Ashes and Water

One false scream in Lagos sparks a man’s death, and a woman’s descent into guilt.

maka stood under the faded shade of a kiosk, scrolling through her phone while raindrops threatened to fall from the heavy Lagos sky. The yellow Danfos screeched past, their conductors hanging dangerously from the doors, shouting for passengers. But she wasn’t about to wrestle with sweaty men and torn seats today. She wanted a clean ride, something she could sit in with dignity.
She ordered a ride. The driver’s name popped up on the app: Musa, Toyota Corolla, silver. Estimated arrival: 4 minutes. She sighed with relief, clutching her handbag a little tighter. The day had already been stressful, and she wasn’t in the mood for nonsense.
The Corolla pulled up, dented on one side but running. Musa leaned his head out of the window, a middle-aged man with a stern face and graying beard. He motioned with his hand.
“Madam, come sit in front.”
Amaka frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Front seat. I don’t carry women at the back. Against my belief.” His voice was firm, as though this was a rule carved in stone.
She blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly. “I ordered this ride. As long as I am paying, I choose where I will sit. And back is where I belong.”
He tightened his lips. “No, madam. It is my car. I have my rules. Please, cancel the ride if you don’t like it.”
Amaka’s jaw stiffened. She looked him in the eye, then smiled the kind of smile that Lagos women used when they refused to be bullied. “No, you should cancel. I won’t.”
The two of them stared at each other like chess opponents. He leaned back in his seat, adjusted his cap, and muttered, “Then we wait.”
“No problem,” Amaka said, tapping her phone.
She calmly pulled out her second phone, the one she kept for backup, and ordered another ride from a different app. Musa watched with curiosity but said nothing.
Seven minutes later, a black Toyota Camry slowed to a stop in front of them. Amaka adjusted her blouse, swung her handbag over her shoulder, and cat-walked past Musa’s Corolla, her heels clicking on the uneven pavement. She opened the back door of the Camry, slid in like a queen entering her chariot, and shut the door slowly, deliberately, just to pepper him.
Musa’s face twisted, but he stayed silent. A few seconds later, she glanced back and saw his brake lights flash as his car pulled away. She smirked, until her phone buzzed. Ride cancelled by driver.
Amaka laughed under her breath. “Clown.”
The new driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. He was younger than Musa, maybe in his late thirties, with tired eyes and a cheap gold ring on his finger. His name tag on the app said Tunde.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said with forced cheerfulness.
“Good afternoon. Please, turn on your AC.”
Tunde hesitated. “Madam, it’s the rainy season. Everywhere is cool already. No need for AC.”
Amaka folded her arms. “I don’t care. I want AC.”
He shot her a quick look in the mirror. “Do you even have AC in your house?”
That was the wrong thing to say. Amaka’s eyes darted to his hand, to the worn wedding ring that looked like it had been bought at Oshodi market. She smiled thinly. “Some of us don’t wait for the dry season to enjoy basic things. Not everyone is married to poverty like your wife.”
The insult sliced through the air.
Tunde’s grip on the steering tightened. His nostrils flared. For a few seconds, he didn’t speak. Then, without warning, he slammed the brake. The car jerked, and Amaka was thrown forward against the seatbelt.
“What is wrong with you?!” she shouted.
He pulled the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and faced her fully. His eyes burned. “Madam, get down from my car.”
Amaka laughed, sharp, mocking. “So if they ask people with cars to come out, you too will come out?” She chuckled again, this time louder, leaning back like a queen dismissing her servant.
Tunde’s hand shook on the steering wheel. He muttered, “Madam, I go slap you. I fit beat you for here, now-now, and nothing will happen.”
The tone was different now. Not playful, not banter. Dangerous.
He stepped out of the car. Amaka’s heartbeat spiked. He began advancing toward her, his chest heaving, his fists tightening.
“Jesus Christ…” she whispered.
In broad daylight, on a busy street, people had already noticed the argument. Amaka’s instincts screamed. She pushed the door open, scrambled out, and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Help o! Help o! This man wants to slap me! He wants to kidnap me! Ritualist ooo!”
The street reacted instantly.
Heads turned. Feet ran. Young men selling phone chargers abandoned their wares. Hawkers dropped trays of bananas. Within seconds, a crowd circled Tunde, who stood frozen, shock painted across his face.
“I no be kidnapper! I no be ritualist! I be driver o!” he shouted, hands raised.
But Lagos was already in motion.
A slap landed on his head. Then another from behind. Someone kicked him in the side. Another shouted, “Na so dem dey start! First dem go carry woman, later dem go disappear!”
Tunde tried to defend himself, pleading. His shirt tore as they dragged him down. The Camry door slammed shut as the mob swelled.
Amaka stood at the edge, her body trembling. She had only wanted to scare him, to put him in his place. But now… now the mob was in kill mode.
“Please! No be like that! I be driver!” Tunde screamed as fists and feet rained on him.
Someone produced a tyre. Another ran off for petrol.
Amaka’s mouth went dry. She wanted to shout the truth, to tell them he wasn’t a kidnapper, that she had lied. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came. Her voice refused to come out. What if they turned on her? What if they said she was covering for him? What if they beat her too?
Her body shook. Fear chained her tongue.
The mob poured petrol. The first match sparked.
Amaka turned and ran. She didn’t look back. She ran through the chaos of Lagos streets, past hawkers and beggars, past the okada men and the buka stalls, until her legs burned and her chest ached. She didn’t stop until she slammed her front door shut behind her and collapsed onto the floor.
Two days later, the video went viral.
Her phone buzzed with notifications. Blog headlines screamed: “Kidnapper Finally Nabbed in Lagos!” “Ritualist Burnt to Death by Angry Mob!” The videos were grainy, filmed on dozens of phones, showing the fire, the screaming, the burning car.
Amaka’s hand trembled as she pinched to zoom. The man’s face, swollen, battered, blackened… it was him. Tunde.
She screamed.
For weeks afterward, she saw him every night. In her sleep, he came burning, bleeding, screaming her name. Sometimes she woke to the smell of petrol. Sometimes she heard the crowd chanting.
She tried to shake it off. She told herself it wasn’t her fault. But deep inside, she knew.
