By: Biodun Durojaiye

Victoria Island looked different when you were entering a police station rather than a boardroom. The building on Adeola Odeku wore its age badly — faded cream paint, cracked pillars, a signboard that leaned like it was tired of standing. The parking lot smelled of dust, petrol fumes, and the faint aftertaste of stress. It wasn’t a place anyone walked into willingly at 9 a.m. on a Thursday.

Michael Adebayo stepped out of his car, buttoned his navy blazer, and took a slow breath. He reminded himself he had nothing to hide. He wasn’t a suspect, just a former acquaintance of a missing tech entrepreneur—at least, that was what the call had implied.

Still, he had the uneasy sense of someone walking into an exam he hadn’t studied for.

A young officer at the reception desk lifted his head.
“Oga, good morning. You be Mr. Adebayo?”

“Yes. I was asked to come in for questioning. Inspector Yinka Falana.”

The officer nodded quickly—as if Michael’s presence had been expected. He pointed toward a corridor.
“Third door by your right.”

Michael thanked him, walked down the corridor, and felt the eyes in the station follow him. Officers stopping conversations. A clerk whispering to another. A man in handcuffs staring at him with curiosity, as though wondering what crime a well-dressed banker in polished shoes could have committed.

He reached the third door and knocked.

“Come in,” a deep baritone answered.

Michael opened the door.

Inspector Yinka Falana sat behind a desk littered with folders. He was in his early fifties, with a broad chest and the kind of calm that came from years of interrogations. His mustache was sharp, his eyes sharper. He gestured toward a chair.

“Mr. Michael Adebayo,” he said, saying the name like he was reading it off a file even though the file lay closed on the table. “Please sit.”

Michael sat.

Falana didn’t speak immediately. He took a moment to uncap a pen, then leaned back slightly, studying him.

“You know why you’re here?”

“Not exactly,” Michael replied. “Your call only mentioned it was about Tunde Balogun.”

Falana nodded, tapping the pen on his notebook. “Tunde is missing. Public knows. Media knows. His investors know. His family knows. Lagos knows.”

“I saw the news.”

“Yes, and we saw something else.”

Falana flipped open the file. Inside were printed screenshots of CCTV stills. Black-and-white. Grainy. A foyer. A hotel bar. A restaurant lobby.

Michael’s eyebrows drew together. “What am I looking at?”

“You and Mr. Balogun,” the inspector said. “Several meetings. Within the last six months.”

Ah. There it was. The “routine questioning” suddenly had teeth.

Michael leaned forward. “Those were work-related. My bank was reviewing a facility request he submitted. I handled part of the review.”

“Part?” Falana raised one eyebrow. “Not all?”

“No. Tunde was also talking to another team. I didn’t have a personal relationship with him.”

The inspector’s face remained unreadable. “Others say differently.”

“Others?”

“Business associates. A journalist. A neighbor of his. Even his fiancée mentioned your name briefly in her initial interview.”

Michael frowned. “Adesuwa mentioned me?”

“Not directly,” Falana said. “Her statement said Tunde had been ‘worried someone in the banking sector was after him.’ You’re the only banker we can place close to him in recent months.”

Michael blinked. That was new information — and uncomfortable.
“I had no reason to go after him. Why would I?”

“That is why you are here, Mr. Adebayo.”

A moment passed.

Falana pulled out a form and slid it across the desk. “Please recount every interaction you had with the missing man. Dates, locations, conversations. Everything.”

Michael sighed inwardly. This could take hours.

Still, he picked up the pen.

THE STATEMENT

He wrote. Slowly at first, then faster.

The meetings at The Wheatbaker.
The presentations at his bank.
The day Tunde came with a pitch deck and jittery enthusiasm.
The discussion they had at a luncheon at Radisson Blu.

He kept it factual.

But as he wrote, he could feel Falana watching him with a predator’s patience.

After thirty minutes, Michael dropped the pen, flexing his fingers.

Falana skimmed the paper silently. Then he looked up.

“One more question,” he said. “What is your connection to Adesuwa Cole?”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. “None. I only met her for the first time two nights ago at a fundraiser.”

Falana watched him like he was reading the spaces between the words.

“Hmm,” the inspector said finally, tapping the table with two fingers. “Interesting.”

Michael leaned back. “Inspector… with all due respect, what exactly am I being accused of?”

“Accused?” Falana chuckled, leaning forward. “Mr. Adebayo, I am doing my job. Tunde vanished. His car was abandoned. The man was under pressure. Debts. Fears. Possible threats. Everyone close to him is being questioned.”

“I wasn’t close to him.”

“You were close enough.”

There it was again — that vague accusation.

Falana closed the file slowly, deliberately, like someone shutting a coffin.

“Let me give you some advice,” he said quietly. “This case… is not for you. Missing man, disgruntled investors, emotional fiancée, whispers around town. It’s messy. If you value your work at that nice bank of yours, stay far from this matter.”

Michael studied him.
“Why does it feel like you’re trying to chase me off the case, Inspector?”

Falana’s eyes hardened. “Because Lagos has eaten better men than you.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and unmoving.

Then the inspector smiled — a small, cold smile.
“You can leave now.”

CORRIDOR ENCOUNTERS

Michael stood, thanked him stiffly, and walked out of the office.

The corridor felt narrower than before.

