By Biodun Durojaiye
Ikoyi slept early.
That kind of silence only existed in places that could afford it.
At a hidden corner of Gerrard Road sat a restaurant that didn’t advertise. No signboard. No menu outside. Only a black wooden door, a lantern hanging above it, and a young host who didn’t smile at strangers.
Inside, everything was dim, soft, controlled.
It was the kind of place powerful people used when they didn’t want to be seen.
A woman in black silk stepped in ten minutes after 9 p.m.
Nobody asked for her name.
They already knew.
She moved like someone who didn’t need permission.
Tall. Graceful. Dangerous.
Her perfume didn’t flood the room. It floated. Quiet and deliberate.
Madam Veronique slid into a private booth at the far end without being guided.
A few seconds later, Inspector Yinka Falana arrived.
He didn’t look like a man meeting a queen.
He looked like a man meeting his employer.
“Good evening, ma,” he said, wiping sweat from his temples.
She didn’t respond immediately.
She studied him the way one studies a flaw in a diamond.
“You are late,” she said softly.
“I couldn’t leave the office immediately, traffic—”
She lifted one finger.
Silence.
Traffic was not an acceptable reason in this world.
He swallowed.
She crossed her legs slowly, silk whispering against silk.
“What is happening with the banker?” she asked.
Falana shifted. “Michael… Adebayo.”
She nodded slightly. “Yes. Him.”
“He came in for questioning,” Falana said. “Pretended to be confused. Asked questions he shouldn’t be asking.”
“And?”
“I tried to discourage him.”
Her eyes lifted.
“And did you succeed?”
Falana forced a small smile. “I think so.”
She leaned back.
She did not smile.
“You think,” she repeated.
The table between them felt like ice.
Falana’s smile faded.
“He’s digging, ma,” he admitted. “More than I expected.”
She reached for her glass of red wine, swirling it lightly.
“Digging men are dangerous men,” she said. “Because they believe truth protects them.”
Falana nodded quickly.
“What do you want done?” he asked.
She looked at him sharply.
“I want him contained.”
The word was soft.
But it was lethal.
Falana felt a chill.
“Contained… as in?”
She leaned forward slightly.
“You will slow him down,” she said. “You will frighten him. You will make him doubt himself.”
A pause.
“If he insists… you will make him disappear politely.”
Falana’s Adam’s apple moved.
“Yes, ma.”
She sat back.
There was a knock on the booth door — a soft warning. A waiter.
“Your usual, ma.”
She nodded once. “Leave it.”
The door closed.
Falana cleared his throat. “What about the woman?”
“Adesuwa?” she asked casually.
“Yes.”
“She remains useful,” Veronique said. “But she is becoming… emotional.”
Falana hesitated. “Should we… tighten control?”
Veronique’s eyes hardened.
“No.”
She lifted her glass.
“She will learn.”
A beat.
“And if she doesn’t?”
Veronique set the glass down slowly.
“Then she will be reminded.”
Outside, the traffic of Lagos moved blindly.
Inside, power was being handed out in whispers.
Falana stood. “Is that all, ma?”
“For now.”
He bowed slightly — a ridiculous gesture for a police officer, but he couldn’t stop himself.
As he turned to leave, she spoke again.
“Inspector.”
He froze.
“Yes, ma?”
“Do not underestimate men who ask quiet questions.”
“Yes, ma.”
When he left, she remained alone.
She looked into the wine.
Saw reflections of fire and shadow.
She smiled faintly to herself.
Michael Adebayo had no idea.
And that, to her, was delicious.