And each night, the voice grew louder.
For days, Amaka couldn’t eat properly. Every mouthful of rice felt like ash, every sip of water reminded her of the fire that had consumed Tunde. When she closed her eyes, she heard him screaming her name.
“Amaka! Amaka, why?!”
Sometimes she woke up shouting, her bedsheet soaked with sweat. Other times, she thought she saw him standing at the foot of her bed; burnt, blackened, eyes hollow. She would scream until her neighbor, Mama Ife, knocked on the door.
“Amaka, are you alright? I heard you shouting again.”
“I’m fine, Mama Ife,” she would lie, her voice trembling.
But she wasn’t fine.
By the second week, she had stopped going to work at the insurance office. Her boss, Mr. Adeyemi, called her.
“Amaka, what is going on with you? You’ve missed five days in a row. If you need time off, say so, but don’t just disappear.”
She muttered something about malaria. He sighed and gave her three more days.
Her best friend, Chiamaka, was the only one who noticed the depth of her turmoil. Chiamaka was a nurse, practical and sharp-tongued, the kind of woman who wore her braids like armor and spoke her mind without apology.
“Babe, talk to me,” she said one evening, sitting across from Amaka in her living room. The curtains were drawn even though it was daytime. “You’ve lost weight. Your eyes are sunken. What’s going on?”
Amaka hesitated. Should she tell her? The secret burned her tongue every day, demanding release. But the fear of what would happen if she spoke…
Chiamaka reached over and touched her hand. “Amaka, you know me. I won’t judge you. Just talk.”
The tears came before the words.
“Chi… I killed a man.”
Chiamaka’s hand froze. “What are you talking about?”
Amaka sniffled, wiping her nose. “That driver, that day… I said he wanted to kidnap me. People believed me. They beat him. They burnt him. Chi… it was all a lie.”
For a long moment, Chiamaka just stared at her. The clock on the wall ticked, loud and unmerciful.
Finally, Chiamaka whispered, “Jesus Christ.” She stood up, pacing. “Amaka… do you understand what you’re saying? Do you know the gravity of this?”
“I know!” Amaka cried. “Every night, I see his face. Every night, he calls my name. I didn’t mean for it to happen, Chi. I just… I just wanted him to leave me alone. I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?!” Chiamaka snapped. “People don’t survive mob justice in Lagos. You, of all people, should know that. A single word can kill a man here!”
Amaka sobbed harder.
Chiamaka collapsed onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. “God, Amaka… what do you expect me to say? That it’s okay? That it was a mistake? This one… this one is blood. Blood on your hands.”
They sat in silence for a while, the air thick with unspoken things. Finally, Amaka whispered, “Should I confess? Should I go to the police? To his family?”
Chiamaka snapped her head up, eyes wide. “Are you mad? Do you want to sign your own death warrant? You think Nigerian police will protect you? They’ll drag you through the mud, use you as a scapegoat. They’ll say you’re a witch, a ritualist, anything. And that man’s family? Do you think they’ll forgive? They’ll tear you apart.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Pray,” Chiamaka said flatly. “Fast. Cry to God. That’s the only thing left.”
But prayer did not silence the nightmares.
By the third month, Amaka had developed insomnia. She walked the streets of her neighborhood at night, aimlessly, like a ghost. People began whispering.
“She’s running mad,” one neighbor said.
“She did jazz, and it backfired,” another added.
Amaka didn’t care. Her guilt was too loud.
One evening, she wandered into a bar. She didn’t drink often, but that night, she ordered beer after beer until her head spun. A man in his forties, with kind eyes and a soft voice, sat beside her. His name was Emeka, a mechanic.
“You look troubled,” he said gently.
Amaka laughed bitterly. “You have no idea.”
They talked for hours. For the first time in months, she felt a strange kind of release. But when she got home and fell asleep, the dream returned, only this time, Tunde was not screaming. He was laughing. Laughing as he burned.
Amaka woke up shaking. She knew then: the ghost would never leave her alone.
Amaka could not shake the sound of that laughter. It followed her into the shower, into her office when she finally returned, into the market when she tried to buy tomatoes. Even the clatter of traders shouting prices seemed to echo Tunde’s mocking tone.
At work, she found herself staring blankly at her computer screen until her boss barked, “Amaka! Amaka! Where’s that report?” She would jolt back to reality, mutter apologies, and try to focus, but the numbers danced, rearranging themselves into the shape of a burning man.
One Friday evening, Chiamaka visited again. She carried food in a cooler, fried plantain, and jollof rice. “You’re looking like a broomstick,” she said, setting the food on the table. “Eat.”
Amaka shook her head.
“You haven’t been eating, you haven’t been sleeping, you barely go to work. Amaka, this thing will kill you before guilt does.”
Amaka’s lips trembled. “Chi… maybe that’s what I deserve.”
Chiamaka dropped her spoon, frustrated. “Stop saying that! Stop talking like you want to die. You’re not the first to make a mistake. Lagos is a jungle. People say things, people lie, people cheat. This one just… this one just went too far.”
Amaka whispered, “Too far? He’s dead, Chi. Dead because of me. And his family—”
Her words froze. She hadn’t thought much about his family until that moment. The realization struck her like lightning: somewhere, a woman had lost her husband, and children had lost their father.
“Chi,” she said shakily, “he had a family. What if they’re looking for answers? What if they find me?”
Chiamaka stiffened. “They won’t find you. Nobody knows what happened that day. Just keep quiet.”
But Amaka could not keep quiet. The next Sunday, she followed her feet to the area where the mob had gathered. Burnt rubber still stained the ground. The ash of his car was long cleared, but people remembered. She asked quietly, pretending to be curious.
One woman spat. “That man was a demon. Good riddance. God saved us.”
Another added, “His wife came crying, saying he was innocent. But do we believe her? Abeg! Lagos is not safe. At least one criminal has been removed.”
Amaka’s heart clenched. His wife had been there.
That night, she searched online until she found a blurry photo on a blog; Tunde’s widow, weeping, surrounded by relatives. Her name was Ngozi. She looked young, too young to be a widow. Two little boys clung to her wrapper, their eyes swollen from crying.
Amaka printed the picture and hid it in her drawer. She stared at it every night, and the guilt grew claws and tore at her sanity.
One evening, after another sleepless night, she decided to find Ngozi.

