Forbidden Woman

By Kingsley Adrian Banks

Adamma is happy now, or thinks she is as happy as she can ever be...until one night, when she dreams of a very beautiful woman, Mmirimma, her long-lost mother lost to history over twenty years ago. Adamma's strange dream centers around the events that led to the death of her father and the disappearance of her mother. Against all rationality, against all evidence to the contrary, Adamma rekindles the flames of hope, that her mother Mmirimma who had been missing for over twenty years, is still alive.

From the glitzy playgrounds of Lagos, Adamma heads East, seeking answers to questions that had plagued her entire adult life...and there, back East, she hits a brick wall. She is warned to stop looking for Mmirimma, that a dark and terrifying destiny awaits her if she doesn't let her mother go.

Against all odds, Adamma embarks on a journey back into her past, to find the threads of her long-lost family. But, along the way, she descends into shocking chaos, as if Fate itself is working against her. Death dogs her footsteps, trusted friends become enemies, her family seems to be falling apart, yet she ploughs on in her search for her mother. With each step she makes closer to the truth about her mother's disappearance, her family seems to fall apart the more, and she faces a trial that will send her to her death if she loses, and destroy her family if she wins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingsley Adrian Banks
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005693275

Kingsley Adrian Banks

Kingsley Adrian Banks is an independent writer and publisher. He is a Nigerian author of contemporary gay fiction featuring LGBTQ characters, erotic literature, contemporary fiction, women's fiction and thriller. He is best known for his debut novel, Behind Closed Doors, an LGBT-themed Novel set in Lagos Nigeria in the late Nineties and one of the very few books in Nigeria that explore same-sex sexual relationships and gender non-conformity. He is also the author of the books in the Women of Eternity Series and some standalone short fiction.Kingsley Adrian Banks was born on April 3, 1993, in Onitsha, Nigeria. He is the third of four children and he spent his growing up years in Onitsha.In 2008, at the age of fifteen, he graduated from High School and took the Nigerian Joint Admissions And Matriculation Board exams the following year from where he gained admission to the university to study Law. He undertook his undergraduate studies, graduated with Honors, then was later called as a lawyer to the Nigerian Bar at the age of 22.Banks started writing as a teenager aged 14, working on manuscripts long hand in secret. He still has several of those hand-written manuscripts lying around.Banks' first novel, Behind Closed Doors was self-published in May, 2020 to critical applause from the LGBTQ community in Nigeria who had largely positive feedback for the novel. After that Banks published the first book in his Women of Eternity Series, titled Adamma, in 2021. The book became a bestseller on Bambooks. Other novels from that series are queued for publication.When not writing, Banks works as a lawyer for his clients and also spends time reading, working out, and blogging, while also learning about digital media and finance.

Book preview

Prologue

The weather was unbearably hot that Tuesday morning. The sun burned down on Lagos with an aggressive vengeance that had most people cursing and cussing out all across the State. The heat seemed to be rising from the earth itself.

People thronged the High Court premises, Igbosere, Lagos Island. Some were lawyers in their brown or bleached wigs, gowned in their ceremonial courtroom gowns, hustling and bustling between the different courts and the Court registry, interacting and transacting the business of the day. Some other lawyers—the ambulance-chasing lawyers who most Nigerians described using the pejorative term Charge-and-bail lawyers— hung around the premises, some of them by their cars, others milling around with phones stuck to their ears as they snapped at clients or belted forth instructions to secretaries.

Asides the litigants, people hurrying through the different offices of the registry to file court processes, and the lawyers plying their business of the day, reporters swarmed the court premises like ants on a busy hill. Many of them were from important National dailies, their press passes hung around their necks; some were from the smaller Presses with lower circulations, while some were independent bloggers who ran popular blogs or wrote for popular blogs.

It was actually a regular sight for reporters to descend on the High Court complex, Igbosere, but they were here today for one case; the one case.

It had promised to be a media circus from the very moment the news broke in the media. That news had been greeted with shock and outright disbelief, so they all swarmed here to feast their eyes and get premium content for their publications. They all had their cameras ready; their pens and writing pads were at the ready as well, ready to take quotable notes. When the suspect stepped out for her arraignment, they would have a field day taking snapshots of her and her entourage, and they were all waiting to record every word, every utterance she made.

*

A black Toyota Land Cruiser SUV pulled into the court premises. then it slid smoothly to a halt. Its glasses were tinted black, so it was impossible to glimpse the occupants of the car. All eyes turned to the car.

