

By the time she got home, it was just a little after 7:00pm. She knew that Doctor Suya would be packed by now, with people coming for the extravaganza. Too bad she and Kola would not be there. Winning a free t-shirt would have been nice.

As she stepped into her bedroom, her phone let off a text message tone. It was from Alhaja, and it read:

Happy ASUU Strike!

Would you like to earn some pocket money over the break?

To which Wura replied via text:

Of course, Aunty!

Her break would not be spent in idleness after all. And she would be on ground to catch the thief.

"It's funny how things work out," she thought to herself as she dialed Kola's phone to tell him the good news. As soon as he answered the phone, she said:

"Guess what? Your girlfriend is now a mole!"
Seven

Wura did not start working for Alhaja immediately. She spent most of her time indoors for the first week, except when she went to hang out with Kola. But when she got tired of staying at home, she told her aunt that she would be starting work the following Monday.

Alhaja's shop, M & K Fashions, was conveniently located in a shopping plaza in Surulere. Even though there was nothing special about the name of her business, Alhaja's shop stood out from the five other businesses located in the same plaza for the simple reason that Alhaja took customer service very seriously.

She had learnt by trial and error that people bought goods and remained loyal customers based on the relationship they had with the seller. So, she made every effort to build and develop good relationships with her customers. And as is typically the case in this sort of business, where word of mouth is just as important as advertising, those loyal customers told other people about Alhaja, and that gave birth to new customers.

The shopping plaza was a two-storey building, whose original color was grey. However, many rains had exposed the building contractor's secret: cheap, low quality paint had been used, and was now peeling off in ridiculous amounts.

Right across from the plaza, which was in a gated compound, was the Surulere Post Office.

M & K Fashions was located on the ground floor. Next to it were two other shops: a hair salon and a dry cleaner. On the top floor, directly above Alhaja's shop was a business center, occupying three store spaces. Beside the business center, was a bookstore. The remaining two shop spaces beside the bookstore were vacant and each had a red and white "TO LET" sign hanging on the front door.

A few months earlier, those two shops had been rented to a recording studio. The business had failed as they did not make enough money to cover their overhead costs and they had to vacate the premises. As neighbors had said over and over again about the owner, he had a very good ear for music, but was a terrible businessman. Apparently, one needed to be both in the cut throat world of entertainment.

Alhaja had been in business for more than a decade, and she knew as well as others, that running a fabric and jewelry shop involved more than just buying and selling. Many times, she had stayed up late, wondering how she would pay the salaries of her shop assistants. Although they earned commissions on what they sold, she still paid them regular base salaries. For her, as she often told people who asked, it was a matter of conscience. She believed that if she based it only on commission, the girls would not do their best and would resort to unscrupulous methods, just to make a sale. But this hybrid method that Alhaja had adopted had served her well.

M & K was the first shop one would encounter on the right, upon stepping into the shopping plaza. It was quite common for people, mostly women, on their way to the salon, or any of the other businesses, to get side-tracked, and visit M & K instead. So, fights frequently broke out between the owner of the hair salon, and Alhaja on the issue of side-tracked customers. On Wura's first day of work, she walked into one of such confrontations.

Mama Peace, a former housewife turned salon owner, stood outside of Alhaja's shop, raining curses on her. She had pulled off her headtie, which was made from the same black and gold Woodin fabric sewn into her current outfit: a skirt and blouse.

"May God punish you! _Ko ni da fun e_!" she yelled, switching effortlessly from English to Yoruba and then to Pidgin. "No be you dey steal my customers with your juju?! I go show you pepper for dis Lagos. I no blame you. You don steal person husband finish, e never do you, na my own customer you come dey face. E no go work o, e no go work! Go tell dat your useless babalawo say im medicine don spoil finish. Useless woman!"

As she threw around these accusations, interrupted only by her clapping hands to emphasize her point, she jumped around shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The people in the neighboring businesses who were used to these confrontations shouted her down, demanding peace and quiet, while a few brave ones approached her to pacify her. Alhaja, who was the source of her anger, was nowhere in sight. Apparently, she had instructed her shop girls to lock the front door and ignore Mama Peace until her anger had subsided.

As it turned out, Alhaja's strategy was a smart one. Mama Peace eventually, and reluctantly, retired to her salon to regain her composure. This battle was far from over.

Wura, who had witnessed all this from the gate of the plaza where the okada had dropped her off that morning, cautiously made her way to her aunt's shop. Was this drama something she would come to expect every day? Why had Alhaja not defended herself? As Wura walked up to the store, she put Mama Peace on the list of suspects for the theft.

"She certainly has a motive - revenge," Wura thought to herself.

Before she even got to the door, a young girl who looked to be in her early 20s, admitted Wura into the shop. First, she opened the glass door, and then the gray iron gate outside the door. Right above the door, Wura spied a metal pull down gate, which would be locked at the end of the day. She was sure Alhaja had other security measures in place to guard against theft, but somehow, the thief must have found a loophole.

"That's my job. I have to think like a thief and the answer will present itself in no time," Wura thought to herself.

The girl who had let her into the shop was slightly taller than Wura, and had cut her hair very close to the scalp. The edges of her hair was almost completely gone, a tell-tale sign of chemical burns from relaxers and hair styles such as tiny cornrows, which put enormous pressure on the fragile hairline. Her name was Fausat, and she was one of four girls who worked for Alhaja. She was also the youngest of the four. That morning, she wore a floral print skirt, and a striped blouse, which screamed _fashion faux-pas_ , to the high heavens. With great effort, Wura ignored Fausat's wardrobe choice and asked for Alhaja.

"My madam dey inside," she replied, and led Wura past several stacks and piles of clothing, shoes and eventually, jewelry, to an inner office where Alhaja sat, going over the books with two other girls. On her way to this office, Wura had spied at least six grown women who looked like customers, examining various fabrics and making inquiries about prices. Her eyes also spied the time on a solitary clock hanging in a less crowded corner of the shop. It was just a few minutes past 10am.

The layout of Alhaja's shop was typical of many shops selling fabrics all over Lagos. There were stacks of fabrics, folded and grouped by color, texture and price, on wooden shelves lining the walls. Almost every available wall space was covered with fabrics stacked all the way to the ceiling. In a few strategic corners, there were mannequins wearing ready-made outfits and English wear. Here and there, were charts of models displaying styles that the fabrics could be sewn into. In addition, there were stacks of local and international magazines displaying fashion styles for the same purpose: for customers to copy and sew. Alhaja had a standing list of tailors and fashion designers she often referred her customers to patronize.

Some of the shelves held shoes, which would match a woman's desired outfit. Some more shelves held stacks of head ties too. In short, Alhaja's shop was like heaven on earth for those who had money to spend and cared about how they looked. But for those who were broke or just poor, it was just another reminder of one more thing they desired but was out of their reach.