It was raining when she arrived in the neighborhood. She asked a shopkeeper for directions, using the excuse that she wanted to give charity to widows. The woman pointed her to a small compound.
Ngozi was outside, sweeping water away from her doorstep. She looked up, wary, when Amaka approached.
“Good evening,” Amaka said softly.
“Good evening,” Ngozi replied, cautiously.
Up close, Amaka saw the grief etched deep into her face. Her wrapper was old, her slippers thin.
“I… I’m from a women’s fellowship,” Amaka lied quickly. “We… we heard about your loss. I just wanted to… to say sorry.”
Ngozi’s eyes filled with tears. “People talk, but nobody really cares. Nobody comes. They just call him a criminal, a kidnapper, a thief. But he wasn’t! My husband was not that kind of man!”
Amaka’s throat burned. She wanted to scream, I know! I lied! He wasn’t! But her tongue locked. Instead, she reached for her purse and handed Ngozi some money.
Ngozi shook her head. “I don’t need your money. I need people to believe he was good. I need someone to say it wasn’t true.”
Amaka’s knees weakened. She sat on the wet bench by the doorway, trembling.
“I believe you,” she whispered.
Ngozi looked at her sharply. “You do?”
Amaka nodded, tears streaming. “Yes. I believe he was a good man.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, two women bound by grief; one guilty, one bereaved. Then Ngozi reached out and held her hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Amaka nearly collapsed from the weight of that gratitude. She stumbled away afterward, clutching her chest, suffocating with guilt.