Obi Obiekwe stepped out of the owner’s corner of the car—the back, passenger-side seat of the car reserved for chauffeured owners. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, with large dark glasses covering half his face. His tallness, smooth appearance and chiseled look gave him away. It was easy to recognize him, even with the large, chauffeur-driven SUV, the tailored perfection that must have easily cost the salaries of many of the reporters put together that he had on, and those monstrous glasses that covered his face, masking his tan complexion. He was the owner of the Hotel Marine and a slew of other business interests ranging from manufacturing to real estate, from imports to wholesale trading and apartment buildings in Lekki, Abuja, Johannesburg and London. His family was one of the well-known business empires within Lagos and everyone knew him.

A lot of the reporters pounced on him. Legs pumped with speed, some grabbed for notepads while others scrambled to turn on the recorders on their high-powered Android phones and iPhones; the television crews of the different TV channels hoisted their cameras while they all made a beeline for the mogul.

As they rushed him the driver of the SUV Obi Obiekwe had alighted from—a tall, broad-shouldered giant with arms that looked powerful enough to topple a Volkswagen Beetle car with one shove—stepped in front of Obi Obiekwe, literally blocking them from him. The questions hit him then, like a verbal wall.

One moment!

Do you think that the court is going to grant your wife bail for the crime she’s accused of?

Will this affect your relationship with her?

And the barrage of questions continued mercilessly, the cameras flashing at him, sweaty outstretched arms thrusting out recording devices to his face for his commentary.

*

Obi Obiekwe blocked them away as if they were nothing more than an inconsequential attack of gnats on him, his sunglasses providing adequate cover for his eyes against the flash of camera lights on him. He escaped into the court building and breathed a sigh of relief.

He wanted to make all this go away, but there was nothing that he could do now, for Adamma was Nigeria’s biggest female star and the media were here to eat her raw. If he had hoped that he could contain this debacle, he saw now that he was joking. For now, that option was impossible, thanks to Chimamanda and her maniacal clamoring for vengeance against her best friend. Who on earth am I kidding? Obi wondered. Whatever Adamma and Chimamanda had between them was over, permanently dashed against the proverbial rocks of enmity.

For once, his vast wealth had failed him, perhaps because he was using money to try and fight Chimamanda’s money. Unfortunately, Chimamanda was prepared for war. Damn her to hell!

Obi suspected that soon, people would clamor for Adamma’s head.

As a nation, dysfunctional and divided along religious and ethnic lines as they were, Nigerians had watched Adamma grow to mega stardom, literally becoming the Michael Jackson of the Nigerian Entertainment industry and far eclipsing other stars across the whole of Africa. Now, united in their love for gossip, they were going to watch her topple from her throne. They itched for it. He was sure of that.

Obi stepped into the Court, his eyes adjusting to the bright white lights turned on inside the courtroom. The Court was large enough, with the raised Bench for the presiding Judge, the Bar for the lawyers that was filled with male and female lawyers engaged in chatter, pressing their phones, and shuffling papers extracted from—in many cases—very large case files that looked ancient and overloaded with documents. Obi was sure that some of these files pre-dated his own birth. Litigation in Nigeria was not child’s play, in many cases lasting for decades.

Obi spied Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, Senior Advocate of Nigeria—SAN—seated at the Inner Bar all alone, his silk robes a shiny contrast with that of the other lawyers both junior and senior who were yet to take Silk. He thought of gently approaching the formidable titan but decided against it; Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN was Adamma’s lawyer. He, Obi, had had no choice in the selection of the legal work product Adamma had chosen, so he had to watch from the sidelines. Adamma had refused to use any of the lawyers from the firm of lawyers Obi routinely used: RiverRowers & Banks. He had also wanted to get Falana, SAN, to join Adamma’s legal defence team, but it hadn’t worked out. How she’d gotten Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN, on such short notice surprised him—according to the information circulating around, the learned Silk rarely took on new high-profile clients because he had a loaded roaster of high-net worth clients. Well, Adamma knew a hell lot of influential people and had her fingers in numerous pockets, so securing Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN if she needed him would have been no big deal for her.

Already, the Gallery had filled up with spectators, litigants, witnesses and courtroom drama lovers who just came around the courts to witness proceedings. Obi scanned for a chair to sit on, or an empty space anywhere for him to settle on as he did not know when his wife’s matter would be called up. All the seats were occupied, so he stood at the back of the courtroom.

Obi noticed his children Ian Obiekwe and Helen Obiekwe, seated together. Helen wore a huge pair of blue-tinted glasses. He knew better than anyone that it was more than a fashion statement; she was wearing it to hide the bruises on her face. He had failed to protect her.