Wura had only been to Alhaja's shop a few times in her life, but those visits had been in the former locations. This was her first time at the Surulere location since Alhaja had moved there years back.

As Wura neared the inner office where Alhaja sat, she saw expensive-looking jewelry kept in glass display cases. There were custom-made earring and necklace sets made from beads, as well as jewelry made from gold, silver and precious stones. However, the display cases were locked, and she knew Alhaja had the key. So, how did they go missing? Why didn't the thief just break the glass and snatch them? There were no sophisticated alarm systems or security codes that would have prevented a thief from making away with the jewelry. Wura was mentally assessing all these first-hand details when she reached the office.

As soon as Alhaja saw Wura, she greeted her with, "Ah! How are you, my dear?!" and told her to take a seat and give her a few minutes.

Wura sat on the edge of a cushioned upholstered sofa, and allowed her eyes to wander all over the room. The office was very small, but Alhaja had cleverly made use of that space, putting only necessary furniture in there, including one desk, a swivel office chair, which was presently occupied by Alhaja, and a three-seater sofa with red velvet upholstery, which also doubled as a bed on the days when Alhaja needed a quick nap. The only picture on the wall was of Alhaja and her current husband, Mr. Rahman. She did not put her children's pictures on the wall. Wura was sure there was a story behind that decision.

After waiting for about thirty minutes, Alhaja finally finished her bookkeeping and dismissed the girls. Wura asked her why she did not have an accountant to do her bookkeeping, to which she replied:

"Accountants are very good at counting money, and lining their pockets too, while they're at it."

That was her own way of telling her niece that she had been burned by those who she trusted. As to why her children's pictures were noticeably absent, she replied in Yoruba:

" _A o m'eni to n binu eni_. I have a lot of enemies and they sometimes come to my office. My husband's picture is there for proof that I am married, but my children, don't need to be exposed to strangers."

Wura looked puzzled. Alhaja's explanation did not make sense. Why not just leave out all family members' pictures from her office? Why pick and choose like that? But Wura decided that if it made Alhaja feel better, she would drop the matter.

"Let me give you a tour," Alhaja said, rising to her feet.

The back office was the only special section of the shop, the only other room being the restroom, which smelt distinctly of bleach, to Wura's delight. Alhaja showed her the general protocol for closing a sale, including knowing which clients to extend credit to and which ones to collect full payment from immediately. If the total sale for a client exceeded N 50,000 naira, Alhaja personally handled it. That was the general rule.

Afterwards, it was time to meet her fellow co-workers, a.k.a Alhaja's shop girls. There were four of them and Wura had already met one, but Alhaja formally introduced her to them. Their names were: Eniola, Rukayat, Bimpe and Fausat. All the girls were called by their full names except for Rukayat, whose name had been shortened to "Ruka." She was the most fashion-forward of the girls, wearing a pink headscarf elegantly tied in a bun on her head, and a gray jersey dress with pink stripes on the sides. Her sandals were of course, pink too. Eniola was not as color-coordinated as Ruka, but had a very neat appearance, wearing a pair of jeans and a red tank top. She had a very trusting face and a smile that put one at ease. She also had gapped teeth like Wura, which endeared her to Wura. Last, but not the least, Bimpe, the tallest girl in the group looked like a walking mannequin. She was not pretty, but was very attractive, wearing a small stud in her nose and hoop earrings. She wore a very simple no-frills woodin dress, which showed off her curves. And boy, did the girl have curves! Bimpe was the only one who seemed out of place in the midst of all the merchandise, not because of her height, though that was obvious, but because of her diction: the girl spoke near-perfect Queen's English. Wura thought her ears were deceiving her. What was a girl who was so well-educated doing as a mere assistant in a fabric shop?

Alhaja answered the question later that afternoon. Bimpe was her friend's daughter, who had lived in the UK for the earlier part of her life and returned to Nigeria to complete her secondary school education. She was a student at Olabisi Onabanjo University formerly Ogun State University (OSU) in Ogun State, which had been on strike for more than six months. At her mother's request, she had come to work for Alhaja. Within the three months she worked there, she had quickly become the head sales girl.

"That girl is an asset to my business o," Alhaja said, referring to Bimpe. "No one can out-sell her. I am secretly praying and hoping that OSU's strike drags on for several months so she can make more money for me."

Wura listened attentively to Alhaja. She clearly preferred Bimpe over and above the others who had been there much longer than her. How did they feel about this favoritism? Unless they were not human, there was bound to be discontentment, resentment and anger brewing underneath the girls' plastic smiles.

"When did you... em... promote Bimpe?" Wura asked. Alhaja scrunched up her nose as she racked her brain for an answer.

"About two months ago," Alhaja finally answered.

"So you promoted her after she had worked for just one month?" Wura asked in disbelief.

"Oh yes! Look, I have been in this business for many years. It is not every day that a classy, well-educated and intelligent young girl comes to work in a place like this. You and I know this business attracts the dregs of the earth, and--"

"Is that what you think of the rest of the girls?" Wura said. And then, realizing the perceived rudeness in her action, she quickly apologized.

"It's okay," said Alhaja, even though her face was already contorted into a frown. If Wura was not her niece, she would have told her...

"Each girl is different. They're not all the same," Alhaja said, making a feeble attempt to retract her past comment. "Fausat, for instance, is basically the house girl for the shop. She does all the cleaning. Selling is purely incidental to her duties here, and she knows it. In terms of sales volume, next to Bimpe, Ruka is a close 2nd, and Eniola is 3rd."

"They don't earn the same salary, right?" said Wura.

"Of course not! Bimpe gets paid the highest salary and Fausat the least. That's the way it works around here."

"I would certainly hate to be Fausat," Wura thought to herself in disgust.

"One more question, auntie. Who has access to the jewelry display cases?" Wura asked.

"Me, Bimpe and Fausat."

"Fausat ke? But I thought she was the designated house girl. Why give her access to jewelry?"

"Because although she is the youngest, she's been with me the longest. Five years. If she was going to steal from me, she would have done so a long time ago. That girl is completely harmless."

"Auntie, how can you be so sure?" Wura said. In her heart, she wondered at Alhaja's method. Why reward the longest working employee with the lowest salary? She would certainly harbor some resentment for that reason alone.

As if she was reading her thoughts, Alhaja replied, "I just know she's not a thief. Fausat is grateful to even have this job. Her father is a gateman in Abule-Egba, and she has six older ones and two younger ones--"

"Nine children? All from the same woman?"

Alhaja laughed at Wura's surprise.

"Poverty is a disease, and it tampers with a man's sense of judgment. I personally think Baba Fausat should be castrated, but I doubt that will happen. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to find out that his wife is expecting baby number ten."