Weeks passed. Amaka tried to live, but nightmares haunted her. She stopped riding with e-hailing drivers, preferring to walk or board danfo buses. She couldn’t bear to sit in the back seat of a car anymore; it reminded her of Musa, the first driver, and how everything had spiraled from there.
Her health declined. She grew thinner, her cheeks hollow. Her coworkers whispered that she was HIV positive. Some avoided her. Even Mr. Adeyemi asked, “Amaka, do you need medical leave? You’re scaring people.”
One night, she broke down in front of Emeka, the mechanic she had met at the bar weeks earlier. They had been meeting casually, talking, sometimes sharing drinks. He was gentle, patient, the only one who didn’t push her to explain her sadness.
But that night, she blurted everything.
“I killed him,” she confessed, shaking. “I killed an innocent man. I lied. They burnt him alive. It was all me.”
Emeka sat still for a long time, staring into his glass. Finally, he said, “Amaka… you can’t carry this alone. You need help.”
“What help? The police? They’ll kill me. The family? They’ll curse me. God? He doesn’t listen to murderers.”
Emeka placed a hand on hers. “God listens to everyone. But you must decide whether you want forgiveness or punishment.”
His words dug deep.
That night, Amaka prayed harder than she ever had before. But in her dreams, Tunde did not forgive. He stood burning, pointing at her, chanting her name like a curse.
Amaka woke up drenched in sweat, her breath coming in short bursts. The fan above her clicked lazily as if mocking her fear. The dream was still sharp, still burning her eyes. She pressed her palms against her face, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ngozi’s face twisted in grief, the children’s voices echoing like ghosts, and Tunde always engulfed in fire.
The days dragged slowly after that confession. Amaka couldn’t eat without the taste of ash filling her mouth. She couldn’t sit in public buses without flinching when conductors shouted too loudly. She moved through the city like a woman carrying a secret grenade—always seconds away from exploding. Lagos was loud, chaotic, alive, but inside her, it was only silence and dread.
Chiamaka noticed first. “Amaka, you’re fading. What is it? Talk to me.”
Amaka shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You don’t sleep. You hardly eat. You stare into nothing like somebody chasing shadows. Tell me the truth.”
But Amaka couldn’t. She couldn’t risk it. The fewer people who knew, the better. So she pushed Chiamaka away with silence, even though it tore her heart.
Emeka, on the other hand, refused to give up. One evening, he came with suya wrapped in oily paper and cold drinks. He placed them on the table and said, “Eat. You need strength.”
“I don’t have appetite,” she muttered.
“Then pretend. Pretend until your body remembers.” He unwrapped the suya himself, tore a piece, and held it out. When she refused, he pushed it closer. “Amaka, please. Don’t let this thing consume you completely.”
She stared at him, at his dark eyes heavy with concern, at the patience in his voice. Slowly, she took the meat and chewed. The pepper stung her tongue, brought tears to her eyes, but for the first time in weeks, she swallowed.
It was a small victory, but it felt like survival.
Still, the nightmares refused to release her. Each night they returned, growing darker. In one dream, Tunde dragged her into the fire with him, his skin peeling, his eyes empty. In another, Ngozi’s children stood over her bed with knives, whispering, “You killed him, you killed him.” She woke screaming, clutching her bedsheet until her knuckles hurt.
One afternoon, after a particularly restless night, Amaka wandered aimlessly through Balogun market. The traders shouted, hawkers shoved wares into her hands, and the smell of fried akara and exhaust fumes mingled in the air. But she felt detached, like she was watching from outside her own body. She stopped by a small shop selling prayer beads and crucifixes. The woman at the counter smiled warmly.
“Sister, you look troubled. Buy one rosary. It will bring you peace.”
Peace. The word felt foreign. Amaka bought it, not because she believed it would help, but because she was desperate to hold something, anything that might anchor her. She carried the beads everywhere, rubbing them between her fingers whenever the guilt threatened to swallow her.
Weeks turned into months. The city moved on. The mob had burned Tunde and forgotten him. Ngozi returned to her life of struggle, raising her children alone. But Amaka remained stuck in the ashes.
One rainy night, Chiamaka stormed into her room, furious. “Enough! Whatever you’re hiding, it’s killing you. If you won’t tell me, fine. But don’t sit here and rot. Go to church, go to therapy, go anywhere, but stop drowning.”
Amaka’s voice was barely a whisper. “If I tell you, you’ll hate me.”
“Try me.”
The words tumbled out before Amaka could stop herself. She told Chiamaka everything: Musa refusing her in the back seat, Tunde’s insult, her scream for help, the mob, the fire, the lie that started it all. By the time she finished, her whole body shook.
Chiamaka stared, stunned into silence. Finally, she said, “Jesus Christ, Amaka. You mean… you caused it?”
Amaka’s tears fell freely. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.”
Chiamaka paced the room, her hands on her head. “Do you know what you’ve done? A man is dead, his family is suffering, and you—you’re walking free.”
“I’m not free,” Amaka whispered. “Every day, I burn with him.”
Chiamaka stopped pacing. Her anger softened into pity. She pulled Amaka into a hug. “You’re carrying hell inside you. I don’t know what the solution is, but you can’t keep it locked up. Maybe confession to his family was a start. Maybe… maybe you need to confess to God.”
Amaka clutched the rosary tighter. “What if God doesn’t forgive me?”
“Then at least you tried.”
That night, they prayed together. Chiamaka’s voice was steady, commanding, but Amaka’s words broke apart, trembling between sobs. Still, for the first time, she felt something shift. Not forgiveness, not peace, but the tiniest crack in the wall of her guilt.
The next morning, she woke with a decision: she would try to live again. She would work, eat, breathe. She couldn’t bring Tunde back, but maybe she could atone in small ways—helping his children, helping others, living with humility instead of pride.
She started volunteering at a small community school, tutoring children in English and maths. The kids’ laughter brought warmth back to her chest, even though some days she still woke crying. She avoided Ngozi’s street, avoided anything that might spark recognition, but she sent anonymous donations whenever she could.
Until the day she saw the video.
She had been scrolling through her phone late at night when a headline caught her eye: “Widow of Alleged Kidnapper Speaks Out.” Her blood ran cold. She clicked.
It was Ngozi, sitting in front of a news camera, her eyes red, her voice heavy with grief. “My husband was not a kidnapper. He was a good man. He drove to feed us. That day, they killed him because of a lie. Whoever lied, whoever destroyed us, God will judge you.”
Amaka dropped the phone. Her chest heaved. The walls closed in.
Her secret was still safe, but for how long?
Amaka sat frozen in her bed, the glow of the phone screen painting her face in ghostly light. Ngozi’s voice echoed in her head long after the video ended. “Whoever lied—whoever destroyed us—God will judge you.”