*

A stampede arose as a motorcade of seven cars drove up to the courthouse. A Black Maria was in front, with two Hilux vans right behind it. The armored Maria ground to a halt, and all eyes turned to it. The car doors slammed as police officers and prison stewards streamed out, guns drawn, faces clenched. They formed a wall around the back of the Black Maria, and the doors swung open.

Even before the occupant of the confined space came down, cameras were already clicking away furiously, questions were being hauled out; Android phones with their recording software turned on were being thrust forward; bodies were being thrust forward, pressing towards the occupant. The reporters jostled for grip; they pushed and shoved and tore to reach her.

Adamma jumped down from the back of the Black Maria like an athlete who was going on an athletic meet, or as if she was springing out from a column of fire like she had once done on her Tu Day Tour in Cape Town, South Africa. The moment they saw her, the screams and the volley of questions began anew, with the prison guards and police officers struggling to keep the teeming, roiling mass of frenzied humanity away from her.

She was dressed in a green jumpsuit that hung loosely on her frame. Her river of hair swept down in all directions, in artful disarray. She wore no makeup, no shades to cover the bruises and the angry red marks that marred the otherwise perfect skin of her face. The officers surrounded her and hurried her forward, while some kept shoving the reporters back as the latter set of people jostled and fought to get image shots of her and also capture the moment on video.

Adamma nearly stumbled but the guards that flanked her kept her moving, pulling her forward almost to the point of running, towards the Court where she would be arraigned, away from the cameras and the questions. These terse moments were captured by live cameras, immortalized on-screen, with the broadcast spreading throughout the whole country immediately and also to the whole world that cared to watch.

It was the beginning of a circus, a media gossip circus that had set the country ablaze.

The charges the State had against her had caused many people to apply for sick leaves from their bosses to either sit in somewhere and wait for news, or take to the Internet to search for news, and some—for those who could descend on the Lagos State High Court sitting at Igbosere—to make it to the Court premises to get first-hand information and witness her trial, if they could.

*

The Judge’s uniformed orderly banged on the door that separated the Courtroom from the Judge’s Chambers three times before throwing the door open. The entire assemblage in the large Courtroom rose to its feet as Honourable Justice Abubakar Ahmed ambled in. He was a slim man in his late fifties, his head of grey hair covered by his wig; his face was long and chiseled; a face that often displayed a blankness that lawyers and litigants found intimidating.

The man bowed, everyone responded in kind, then he sat down on the Bench facing the Bar and the Gallery and nodded to one of the Court clerks.

Good morning, gentlemen, Justice Abubakar Ahmed greeted, to which everyone chorused a response. Gentlemen, you are to indicate your interest in the cause list. He looked up from his notes—a very large, thick-backed notebook—and narrowed his eyes at the lawyers seated at the Bar. He addressed Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN. Learned Silk, you are here as well.

Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN rose to his feet to respond. Yes, My Lord. I am. I am interested in a matter in this Court today. He bowed, then resumed seating again.

And a senior state counsel from the Attorney-General’s office is here as well.

Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN rose to his feet once again. My Lord, we are in the same matter, he announced. It is a criminal matter. That’s number 2 on the cause list.

Justice Abubakar peered at the list before him. That means that we are going to take it first. Afterwards the other lawyers can indicate their interest in the matters on the cause list. Registrar, call up case number 2 on the list.

The Registrar was a thin, bespectacled woman in black gown and with a crown of neat Afro curls atop her head. She called the matter. Adamma was led into the dock by two uniformed officers, trailed by murmurs. The senior state counsel from the office of the Attorney General announced appearance for the prosecution while Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo SAN, announced appearance for the defendant, Adamma Obiekwe. Appearing with him were three other lawyers, one female and two male, all three of them who were seated directly behind him rising to their feet and bowing to the Judge at the mention of each of their names. Another lawyer announced appearance, informing the Court that he was holding Watching brief for the complainant.

What is the matter for? It seems to be coming up here for the first time, Justice Abubakar noted. The defendant is the reason why members of the Press are outside in full force, am I correct?

The lawyers at the Bar laughed, the sound a collective purr which swept through them like a small wave, then died down with the same abruptness it had started. Asides the whirring of the three air conditioning units in the courtroom and the louder drone of the fan that faced Justice Abubakar, the courtroom fell silent again. A pin drop would have sounded like a bomb.

Registrar, read the Charge to the defendant, Justice Abubakar instructed one of the three clerks.

The same woman who’d called up the matter earlier rose to her feet and read the Charge, then asked, Do you plead guilty or not guilty?

Not guilty, My Lord, came Adamma’s ready answer.

Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN rose to his feet, his arms spread out almost as if he wanted to enfold anyone close enough to him in an embrace. My Lord, I am applying for the bail of my client, on her own recognizance, as she is literally the most recognizable face in Nigeria and one of Africa’s largest Entertainment figures, so she is going nowhere, he submitted to the Judge, who was scribbling on his notebook. Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo SAN, adjusted his expensive silk gown. Furthermore, I believe that her stay in prison custody is going to jeopardize her life given the nature of this case pending before this Honourable Court.

My Lord, I object to this application! State Counsel snapped as he rushed to his feet, his bulk almost making the undertaking a difficult fit to achieve. But he managed it, though barely. "Due to the gravity of the offense for which the defendant is charged with—which is a capital offence, by the way—I am strongly opposed to this bail application. Besides, the counsel to the defendant did not do the needful, to wit: bring a proper application via Motion on Notice accompanied by—"

There is no law anywhere in Nigeria that states that an application for Bail of a defendant in a criminal matter pending before a Court must be by way of written Motion, Counsel, Justice Abubakar interjected, cutting him short. He leaned forward and regarded the State counsel with a narrow-eyed glare. To Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN, he said, Please, go on.

The State counsel remained on his feet, forcing the Silk to sit back down and wait for him to finish his submissions.

"My Lord, the defendant must show cause as to why bail should be granted. That is the position of the law, espoused by this Honourable Court in Ani versus State and several other authorities. She should remain in prison custody, as it is my earnest belief that she will jump bail or do something to influence the evidence and the witnesses in this trial. She has the high standing and the money to do so. In a trial for a capital offence, it is the duty of the defendant applying for bail before the Honourable Court to show cause as to why he or she should be granted bail. Otherwise, the defendant should remain in custody. In this instance, the defendant has not shown cause neither has she placed sufficient materials before this Court to warrant the Court exercising its discretion in her favor. We pray the Court for accelerated hearing of this case to conclusion, and as a sign of our preparedness, we are willing—the prosecution—to be put on record, that we undertake to pay costs of one hundred thousand naira on any adjourned date we truncate proceedings of this Court. May it please the Court." The lawyer settled back onto his seat and folded his arms.

Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN rose to his feet. My Lord, the defendant was arrested for an alleged crime and the prosecution has the duty to prove beyond reasonable doubt that she committed the crime. The prosecution are not stating truths in this matter, My Lord— to which statement Justice Abubakar scribbled furiously on his notebook "—and I had to insist on bringing down the crushing weight of the constitution on the prosecution for a speedy arraignment before this honorable court before he complied. They were dragging their feet over this matter. To add insult to injury, my client was fettered—handcuffed like a criminal—before being brought to court for her arraignment. This goes against the spirit of the 1999 constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria which makes the express provision under Section 36 that—"

We know the provisions of the constitution, thank you, Justice Abubakar chipped in, cutting the rocket-fast outpourings of the learned Silk short. Then he turned his eyes to Adamma, and he was shocked to see that she had been handcuffed like the man had said.

He swiveled his eyes to the State counsel, his eyes flashing daggers at him.

Why is the defendant handcuffed in my court? Was there any reason why this was so? Did the officers have any cause to believe that the defendant would do anything to disrupt the proceedings? Did she in any way try to do something to show that she had to be brought here before the court fettered?

The prosecuting counsel looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His fleshy face had almost turned purple, veins popping out all over his forehead, his plump lips drawn taut.

My Lord, there was . . . he began, and then he trailed off, his eyes darting about, as if trying to decide who to settle on. The other lawyers in Court murmured and whispered amongst themselves. His eyes finally settled on the prison wardens like laser beams. If eyes could kill, they would have died a hundred times over.

The defendant has been an upstanding member of society, Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo SAN fired on. She is well known both within and outside Nigeria as a national treasure for Nigeria. She has made Nigeria proud with her music and has received numerous local and international awards to that effect. She is currently the most awarded female singer alive in the whole of the African continent. Furthermore, she is not in any way a flight risk; she will be readily available for her trial before this Honourable Court whenever she is needed.

Without saying a word, Justice Abubakar began to scribble on his notebook, his pen flying over the open page, his thoughts spilling onto the erstwhile blank pages that were rapidly filling with words in cursive print. For a long while, he kept writing, while he felt the weight of the expectations of the lawyers at the Bar and the spectators at the Gallery bearing down on him. He was used to it, so it was pretty easy to ignore all these people.

In spite of his earlier preliminary enquiry about what the case was coming up for, he knew a lot about this particular case file. He knew that Adamma Obiekwe had first been in police custody for over twenty-four hours while a fierce battle raged on between Chimamanda Egolum and Adamma’s family, and after being seriously pressured by Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN, had been arraigned before a Chief Magistrate Court which declined to hear the matter because it lacked the jurisdiction to do so given that the case was a capital offence and then issued a remand order, sending Adamma off to prison. And from prison, here they were, before him.