"Okunrin meta!" Wura said, mockingly hailing Baba Fausat. Family planning would be a strange concept to him.

After her conversation with Alhaja, who had to leave to attend to a customer, Wura began to turn these things over in her mind, weighing them in light of what Uncle James and Kola had told her.

Speaking of Kola...

She had to meet him after work at the Mr. Biggs restaurant down the road from the shop. Alhaja let her leave early, and she got to the restaurant and sat down. He would meet her there in an hour.

Wura got restless and decided to look for something to do to while away her time. There was a movie theatre a few doors away from the restaurant. Of course, she had no intention of watching a movie, but decided to hang around the premises for a while.

As she was about to enter the double doors, she saw a familiar face wearing dark shades inside the theater, walking in her direction. It was Kola. What was he doing there?

From where she stood, he could not see her. While Wura was still wondering what he was doing there, a girl appeared from nowhere, hugged him and pecked him on the cheek. And then they both disappeared out of sight, into the recesses of the theatre. Wura almost fainted as she recognized the girl.

"I don't believe it! It's Chinyere!" she gasped.
Eight

Several days passed, and Wura still refused to have any kind of communication with Kola. He called, texted, even sent handwritten notes to her all to no avail. He had also made four separate visits to her house, and was denied access by the gateman on all those occasions on her instructions. At this point, Kola was beyond frustrated. He was also very confused. What could possibly be wrong with Wura?

Chinyere, who would have been the peacemaker was also re-buffed and ignored, much to her surprise. Unlike Kola however, she took it very personally, and decided that Wura had become some kind of snob. She had no reason to conclude otherwise.

Meanwhile, as all of this was going on, Wura dutifully kept up with her job at Alhaja's shop.

On Friday of that same week, Wura got an unexpected invitation from an old friend to attend a small birthday party. The friend in question was Murewa Anthony, who had been Wura's classmate in primary school. They had kept in touch on and off over the years. Ordinarily, Wura would have declined the invitation, since she was not very close to Murewa, but because she had been spending her after-work time alone, and was frankly getting tired of her own company, she decided she needed to go out. Murewa's party was the perfect excuse to leave the house.

So, that Saturday, she wore a simple outfit, composed of a dressy blouse and high-waisted shorts, which stopped just above the knees, a pair of heels, and headed out to Ikoyi, the venue of Murewa's birthday party. The pair of shorts Wura wore was a testament to the fact that no piece of fabric should be wasted. They were made from scraps of material left over from the last aso-ebi she bought for a friend's wedding. The shorts actually made her look taller, but that was not the only reason why she wore them. She loved the way her bum looked in them, and even Kola had complimented her more than once for that very reason.

Kola...

She did not want to think of him, and made a mental note to herself to have an awesome time regardless.

When the taxi pulled into the street where Murewa lived, Wura knew exactly where the party was holding. She could hear loud music from the beginning of the street, even above the noise of the generator powering the house. Wura chuckled at Murewa's idea of a small get together. If the music was anything to go by, there was nothing small about this party.

The gate was open, and from inside the taxi, Wura saw a large canopy in the compound. Under the canopy, there were about 50 chairs arranged around small round tables.

"I guess a big party means she would have shut down the entire street," Wura mused.

Once she entered the compound, it was obvious that the party was already in full swing. A few people were dancing, but most people were sitting down eating, drinking and talking. The birthday girl greeted Wura with a hug and shushed Wura when she broke into apologies for not bringing a gift. Murewa was not much taller than Wura, but her longer torso, and long legs, made her appear taller. She looked radiant in her short blue sequined dress, which in Wura's opinion, looked more like a nightclub outfit.

After Murewa left to greet some other guests, Wura made her way to the buffet table. She was still trying to decide whether to get jollof _and_ fried rice, when a familiar voice made her start suddenly.

She turned around quickly and almost knocked over a girl carrying a tray of stewed fried fish. Standing face to face with her, was her now estranged boyfriend, Kola.

"What are you doing here? Who invited you?" she blurted out in anger.

"We need to talk," Kola said, without missing a beat. He took her plate from her, put it down and led her out of the compound. Wura, who hated drawing unnecessary attention to herself, allowed herself to be led away, not wanting to make a scene. There was no use avoiding this confrontation.

Kola led her in silence down the street, until they got to a spot where they could speak in normal voices, and talk without shouting because of the music and generator. The spot that met these requirements happened to be in front of another house on the same street.

"Why have you been avoiding me ehn?" Kola began, but Wura held up her hand, forcing him to suspend his inquisition.

"I will ask the questions, and you will answer them with a Yes or No," she said.

"Okay. Go on," said Kola, folding his arms across his chest.

"How did you find me here?" said Wura.

"I followed you here."

"What?! So you're now a stalker, stalking me all over Lagos abi?"

"You left me no choice, Wura. You've been ignoring all my calls, and everything, remember?"

"Kola, answer me with a Yes or No, that's our agreement."

"Look, Wura, stop being childish and let's talk like adults."

There was a distinct seriousness in his voice that restrained Wura from retorting with another backhanded comment.

"Have I offended you? Talk to me," Kola pleaded.

Wura could see his sincerity and gave him a one-minute breakdown of what she had witnessed at the movie theatre in Surulere. Her own calmness in relating the story baffled even herself. She thought she would have leapt on top of a car, and would be raining insults on Kola by now. But no. There was nothing of that sort.

Then something strange happened. Kola started laughing.

"Wait, you think I'm cheating on you with Chinyere?" he said, in between bouts of laughter.

"Yes, and it's not funny at all. Stop laughing!" Wura said in a pissed off voice. Was this guy insane?

"It's funny to me. Look, Chinyere is a nice girl, but she's not my type. You are."

"Quit the flattery, Kola and tell me the truth."

"That _is_ the truth, Wura. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is going on between me and Chinyere," Kola insisted.

Seeing that Wura was still doubting him, he called a reluctant and irritated Chinyere on the phone and together they explained what happened that day.

At the time Wura spoke to Kola while she was waiting at Mr. Biggs, he was at the movie theatre down the street. He had gone there to check it out as it was one of the newer theatres in town. He had finished tutoring two small children who lived in the same area, and had stopped there on his way to the restaurant to meet Wura.

He had bumped into Chinyere who was there with her boyfriend, Kingsley.

"What?! Kingsley was there? How come I didn't see him?" Wura asked in disbelief.

"Because of _where_ you were standing. He was right around the corner, inside the theatre," said Chinyere. She got Kingsley to call Wura there and then and he confirmed what Chinyere had just said.