Her hands trembled as she picked up the phone again. She replayed the video, searching Ngozi’s eyes, her cracked lips, the despair etched into her expression. This wasn’t just grief, it was rage. A mother’s rage. A widow’s rage.
Amaka felt it pierce her like a blade. She wanted to throw the phone across the room, to smash it into silence, but she couldn’t look away. The comments under the video were worse.
“The wife is just lying. Kidnappers’ families always pretend they are innocent.”
“Abeg, that man deserved what he got. Lagos no safe again.”
“Wetin concern me? Next topic.”
A few voices rose in defense: “What if he really wasn’t guilty? Mob justice is wrong.” But they were drowned by the chorus of dismissal.
Amaka whispered into the darkness, “He wasn’t guilty. He wasn’t.” But no one heard her.
The next morning, her body felt like lead. She dragged herself through work, through meaningless conversations, through traffic that stretched into eternity. At night, she collapsed onto her bed, replaying the video again and again until it carved itself into her bones.
By the end of the week, she knew she couldn’t keep hiding.
She called Emeka.
“Please, come. I need to talk.”
When he arrived, he found her sitting on the floor, clutching the rosary beads, her eyes swollen from crying.
“What happened?” he asked, crouching beside her.
She handed him the phone. “Watch.”
He sat silently, the glow reflecting on his face as the video played. When it ended, he exhaled heavily. “Amaka…”
“I killed him, Emeka. She doesn’t know it was me, but I did. I lied, and they believed me, and now she’s suffering. Her children are suffering. And God, God will judge me.”
Emeka gripped her shoulders. “You didn’t kill him with your hands. The mob did. You didn’t plan for him to die.”
“That’s not an excuse!” Amaka shouted, her voice cracking. “If I had stayed quiet, if I had walked away, if I hadn’t screamed, he’d still be alive. I killed him as surely as if I struck the match myself.”
Emeka was silent for a long time. Then he said, “So what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I thought confessing to Ngozi was enough, but it’s not. Every day, it’s eating me. I see him in my dreams, I hear him in my head. I can’t escape. Maybe I should go to the police.”
“The police?” Emeka’s voice rose. “Amaka, are you mad? Do you know what that means? They won’t understand. They’ll arrest you, maybe even let the mob finish what they started. Lagos is not America, where confessions are noble. Here, you’re just meat for the system.”
“So what then?” she whispered. “Do I keep living like this? Pretending? Sending money in secret like that will fix anything? I can’t breathe, Emeka. I can’t.”
Emeka rubbed his forehead. “You need a plan. Not this… impulsive self-destruction. Think. Pray. Maybe there’s another way.”
But Amaka shook her head. “There’s no other way. I need to speak. If not to the police, then to someone bigger, someone who can expose the truth. Journalists, maybe.”
“Journalists?” He stared at her like she had grown another head. “Do you want to set your own life on fire? Do you think Nigerians care about the truth? They’ll chew you alive, Amaka. The same people who are calling Tunde a kidnapper will turn on you, call you a witch, call you evil. Your name will be finished.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe that’s what I deserve.”
Emeka’s jaw tightened. “I can’t let you do this. Not like this.”
They argued deep into the night, until exhaustion dragged them both into silence. But the seed had been planted.
The following days were a blur. Amaka went to work, but her mind wandered constantly. She avoided Chiamaka, afraid her friend would pressure her to make a decision she wasn’t ready for. At night, she searched online for investigative journalists, human rights lawyers, anyone who might listen without immediately condemning her. She scribbled names and numbers into a notebook, her hands shaking.
Then one Sunday, as she sat in the back of the church, the priest’s words pierced her like arrows.
“Confession is not just between you and God. Sometimes confession means repairing what was broken in this world. Sometimes it means risking shame for the sake of truth.”
Amaka’s chest tightened. She felt as if the priest was staring directly at her, exposing her secret to the congregation. She gripped the pew so hard her knuckles turned white.
After mass, she lingered, her heart racing. Finally, she approached the confessional booth. Inside, the priest greeted her gently.
“My daughter, what burdens you?”
Amaka hesitated, trembling. The words hovered on her lips, desperate to be released. But when she opened her mouth, they turned to ash.
“I… I sinned,” she whispered. “I lied, and because of that, someone was hurt.”
“Have you sought forgiveness from God?”
“Yes.”
“Then believe that He forgives you. But you must also make peace with yourself. Sometimes, restitution is the path to peace.”
Restitution. The word haunted her as she left the church.
Two days later, she made a decision. She contacted a journalist.
His name was Kunle Adeoye, a bold reporter known for exposing corruption and injustice, even at great personal risk. She emailed him anonymously, describing what had happened in vague terms. She didn’t give her name, but she admitted that the mob victim was innocent, that it was her scream that condemned him.
To her surprise, Kunle responded quickly.
“Meet me. If this is true, the world needs to hear it. But I need proof.”
Amaka’s heart thundered. Proof? What proof could she possibly give? Her word was all she had. Still, she agreed to meet.
They met at a quiet café in Surulere. Kunle was in his late thirties, tall, with sharp eyes that seemed to see through her.
“You’re the woman,” he said softly after listening to her story.
Amaka swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Kunle leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Do you understand the weight of what you’re telling me? If I publish this, it will explode. The public won’t see bravery; they’ll see a monster. They’ll demand your head. Are you ready for that?”
Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know. But I can’t keep silent anymore.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Then you must decide what matters more: your life or the truth.”
Kunle’s words clung to Amaka’s mind long after they left the café. “Your life or the truth.”
That night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, torn between two worlds. In one, she confessed publicly, her face plastered across every blog, her name trending on Twitter with hashtags dripping in venom. In the other, she buried the truth, lived quietly, but carried a coffin in her chest for the rest of her days.
Neither world promised peace.
Two days later, Kunle called.
“I did some digging,” he said. “Tunde’s case is still buzzing. His family is trying to sue the state for wrongful death, but without evidence, they’ll be dismissed. Your testimony could change that.”
Amaka’s throat went dry. “You mean in court?”
“Yes. With the right lawyer, your confession could expose the system, forcing them to admit the mob acted without due process. It won’t bring him back, but it could save others.”
“Or it could destroy me.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Kunle said, “Every truth has a price. The question is, are you willing to pay it?”