Two officers pretended to sort files but watched him with interest. Another officer gave him a look that was half pity, half warning. He passed a door left ajar and heard murmurs — someone mentioning “Balogun case” and “the banker.”

By the time he got outside, Michael felt like he had been dragged through mud.

At his car, he paused, leaning his forearm on the roof.

Falana’s tone wasn’t random. It wasn’t casual. It had the sharp, coiled tension of a man trying to protect something — or someone. The whole questioning had been wrong. Too pointed. Too eager to redirect him, then too eager to push him away entirely.

Michael exhaled slowly.

He had come expecting clarification.

Instead, he had walked into a warning.

THE PHONE CALL

As he drove toward VI, the inspector’s voice echoed unnervingly in his mind.

Stay far from this matter… Lagos has eaten better men than you.

He turned onto Ahmadu Bello Way, trying to shake it off.

His phone rang — his sister, Lara.

Michael answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

“We’re still on for dinner tonight, right?” Lara asked. Her tone was light, unaware of the cloud over his day.

“Yeah. Eko Hotel, 7 p.m.”

“Good. And please don’t cancel again. I need to tell you something.”

“About what?”

“About the woman on TV crying over her missing fiancé.”

He frowned. “Adesuwa?”

“You’ll hear it when I see you. Just don’t be late.”

She hung up.

Michael returned his attention to the road.
The Lagos sun glinted off the glass buildings in VI, and somewhere deep in his gut, a slow churn began. A feeling he didn’t like.

Inspector Falana wasn’t doing routine questioning.

He was steering Michael off something —

— something someone didn’t want him anywhere near.

A QUIET LUNCH

He didn’t feel like going back to the office immediately, so he stopped at a small café on Bishop Aboyade Cole Street. It was nearly empty. A couple talked quietly in a corner. A man in a suit typed furiously on a laptop. The place felt neutral, safe.

Michael ordered a sandwich and sat by the window. He pulled out his notebook — the same one he used whenever a problem refused to leave him alone.

He wrote a single question at the top of the page:

Why did Inspector Falana want me gone?

He added sub-questions:

– What is the police hiding?
– Who is Falana loyal to?
– Who benefits from Tunde “disappearing”?
– Why bring up Adesuwa?
– Why mention the banker? Who said that?

He underlined the last one.

The meeting lasted under an hour, but it had rattled his instincts more than he liked to admit.

The server dropped his drink on the table. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

As she walked away, Michael’s phone buzzed.

Another unknown number.

He stared at it for a moment.

Then answered.

A male voice spoke. Calm, polite, with the faintest hint of threat beneath the courtesy.

“Mr. Adebayo… We understand you visited Inspector Falana this morning.”

Michael froze.

“Who is this?”

“That is not important,” the voice said. “What is important is that you follow the inspector’s advice. For your good.”

Michael’s jaw clenched. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because,” the voice replied, still calm, still razor-sharp, “the last man who ignored warnings ended up missing.”

The line went dead.

Michael lowered the phone slowly.

The sandwich sat untouched. The iced tea turned watery.

He felt a faint chill spread across his shoulders.

Whatever this was…
It wasn’t about a missing man anymore.

It was about a message.

One that was coming from more than one direction.

THE OFFICE VISIT

He returned to the bank in the afternoon, hoping work would distract him. It didn’t. He replayed Falana’s expression. The unknown caller. The shadows he felt behind the questions. Something was off — deeply off.

At 3:40 p.m., his colleague and friend, Chike, walked into his office without knocking.

“Guy, what happened?” Chike asked. “Someone saw you entering VI station.”

Michael sighed. “Got called in for questioning.”

“Why? You don’t have police wahala.”

“It was about Tunde Balogun.”

Chike’s eyes widened. “Ehn? The guy that vanished?”

“Yes.”

Chike sat. “Omo… you’re stepping into dangerous waters.”

“Funny. You sound like Inspector Falana.”

Chike grimaced. “Look, Michael. You’re a banker. A good one. You’re not James Bond. If police are already asking questions and strangers are calling your phone—”

Michael looked up sharply.
“How did you know someone called me?”

Chike froze. “Wait—someone actually did?”

Michael stared at him.

Chike shrugged helplessly. “I was just guessing, bro.”

Michael exhaled. The paranoia was creeping in.

Chike placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, if I were you… I’d stay out of it.”

Read: The Lekki Widow: CHAPTER 3 — Rumors of the Lekki Widow

Michael didn’t answer.

Because deep down, the opposite was happening.

Something in him had already crossed the line.

EVENING DRIVE

He left the office late and drove to Eko Hotel to meet Lara. VI evenings were deceptive — the breezy waterfront façade hid all sorts of shadows beneath it. He parked, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.

Falana’s warning
The unknown caller
The interest in Adesuwa
The CCTV photos
The tension in the station
The eyes watching him
The quiet threat in every sentence spoken to him today

Everything pointed to one fact:

Tunde Balogun didn’t just vanish. Someone made him vanish.

Michael stepped out of the car and straightened his jacket.

Tonight, he would listen to Lara’s rumor about Adesuwa.

Tomorrow, he would follow the money trail.

He didn’t know it yet, but the act of walking into Falana’s office had already placed him on someone’s list.

A list men rarely returned from.

And somewhere, in an office he had just left, Inspector Yinka Falana was on the phone, saying only two words:

“He didn’t back off.”