"Just before Kola came, Kingsley and I were arguing," Chinyere said after the call with Kingsley had ended. "I said that there was no such thing as a _chaste_ hug between a guy and a girl. Kingsley said it was possible and I told him to demonstrate it. While we were still talking, Kola came to meet us. I asked Kingsley for permission to test his theory with Kola. He said it was okay. So, I hugged him and even pecked him on the cheeks. I wish you were there, Wura. Kingsley shouted so loud ehn! I thought they were going to throw us out."

Kola chuckled, but when Wura glared at him, he assumed an air of seriousness again. Chinyere continued.

"After that, he agreed with me. A hug is not just a hug, and even a kiss is not just a kiss."

"So you people were busy testing theories on my own boyfriend in my absence, abi? And even this long story you people just threw together sounds very convoluted to me, but I'll take it. I mean, even Kingsley confirmed it," said Wura still sulking.

"Come on, Wura. We're sorry now. Shebi Kola has apologized. Me sef, oya sorry. No vex ehn... I don't blame you for shunning us like that. If it was me and I saw my friend hugging and pecking my boyfriend, I would have done worse o. Ha! You no trust me? I would've slashed Kingsley's tires that same day or poured bleach on those his precious designer shirts, before even listening to any _yeye_ explanation," said Chinyere.

"I wish Kingsley was listening to this," Kola said in jest. "All this talk of slashing his tires and destroying his T.M. Lewin shirts. No warning at all!"

After the phone call with Chinyere ended, Wura, now much happier, went with her now reconciled beau to tell Murewa, the celebrant, that she had to leave. They left together, and Kola took Wura to eat _asun_ at a local restaurant not too far from Murewa's house. Kola was still joking about how Lagosians could never be vegetarians, when Wura leaned forward sharply and began to whisper in an agitated voice.

"Kola, just turn around slowly... Yes, ehen... Very slowly. Don't make it obvious o. I said slowly now!"

Kola tried to comply as best as he could even though he was quite confused as to why she was whispering and so secretive all of a sudden.

"Now, do you see the man wearing the black kaftan?" said Wura, nodding in the direction of the man she had just described, without making it too obvious.

"Ehen, the one with the girl in the blue _shine-shine_ dress?" said Kola, also whispering.

"Yes, him. Do you know who that guy is?" said Wura.

"No-o. His face isn't familiar at all."

"That is Alhaja's husband!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, _ke_! Stop staring at them so much now! Don't let them see you!" said Wura. "You know what, we'll have to get the _asun_ as take away. We can't stay here."

"But we only just got here--" Kola began. Wura ignored him.

"Meet me outside with our _asun_. I'll wait for you," said Wura as she slipped off quietly and left a surprised Kola standing there wondering what just happened.

As Wura waited outside, her mind was a whirl of confusion. She could not believe what she had just seen. She did not only recognize the man to be Mr. Rahman, Alhaja's husband, but she also recognized the girl he was shamelessly fawning over. That girl was--

"They should be the ones leaving, not us," Kola was whining as he joined her outside the joint. Wura ignored his protests and they left with their food. As they walked away to board a taxi, Wura took one last look at the unsuspecting couple. She caught sight of the man grabbing the young woman's waist in a possessive manner. She almost turned back to confront them, but decided against it. This was not her battle.

"Kola, it's not just the man I recognized. That girl with him, I know her too. Her name is Bimpe, and she works for Alhaja."
Nine

Fausat was the last person Wura expected to see that morning. It was Monday, and after spending a few weeks working for Alhaja, Wura knew the shop's policy. She knew that all employees were expected to arrive by 8:00am, and that Alhaja usually got there before her employees since she had the keys to unlock the shop. She was also aware of the envious rivalry that existed between Mama Peace and Alhaja, with the former playing the role of the aggressor in most instances. The employees were acutely aware of this enmity, so why was Fausat chatting excitedly with Mama Peace at the back of the shop?

That morning, there was a heavy thunderstorm, which miraculously stopped before Wura left for work. However, the rains had done their damage, and the roads were flooded. Typical of Lagos!

Wura had to walk at least ten minutes from her house to the nearest bus stop, and that journey had taken her through muddy paths. Her shoes, now covered in mud, undoubtedly told the story of her journey, and she decided to make herself more presentable before stepping into the shop. Alhaja would certainly not appreciate anyone, not even her niece, tracking mud all over the shop, so close to her precious merchandise.

There was a tap behind the shop, within the plaza, which everyone had access to. Everyone, of course, including people off the street, looking to fetch water. The tenants had complained, and the landlord had promised to put a special lock on the tap, that would prevent anyone without a key from using the tap. That was five months before, and up till that moment, the tap was still publicly accessible.

Wura had gone over there, and was astonished to see Fausat chatting with Mama Peace, as if she was her long lost friend. They were so wrapped up in their conversation that they did not see Wura coming. In fact, they did not know anyone else was there until they both turned around to leave. By then, Wura had heard a good bit of their conversation, and was processing it in her head. There and then, she decided that a visit to Uncle James was overdue, especially in light of the _Mr. Rahman and Bimpe_ development.

_First, Bimpe and now Fausat_? _What was next?_

"Before the end of the week, this investigation will be over at this rate," she thought to herself. "Yes, it certainly will. Maybe I should tell Alhaja of my latest discoveries. Doesn't she deserve to know?"

And then, she remembered Uncle James' warning to keep as much away from Alhaja as possible.

"It's wise to keep quiet for now," she reasoned.

Alhaja was already in the store when Wura arrived, and she was attending to a customer, who was haggling with her over the price of a beautiful French lace fabric. Wura's eyes swept the store and immediately observed that the other three girls were clustered in a corner, unpacking some new arrivals.

Her eyes lingered on Bimpe. Did she know what Wura knew? It took all of Wura's personal powers of restraint to keep her from blurting out accusations. Silence was key at this stage, she finally decided. She would play the role of the ignorant, clueless niece and hoped her pretense would serve her well.

Around 2:00pm that same day, Mr. Rahman, Alhaja's husband made a surprise visit to the shop. It was a surprise to everyone except Alhaja who was actually expecting him. Mr. Rahman was certainly younger than Alhaja, but he was already graying near his hairline, and in his beard. He was a handsome man by any standard, and if it was possible, the gray hair made him look even more attractive. He went into her office at the back, and left less than ten minutes later with a rather bulky brown envelope in his hand. Bimpe was milling around close to the entrance and as he left, Wura actually saw him wink at the girl. She smiled back at him, and pretended to arrange a gele sitting on the head of a mannequin.

Prompted by something \- she did not know what - Wura whipped around suddenly and just in time, she caught sight of Eniola, who withdrew her gaze from Bimpe. It was obvious that Eniola had seen what passed between Bimpe and Mr. Rahman, but blatantly refused to admit it when Wura confronted her later. If a shop girl knew that there was something going on between those two, she was certain that Alhaja also knew. The woman was too sharp to let such a thing slip past her. So, why did she pretend not to notice?