Amaka tried to focus on her job, but the office walls felt like a cage. Her boss, Mrs. Olawale, asked why she was distracted. Amaka mumbled excuses about stress and deadlines, but her mind was far away.
Chiamaka noticed too. “Babe, you’ve been moving like a ghost. What’s happening?”
Amaka hesitated. She wanted to unburden herself, to let Chiamaka share the weight. But fear sealed her lips. If she confessed to the wrong person, the whole city could find out before she was ready.
“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
But Chiamaka wasn’t fooled. “Fine, keep your secrets. But remember, whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Amaka almost broke right then. She almost told her. But instead, she nodded and walked away, her chest burning with the unsaid.

A week later, Kunle arranged a meeting with Barrister Femi Ajayi, a human rights lawyer known for taking controversial cases. They met in a dimly lit office, walls lined with shelves of dusty law books.
Femi adjusted his glasses, eyeing Amaka carefully. “So, you are the woman. The one who shouted.”
“Yes,” she whispered, ashamed.
He leaned forward. “You understand, if you go public, you will face charges. Maybe incitement to violence, maybe worse. And the court of public opinion? They’ll crucify you before you step into the witness box.”
“I know.”
“But—” he raised a finger—“your testimony could shift something. It could put pressure on the state to regulate these mobs, to force the police to act faster. You could save lives. The question is, do you want to be the sacrifice?”
Amaka’s heart pounded. “I don’t want to be. But maybe I need to be.”
Femi sighed. “Then prepare yourself. Once this begins, there is no turning back.”