The rest of the day was uneventful. That is, until five minutes before closing time.

A woman rushed into the shop demanding to see Alhaja immediately. Perhaps, the best way to describe this woman was that she was the quintessential Lagos "thick madam." She looked robust, probably too robust, and burnt-looking black knuckles, which did not match the complexion of her yellow face, spoke of excessive skin bleaching. Her name was Mrs. Thomas.

She was one of those Lagos socialites who were always at one _owambe_ or the other, women who hardly appeared in public with their husbands, but were always gaily dressed in the latest fashion. One could usually trace their wealth to their husbands, men who were always traveling on some business venture. Wura was sure that this woman was either blind or did not look in the mirror before leaving her house that morning. Her makeup was garish, and in fact, she looked like a clown. An agitated one, for at that moment, she looked like she would explode if Alhaja did not make an appearance immediately.

Alhaja appeared almost immediately on hearing the name of the customer, who wasted no time in announcing her purpose.

"They want to disgrace me! Ah, _awon oloriburuku_ , people who will never amount to anything in this life!" Mrs. Thomas lamented.

Alhaja rushed Mrs. Thomas into her office for some privacy, but they could all hear her voice from within, loud and clear. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood still to listen to this unexpected gist.

Mrs. Thomas was the first wife of Chief Bolaji Thomas, a man who had built a successful business selling cars. But as his prosperity increased, so did the number of his wives. Right now, he had three wives and only God knew how many concubines. It was one of his concubines who had triggered off this reaction in Mrs. Thomas.

As it so happened, Mrs. Thomas was just coming from another fabric shop in Ikeja, which she patronized just as frequently as Alhaja's own, that is, several times a month. A young lady had come in to purchase a very expensive necklace with matching ear-rings, made from pure gold. She had mentioned in passing, to the shop owner, that she was wearing it to the wedding of her fiancé's eldest daughter.

That piece of information had puzzled the shop owner, who wondered just how old the said fiancé was. The girl - Morenike was her name - had proudly dropped the name of her beau: Chief Bolaji Thomas. Because the shop owner was her friend, she had filled Mrs. Thomas in on the details when she came in hours later. The wedding Morenike was preparing for with such care was the wedding of Mrs. Thomas' daughter, and the woman had concluded that the intention of this _ale_ was to outshine her on her own day of joy. She was not having it.

The wedding was that weekend, and Alhaja was the only other person she knew who sold high quality jewelry and would have it in stock at such short notice. That was her predicament, the source of her frustration and agitation that Monday afternoon.

Alhaja listened patiently to Mrs. Thomas' tale. She was used to clients giving her the back story before closing a sale, and like a good therapist, knew the prescription before the narrative was over. She told Alhaja calmly, for calmness not brashness was necessary at this juncture, that she had the perfect set of jewelry for the occasion.

"Your husband's _ale_ will be wearing red, but you Madam will wear blue. And if you think blue cannot outshine red, you'll change your mind when I show you this piece," said Alhaja.

Her hands were busy the whole time she was speaking and she finally presented the worried customer with the next best thing to physical merchandise: a jewelry catalog, displaying pictures of exquisite stones. The catalog was fairly new, and as Alhaja explained to Mrs. Thomas, these pieces were the season's newest, made by a company in Switzerland.

Without wasting time, she flipped through the pages, while her customer who seemed to have been temporarily healed, paused several times to point at other pieces of jewelry she claimed would be just perfect for this and that occasion. Alhaja eventually made it to Page 86, where the jewelry she had in mind was poignantly displayed. She let her finger rest on it briefly and without another word, pushed the catalog towards Mrs. Thomas for closer inspection.

"Where... Oh my God! When...." Mrs. Thomas began and then lost the power of speech entirely.

Her face had now turned to almost the same shade of red as her blush, which had somehow found its way under her eyes and on her chin. When she finally recovered, she spoke completely in Yoruba, asking when it would be ready. Thursday was Alhaja's response. She was thoroughly enjoying Mrs. Thomas' reaction to the chosen jewelry. It was a sapphire jewelry set, consisting of a beautiful necklace with blue stones and real diamonds, not cubic zirconia, set in white gold, and a matching pair of earrings. From Mrs. Thomas' account, these jewels beat Morenike's ruby piece hands down. Blue, was the new red.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Thomas did not even ask for the price. So, when Alhaja wrote her a receipt for a six-figure naira amount, without flinching, she wrote her a cheque for the amount, and told her she could cash it immediately. It would be Tuesday before Alhaja could retrieve the payment, but as an old customer, she knew the cheque would clear. If it had been anyone else, she may have demanded cash, but with Mrs. Thomas, this form of payment was acceptable. With the arrangement concluded, a very happy Mrs. Thomas left the shop, and they closed for the day. As soon as Wura got home, she called Uncle James, and told him over the phone:

"I need to come and see you, and it has to be _before_ Thursday."
Ten

With Alhaja's permission, Wura left work two hours earlier than usual to beat traffic and get to Uncle James' house. But she did not go there straight from work. She branched at a house where Kola was teaching two little girls. He was their lesson teacher. Per their agreement, he left his students, who were only too pleased to go and watch cartoons, and went with Wura to Uncle James' house.

On getting there, the front door was locked and despite repeatedly knocking on the door and pressing the bell, no one answered the door. Just when Wura was about to start panicking that maybe she had come at the wrong time, Uncle James and Aunty Mary arrived with two large woven bags, packed full of foodstuff.

They had just returned from the market, and Wura could see two large tubers of yam sticking out from the top of one of the bags. The bags looked like they were made of the same quality, sack-like material as BAGCO Super Bags, which were used to pack cement. Kola took over hauling the foodstuff into the house, after greeting both Uncle James and Aunty Mary. They had never met him before, and Aunty Mary actually cornered Kola, and began to ask him detailed questions about his family.

"Make una do quick and pick your _aso-ebi_ o," she said in jest.

"Haba, Aunty Mary," said Wura, "we are just students now. We still have NYSC and--"

Wura stopped suddenly in mid-protest. Kola had this stupid grin on his face, and then he told Aunty Mary:

"Don't worry, ma. We'll bring your grandchildren to see you. Abi, Wura? Na twins she go born for me. In fact, triplets sef! Two boys and one girl. That's it!"

"That's my boy!" Uncle James said, laughing heartily, patting Kola on the back. Wura knew that Kola meant it as a joke, but there was a serious tinge in his voice that startled her. Just how far would he go? Only time would tell.

After settling down and helping Aunty Mary sort out the groceries even against her protests, they all went into the sitting room to talk. Bottles of Coke and Fanta were brought in from the fridge, and with two large plates of chin-chin in front of the small company, the meeting kicked off.

Wura began by updating Uncle James and his wife on all that had happened since her last visit. She made sure she mentioned the two new observations she had unwittingly made: the first one about Bimpe, and the second one about Fausat. No one interrupted her while she ran through her narrative, almost breathlessly. She spoke so fast that it was a wonder one random piece of chin-chin did not lodge itself in her windpipe, seeing as she kept popping them into her mouth in between segments of her story. Finally, when she ended with Mrs. Thomas' tale, Aunty Mary got up to fetch some more snacks. They all waited for her to return before continuing. It was Uncle James who spoke up first.

"From what you've said, Wura, it seems like you suspect that one of Alhaja's girls is the culprit, right?" said Uncle James.

"Yes, sir," Wura replied.

"Do you know how long each of them has worked for Alhaja?" Aunty Mary asked.

"Yes, Aunty. At least, I think I do. Fausat has been there the longest, followed by Eniola, then Ruka, and then Bimpe."

"And the person who's been there the longest is the one who was gisting with Mama Peace?" Uncle James asked.

"Yes, sir. I overheard them talking about _sharing_ customers."

"Sharing wetin? Are the customers loaves of bread to be distributed like so?" Kola asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Ah, you should thank God she said "sharing" not "stealing." At least, their plan will leave some customers for Alhaja," Aunty Mary said, sneering.

"But, how do they plan to do this?" Uncle James asked.

"According to what I heard, Mama Peace said she would send her salon customers to Alhaja's shop. They usually tell her they want a particular hairstyle for this or that occasion, and need to buy this or that material for the occasion. When they leave the salon and come to Alhaja's shop, Fausat will close the sale and give them a discount based on the referral. Then, if Fausat sends Alhaja's customers to Mama Peace's salon, she gets paid a commission," said Wura.

"Doesn't sound right to me. If this is such a good idea, why not tell Alhaja about it directly?" asked Uncle James.

"Because Alhaja will skin Fausat alive for befriending her enemy. And Fausat needs the commission. Mama Peace promised to give her a small part of the sales, if customers actually come from Alhaja's shop and use her salon," said Wura. "Fausat is paid the least and they work that girl to the bone."

"Isn't that reason enough to steal jewelry and resell it at a profit?" asked Kola.

"No, I don't think she did it," said Wura. "She has very limited access to the jewelry, and only the less expensive pieces. They're the ones in the display boxes. The ones that get stolen are the more expensive ones Alhaja herself brings into the shop and takes home every day. Somehow between the time she brings them in and closing time, they go missing. Besides, Fausat knows that she would be the prime suspect if anything went missing. All the other girls were replaced, remember," said Wura.

"I agree. Fausat can't be the thief," said Aunty Mary. The rest of the company nodded in agreement.

"But why bring jewelry into her shop every day? Can't she hand-deliver them to customers in their homes, straight from the supplier or where ever she gets them?" asked Kola.

"From what she told me, many people want to buy on the spot. If she doesn't have it on hand there and then, and they walk away, that's the end of that sale. They'll find another seller. And you know Lagos. They're many alternative sellers," said Wura.

"Where does she keep the jewelry, the expensive ones?" asked Uncle James.

"In her desk, under lock and key. Only Alhaja has the key," said Wura.

"Come on, it's the simplest thing in the world to duplicate her key, and just open her desk," said Aunty Mary.

"Yes, ma, but she insists no one else has the key. She said there was always one of her shop girls in or around her office, while she attended to a customer or something. It was then that the jewelry went missing," said Wura.

"That explains why she kept changing her shop girls, except for Fausat," said Uncle James.

"But what were they doing in her office? Why wasn't her office door locked? Who saw them in her office? Does anyone else have the key to her office?" said Aunty Mary. "We need to ask her these questions."

"The other girls, nko?" asked Kola.

"Eniola and Ruka were hired _after_ the thefts occurred. Someone was already stealing jewelry from Alhaja's shop _before_ they were hired," said Wura.

"Okay, so what about Bimpe?" Uncle James asked. "She's having an affair with Alhaja's husband, right? And is the only other person, apart from Alhaja, with unfettered access to the jewelry."

"Yes, but that girl doesn't need the money. She schooled abroad before coming here. Besides, the theft had already started _before_ she came to work for Alhaja. Alhaja has changed her employees several times in less than a year over this theft issue, and the only employee that has not changed is Fausat. But we've already ruled her out," said Wura.

"Yes, we've sort of ruled Fausat out, but you never know. She could be some kind of _klepto_ ," said Kola, "just like my ex-girlfriend. She stole some of my wristwatches and even my boxers."

Wura eyed Kola and hissed, a flood of questions bombarding her head all at once.

"Hey, Mr. Man, this is not about you and your exes o," Wura said, glaring at him.

"Don't worry. You're my one and only... for now," Kola teased. Wura increased the intensity of her glare. Kola got the message and held his tongue.

"Make una no fight for here o, or else I'll do what I used to do to my children," Uncle James said, grinning widely.

"When the children were quarreling, he used to give each child a cane, and then told them to flog each other," Aunty Mary said, giggling.

"It worked. They usually stopped fighting quickly, after flogging each other a few times," Uncle James continued.

"That sounds like child abuse to me," Wura thought, even though the thought of flogging Kola appealed to her at that moment. Aloud, she said:

"No, sir. We won't need that. Right, Kola?"

Kola nodded in agreement. The rest of the discussion revolved around what to do to catch the thief. They all agreed that Mrs. Thomas' coming to pick up the jewelry was a high risk situation, and that the thief would probably strike or attempt to strike that day because the jewelry sets that had disappeared were just as expensive.

Right there in Uncle James' sitting room, they hatched another plan that they felt sure would work. By the time Wura and Kola left, their bellies were full of Aunty Mary's _edikaikong_ soup with giant mounds of fufu, and their ears rang with Uncle James' warning:

"Don't overlook anything. Keep your eyes open."

"We'll see about that, shan't we?" Wura thought to herself as they headed home.
Eleven

Following the advice of Uncle James, Kola had arranged for two plain clothes policemen to come to Alhaja's shop on Thursday afternoon. But they kept even this detail hidden from Alhaja. The policemen planted themselves at the Post Office across the street, from where they could watch the shop closely. The agreement was that they would wait for a signal from Wura, at the right time. Until then, they were to keep their distance.

On Thursday morning, Wura arrived at Alhaja's shop, casually dressed. If everything went as planned, that would be her last day of work at the shop.

Now, customers had been in and out of the store all day long, and Alhaja had gone through her stock of jewelry at noon to double check. None was missing. She would do the same thing before she left for the day. That was when the missing pieces were usually discovered.

The set of jewelry that Mrs. Thomas had purchased was sent by courier from a supplier based in Abuja. It arrived shortly before 4:00pm, delivered by a DHL delivery man and Alhaja herself signed for it. The white box housing the jewels was itself enclosed in a small brown carton.