News of her potential confession spread faster than she expected. Someone leaked it—she suspected Kunle, though he denied it. Blogs picked it up:
“Mystery woman behind Lagos mob speaks.”
“Confession coming? Tunde’s death was not as it seemed.”
The comments were brutal.
“She’s lying. Paid actress.”
“Wicked woman, may God punish her.”
“If na true, she go die badly.”
Amaka stopped reading after a while, but the voices still rang in her head.
Ngozi called her one night, her voice trembling with anger. “So it’s you? You’re the one?”
Amaka gripped the phone tightly. “Ngozi, please—”
“You lied. You lied, and they killed my husband! And now you want to parade yourself like a hero? Do you know what you’ve done to me? To my children?”
Tears streamed down Amaka’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I was scared, I—”
“Sorry, won’t bring him back!” Ngozi screamed. “You destroyed us. You destroyed everything. God will judge you, Amaka.”
The line went dead.
Amaka sat in the silence, her hands trembling, the words carved into her soul. God will judge you.

The threats started soon after. Anonymous numbers flooded her phone with messages:
“Confess and die.”
“Keep your mouth shut, or we’ll find you.”
“We know where you live.”
One evening, as she left her office, she noticed a car following her. Her pulse raced. She ducked into a crowded market, weaving between stalls until she lost them. But paranoia took root. Every shadow became a threat.
She called Emeka in tears. “I can’t do this. They’ll kill me.”
“Then stop,” he urged. “Forget it. Let it go.”
“I can’t. It’s too late.”
“Amaka, listen to me. The dead are gone. You’re alive. Don’t waste your life chasing ghosts.”
But Amaka shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “This ghost won’t let me live.”

The day of the press conference came like a storm. Femi stood by her side, Kunle recording everything with his camera. Journalists packed the small hall, cameras flashing, microphones shoved in her face.
Amaka’s legs trembled as she stepped to the podium. The room buzzed with tension. She gripped the edges of the lectern, closed her eyes for a moment, then spoke.
“My name is Amaka Okoro. I am the woman who screamed that day.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“I was angry. I was reckless. I lied. And because of me, an innocent man, Tunde Adebanjo, was killed by a mob. I stand here today not as a victim, but as the cause. I want the world to know the truth. I want his family to know that I am sorry. I don’t expect forgiveness. I only hope that by speaking, by admitting what I did, maybe… maybe this will stop another mob from destroying another innocent life.”
Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. “I know you hate me. I know you want me punished. Maybe I deserve it. But please, remember Tunde. Remember his children. Let his death not be in vain.”
The hall erupted, questions shouted, flashes blinding her. But through the chaos, Amaka felt something shift inside her. For the first time in months, the coffin in her chest cracked open.
She had spoken. The truth was free.
But the war was only beginning.
The days after the press conference were a whirlwind. Amaka’s face was everywhere—television screens in buka joints, blog posts with lurid headlines, WhatsApp groups buzzing with her photos.
Some called her brave. More called her wicked.
One morning, Chiamaka barged into her apartment, eyes swollen from crying. “Amaka, what have you done to yourself?”
Amaka sat by the window, staring at the bustling street below. “I told the truth.”
“And destroyed your life! They’re dragging your name everywhere. Do you even read the comments?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. Just… don’t.” Chiamaka sat heavily on the couch, her voice trembling. “You should leave Lagos. Lay low. Maybe go abroad for a while.”
“I can’t run,” Amaka said quietly. “Wherever I go, I’ll still be me.”
Chiamaka pressed her lips together, helpless.