All the girls were busy doing one thing or the other when the box arrived. Although Alhaja did not allow them into her office, they all conjugated at a corner of the shop and began chatting about the new arrival. Wura joined them and took part in their idle chatter. _Why did she even bother to call herself a mole_? All the girls knew she was Alhaja's niece and even if they never voiced it to her hearing, must have had an inkling that she was there to keep an eye on them. Mole indeed!

Not quite three minutes into the conversation, she saw Bimpe leave the group. Bimpe went to another corner of the store, and made a phone call to someone. Wura was not sure who it was, but she heard Bimpe telling the person to hurry up and come quickly. Wura was half-scared that a group of armed robbers would come and rob the shop. Thankfully, that did not happen.

Instead, two more customers came in, looking to buy lace. They came in about fifteen minutes after Bimpe's mystery phone call. Wura, who was on high alert, watched them closely, wondering if these were the people Bimpe had summoned on the phone. The thought had not quite crossed her mind when she saw Mr. Rahman come into the shop. He greeted everyone as usual, flashing that disarming smile he was known for. He had come to collect some money his wife had promised him. Wura caught him winking again at Bimpe, just before entering the tiny office. He was wearing a navy blue kaftan, which admittedly made him look quite regal. That day, he looked especially suave.

Wura could not enter Alhaja's office, but was nonetheless surprised to see Alhaja emerge a few seconds after her husband arrived. She told Wura she had to go to the bathroom to ease herself.

As soon as Alhaja had gone into the restroom, Mr. Rahman stuck his head out of the door and called for Eniola and Ruka to come immediately. Wura wondered why he only called those two. Fausat was out of the shop on an errand for Alhaja. That left Bimpe and Wura. At the moment, Bimpe was attending to the two women who had entered the shop earlier, and was nowhere near Alhaja's office. Only Wura stood close to that room.

Not quite sure what to do next, Wura pulled out her phone and dialed the number she had stored for one purpose only: to alert the two police officers across the street. In less than two minutes, they materialized in front of Alhaja's shop. They stood a few feet from the front door, but stood in such a way that no one leaving the shop could escape without their consent.

After doing whatever Mr. Rahman had asked them to do, he released Ruka and Eniola back to their duties. As they left Alhaja's office, Wura questioned them, and they told her that Madam's husband had asked them to clarify two entries in the receipt book Alhaja kept in her office. He said he did not understand some of the figures they had recorded, and since each girl had signed as the person who made those two entries, he wanted them to answer directly to him. Some of the numbers were not quite legible, according to him. Apparently, their answers were satisfactory, which was why he finally released them.

Alhaja arrived about ten minutes later, from the restroom and gave him the money he had requested. He was about to leave, when the two officers accosted him and told him to go back into the shop. That was when things got rough.

Mr. Rahman demanded to see their ID cards, which they produced to his dissatisfaction. He began to argue with them, threatening to have them thrown in jail. Who threatens police officers with jail time? The policemen simply responded that they were just doing their job.

By this time, Alhaja had emerged from her office, very alarmed. She was screaming:

"It's gone! E gba mi o! Half a million naira worth of jewelry is gone!"

Wura was afraid her aunt had gone mad, as she had loosened her wrapper, exposing her black underskirt to the whole world, and was running back and forth with her hands on her head. She then grabbed each of the shop girls one by one, and began to accuse them, placing serious curses on them, threatening fire and brimstone. All the girls, except Wura, were on their knees begging for mercy, but Alhaja refused to listen.

Somehow in the middle of the chaos, the other two customers were left alone. They could not leave the shop because the officers blocked the sole exit. In effect, they were trapped.

The officers entered the shop. One of them pulled the iron gate shut and locked it on the inside with a padlock. Then, he commanded everyone to keep quiet. His name was Inspector Martins. His colleague was Inspector Jacobs.

Officer Martins explained their mission in a surprisingly calm voice. He said that they had received a tip-off that a theft would occur at that shop that very afternoon, and had watched the shop for hours. The jewelry was delivered before 4:00pm. No one had left the shop since then.

"What that means is that one of you is the thief," he said, looking at the curious bunch. Alhaja picked up her wrapper and began to tie it on her waist. She asked Wura if she was responsible for the police officers' visit, to which her niece responded in the affirmative. Alhaja gave the officers the go-ahead and they began to search every single person in the shop, including the two customers, in spite of their protests of innocence. Everyone had to empty their pockets, and the police patted each person down. Even Alhaja was not spared. She was searched because like the police officers said, they had to do their job.

Finally, they searched Mr. Rahman, and found nothing on him too. The officers were puzzled.

"Madam, are you sure this jewelry is missing?" Inspector Jacobs asked for the third time that afternoon.

Alhaja went to her office and retrieved the case that had housed the missing jewels. She opened it and everyone could see the luxurious black velvet lining. But the box was empty.

"All of you better speak up now or else na police cell una go sleep dis night!" Inspector Martins roared. How could a thief outwit two police officers? The boys at the station would never let him rest. They would taunt him till Kingdom come.

_It just got personal_.

"Tell him to take off his shirt," a male voice said. It did not come from inside the shop. Everyone turned around to look at the source of the voice. It was Kola, who had watched the search quietly from outside the shop. Since the glass doors were propped open, and the gate was the only thing blocking the exit, his vision was almost unobstructed.

Inspector Martins recognized him and asked why he felt Mr. Rahman should take off his shirt.

"Just do it and you'll see," Kola said confidently.

If the gate had not separated him from Mr. Rahman, the older man would have strangled Kola. The look of murderous rage on his face said it all.

"Oya, Mr. Man, off your shirt!" Officer Jacobs ordered.

"B-u-u-u-t, this is preposterous. Frankly, I am flabbergasted by--" Mr. Rahman began. Apparently, he belonged to that class of men who as Nigerians say, _blow big big grammar_ when they're in a tight fix. The officers were not interested in the depth of his vocabulary.

"Abeg, off ya shirt jo! Which one be all dis grammar? I resemble English teacher?" Inspector Martins sneered.

"Oya off that shirt now, or else we go remove am for you," his colleague joined.

Left with no choice, Mr. Rahman reluctantly undid the only two gold buttons at the very top of his kaftan, and pulled off the shirt. Standing there in his white singlet and trousers, he looked so undignified. However, that was not what made everyone, except Kola, scream in shock.

Lying perfectly still on Mr. Rahman's neck, and glistening in the sunlight, was the sapphire and diamond necklace that Mrs. Thomas had already paid for. Everyone began to talk at once. But Alhaja just stood there looking at him. She did not look surprised at all. Mr. Rahman could not look her in the eye, but hung his head like a condemned criminal.

"Mr. Rahman, you are under arrest--" said Inspector Martins.

Wura did not hear the rest of what the officers said, as they handcuffed Alhaja's husband and hauled him off to their station.

"Bimpe, isn't there something you need to tell Alhaja?" Wura asked, staring at her. "Or do you want to join your lover in jail?"

The customers had been released by now, and despite Alhaja's apologies, vowed never to set foot in her shop again.

Bimpe said nothing. Wura repeated her question, and Bimpe finally broke down and confessed everything to Alhaja.

She had informed Mr. Rahman as soon as the jewelry was delivered to the shop. He was to come, under the pretext of collecting money, and take the jewelry.

"I-I-I did it for love," Bimpe wailed. And then, as if she only just realized who she was talking to, she changed her story.

"It was the devil, ma!"

"Love? The devil? Pick one, Bimpe," Alhaja screamed, slapping Bimpe as each question flew out of her mouth.

"Before I open my eyes, you better vamoose! Useless thing!" Alhaja fumed.

Wura could not help thinking that Alhaja was punishing Bimpe for the crimes of two people. She had said absolutely nothing to condemn her husband.

Bimpe never returned to the shop.

Shortly after Bimpe was banished from the shop, Mrs. Thomas arrived and picked up her jewelry. No one told her what had just happened, and it was just as well. Alhaja could not afford to lose her business.

Everyone had now left the shop and Wura suddenly remembered that something else was still missing: the ear-rings.
Twelve

They had found the necklace, but not the ear-rings. Alhaja cleared up that bit, to Wura's surprise. Mr. Rahman had tucked the ear-rings carefully and neatly, hooking them to the end of the necklace. Since they were drop ear-rings with clasps, it was easy to do.

As Alhaja locked the shop, with only Wura and Kola left, she pulled Wura aside and told her:

"I had a feeling it was him. Taofeek, I mean. But... I wanted to be sure. And you're family. I didn't want my gist all over the place. I can't do anything about that now."

"Aunty, I'm sorry everything turned out like this. What are you going to do now?" Wura asked.

"Well, after leaving this place, I'm going straight to the police station. I'll drop all the charges... bail him out. I won't let my husband sleep in a police cell."

Wura was dumbfounded. She felt like someone had poured cold water on her and that the same person had pulled out a whip and flogged her mercilessly. She could not believe her ears.

"Look, Wura, I know you won't understand, but _t'emi yemi_. I know why I am doing this. I'll be 50 later this year. What will I be celebrating without my husband by my side? I can't do it. I will find some other way to get back at him, but no more police, please."

"But, Aunty--" Wura protested.

"No, you listen. If you can answer yes to these three questions, then you can't say anything else, okay?" said Alhaja, sternly.

Wura nodded. Did she have a choice?

"Number 1, did we recover the missing jewelry?" asked Alhaja, holding up her right forefinger.

"Yes, Aunty, but what about the others?" asked Wura.

"You said Yes, abi? Now for Number 2. Was the customer happy?"

Wura remembered how Mrs. Thomas' face lit up when she picked up her jewels. The woman was clearly satisfied.

"Yes, Aunty. She was," Wura replied with a loud sigh.

"Good. Finally, did you discover the thief?"

"Actually, Aunty, it was Kola who--" Wura began.

"He's your friend, and he was acting on your behalf. So, the answer is Yes, Wura. You did. That's all. Don't worry about the rest. Stop by my house tomorrow to pick up your prize as agreed."

And with that, Alhaja locked the shop, and sauntered off.

A wave of depression swept over Wura. This thing she had worked for seemed so bitter-sweet. More bitter than sweet, actually. Kola spoke up.

"Just let it go. You heard her. You can't fix everything. She has made her choice. Free her."

Wura smiled. She was glad Kola had taken this journey with her.

"How did you know it was Mr. Rahman? Even I didn't know until I saw it with my two koro-koro eyes," said Wura.

"It just made sense, you know, when Aunty Mary said that someone had to be there with those girls when the jewelry went missing. If we rule out Fausat and the others, then the only other person who escaped scrutiny was Mr. Rahman. I know, horrible thought, but I allowed myself to play with the idea, and it made sense. He just called those girls in there to use them as a decoy. He did the same thing with the girls that were fired before. He had already taken the jewelry before they came in. His wife must have left the keys with him. He's her husband, after all," said Kola.

"... And the police Alhaja asked to investigate never found the thief because they never suspected that a man would wear women's jewelry. Pathetic, really," said Wura.

Just then, she remembered something.

"Kola, Miss UNILAG would have been tonight. It was the jewelry Alhaja promised me that I planned to rock to the pageant. But now, see... No more pageant, and my so-called prize just seems so trivial with everything that just happened. I even had several outfits planned and all," Wura said.

Kola pulled her close and told her:

"You have to look on the bright side: you... no, _we_ solved the mystery. That's good news. You can pick any of those outfits you would've worn tonight, and I'll take you out. It'll be our first dress-up date," Kola said, smiling.

The sun was setting and the orange hue cast a peculiar glow on Kola. For a moment, he looked unreal, like someone that had stepped out of heaven. In that moment, he looked particularly handsome.

"Really?" Wura said, her mood changing. "Where are we going? Oya tell me now."

"Nope, it's a surprise. Just dress up. I'll come and get you at 7."

"Kola, it's almost 7 already."

"For real?" said Kola, glancing quickly at his watch. Wura was right.

"Okay. You know what? We'll go tomorrow. Today, I'll take you to Mr. Biggs. The one down the road."

"You mean the same place where I waited for you while you were with Chinyere?"

"Come on. I thought we'd crossed that bridge."

"I was just pulling your legs _jo_. Oya, let's go."

Wura felt a surge of excitement mixed with gratitude. She knew the exact outfit she would wear for their date the next day: that orange and green mono strap dress.

She let her fingers slip into Kola's own and he whispered:

"Pageant or no pageant, you'll always be my queen."

Then, he leaned in and kissed her deeply. For once, she ignored the cheesy line, and allowed herself to enjoy the moment. It was beautiful.

###

About the Author

Sharon Abimbola Salu was born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria where she lived until she relocated to the United States of America. Her stories are mostly set in Nigeria, and she writes the kind of stories she would like to read. She has written several short stories, flash fiction stories and novellas, including an on-going detective series called The Aso-Ebi Chronicles.

A professed lover of spicy foods, she loves experimenting with new recipes, to the dismay of non-spicy food lovers. Apart from writing, photography is her other hobby.

Connect with Sharon

Blog: http://sharonsalu.wordpress.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/SharonAbimbolaSalu

Twitter: http://twitter.com/sharon_salu

Google +: gplusid.com/sharonsalu

Smashwords Author Page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SharonSalu

E-Mail: bakwai7@gmail.com