Ngozi refused to see her. Every attempt at contact was met with silence. Kunle, though, stuck close, chronicling everything for his story.
“You’ve started something bigger than yourself,” he told her one evening over roasted corn by the roadside. “There’s a conversation happening now. People are questioning mob justice.”
Amaka managed a weak smile. “Maybe. But conversations don’t bring back the dead.”
Kunle looked at her carefully. “And what about you? How are you holding up?”
She shrugged. “I breathe. I eat. I sleep. That’s all.”
But the truth was different. Sleep no longer brought rest; only visions of flames, screams, and Tunde’s blistered face.

The threats intensified. Anonymous figures loitered near her compound. Strange cars are parked outside her office. Even her colleagues kept their distance, whispers following her in the corridors.
Her boss finally called her in. “Amaka… maybe you should resign. For your own safety. And for ours.”
So she did. One signature, and she was unemployed.

One rainy evening, Amaka visited Bar Beach alone. The city lights shimmered on the wet sand, the ocean restless under a gray sky. She walked along the shoreline, letting the waves lick her feet.
For the first time in months, she felt oddly calm. The water was cold, steady, unbothered by the chaos of men.
A little boy ran past her, chasing a plastic bottle. His laughter carried on the wind. For a moment, Amaka smiled. But then the laughter warped in her ears, becoming Tunde’s screams.
She dropped to her knees in the sand, clutching her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the waves. “I’m so sorry.”
The ocean said nothing.

The following week, Kunle found her in his office, staring at a pile of newspapers.
“They’re calling for your arrest,” he said carefully. “Some politicians are saying you should face charges.”
Amaka nodded absently. “Maybe that’s justice.”
“Maybe. But prison won’t fix you, Amaka. You need healing.”
She looked at him with hollow eyes. “Healing? Some wounds don’t close.”

That night, Amaka wrote letters. One to Chiamaka, thanking her for her friendship. One to Kunle, urging him to keep writing. One to Ngozi, filled with apologies she knew would never be accepted.
She sealed them in envelopes and placed them neatly on her table.
Then she dressed in a simple blue gown, the one she had bought for her niece’s birthday but never wore. She applied light makeup, brushed her hair, and stood before the mirror.
Her reflection looked like a stranger; tired, worn, but strangely at peace.

The next morning, Amaka told her neighbor she was going for a walk. She carried no bag, no phone, just herself.
She took a bus to Victoria Island, the conductor shouting destinations over the rumble of traffic. Passengers argued about fuel prices, children dozed against their mothers’ shoulders, life moving on as if nothing was broken.
At the beach, she slipped off her sandals and walked toward the ocean. The sand was cool beneath her feet, the tide low and inviting.
A couple took selfies nearby. Vendors shouted about suya and roasted fish. Music drifted from a distant bar.
No one noticed her. No one stopped her.
She waded into the water slowly, the waves rising from her ankles to her knees, from her knees to her waist. Each step was deliberate, steady, like walking into an embrace.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, feeling the salt spray on her face, the ocean’s pull around her body.
She whispered one last time, “I’m sorry, Tunde.”
Then she stepped forward and vanished beneath the waves.

Her body washed ashore hours later. By then, the sky had darkened, and the beach was nearly empty. A fisherman found her, hair tangled with seaweed, eyes closed as though asleep.
News broke the next morning:
“Amaka Okoro, woman behind mob confession, found dead at Bar Beach.”
“Tragedy as key witness drowns in Lagos.”
“Justice or guilt? Nation divided over Amaka’s death.”
Kunle sat at his desk, staring at the headline. The letters she left behind were already trending. He wiped his eyes, though he would never admit he cried.
Ngozi read her letter in silence. Then she folded it carefully and locked it in a drawer. Forgiveness was still impossible, but hatred had lost its fire.
Chiamaka wept openly, clutching the note like a lifeline.
The city moved on. Another scandal replaced the headlines. Another tragedy filled the streets with noise.
But at Bar Beach, the waves rolled in and out, eternal and indifferent, carrying whispers of a woman who had drowned in guilt, swallowed by an ocean that promised silence at last.