The counsel for the accused has orally applied for bail of the defendant and the prosecuting counsel has vehemently opposed the application, Justice Abubakar read from his notebook. "While I agree that this case before this court borders on the alleged commission of a capital offence by the defendant, I do not agree with the prosecutor that there are solid reasons as to why she should be kept in prison custody pending the final determination of this case. With the caliber of personality that she is, I am of the informed view that keeping Adamma Obiekwe in prison custody will potentially jeopardize her life and expose her to harm as she is extremely well known and cannot keep a low profile in a prison environment.

I hereby order as follows: that the defendant is to be released on bail which I set to the amount of ten million naira, with three sureties in like sum. The three sureties must each have properties worth at least ₦60 million located within the Island here in Lagos State. At least one surety must be a musician or at least connected to the Entertainment industry in an executive-level capacity. At least one surety must be of Igbo extraction and highly placed in governance such as a Senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. I further Order that the defendant must deposit her Passport at the Court registry as she must not, under any circumstances, travel out of Nigeria neither is she to leave the State of Lagos for whatever reason, without the express permission of this Court. The defendant must also not attend a public event with more than fifty persons in attendance, neither is she to attend musical shows or perform in one. If the defendant for whatever reason disobeys the terms of her bail, she will be sent back to prison and will attend Court from the Nigerian Correction Service, Ikoyi Custodial Center, Ikoyi, Lagos.

Justice Abubakar turned his eyes to Adamma who looked back at him without flinching, her face utterly serene and calm. I am sure you have heard my Ruling, he said, addressing her. You are not to leave Lagos at any time, for whatever reason; if you do so, then your bail will be revoked and I will have you remanded back in prison until the entire trial is over. If you want to leave Lagos, the leave of this Court must be first sought and obtained. Turning his attention back to the lawyers, he continued. "I hereby order for accelerated hearing of this case. Furthermore—and I am sure that counsel for the defendant will make that application shortly so I might as well spare the time of the Court by making the order now—the prosecution is further ordered to provide the defendant’s counsel with ALL materials, reports, documents and statements of witnesses which they intend to rely on during trial to enable the defendant adequately prepare for her defense to the charge. The prosecution is ordered to do this today, without fail."

Justice Abubakar’s gaze swung between the two opposing counsel. I wish to adjourn this matter for the earliest possible time. I don’t know how soon you can be adequately prepared, learned Silk.

Mr. Afolayan Oluwatowo, SAN shot to his feet once again. My Lord has already made an Order for the prosecution to furnish us with all their materials. Once they do that today, I will be fully ready for trial by next week, and if we can get a date for late next week, then I will be most grateful, my Lord.

Pick a date, please.

The two robed lawyers hurdled together to agree on a date from their diaries. They spoke in hushed tones for a few moments, and then informed My Lord of the date that would be most convenient for them, to which he nodded and scribbled down swiftly in the case file.

This matter is hereby adjourned for definite hearing. Justice Abubakar flipped the file shut and handed it over to a clerk who’d jumped to her feet to retrieve it. He had a lot to attend to right now, and he hated the drama that was associated with this woman that was here now to mess up the order of his life.

But he would have loved to have a better view at this woman, this woman who had held the entire Nigeria spellbound to her music and her beauty for several years. He had never seen her before now, but he knew of her—who didn’t?—and what he had seen really captivated him. Up close, she was even more magnificent than the screens had made her appear. It was not as if she was the most beautiful woman ever.

No, it went more than that. There was the air of unchallenged mystery and regal aloofness that emanated from her, as if she thought that she had the whole world in her grasp and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

Then he remembered the charges against her and a shiver traveled up his spine. How had she come to this very moment?

He wondered where it had all gone wrong for her. She had it all: beauty, fame, fortune, a family that she had held together through the roughest of times, and now this. What had gone wrong with her life? For something had happened to her; something that had changed the fabric of her thinking and rendered her capable of doing what she had done.

What was it? What had caused the other shoe to drop?

PART ONE: THE UNRAVELING

Chapter 1

For a long time, Adamma had forgotten she had a mother; for so long she had forgotten what it was like to have a mother to lean on when she needed something. For so long, she hadn’t thought of her mother in definite terms, as a fellow human, but more, in undefined abstraction.

Perhaps it was because she had her hands full with two little kids, both of them growing up at the exact same time, both of them with nearly similar needs. Perhaps it was because of the ever expanding social media space her social media and content strategy team needed her to be on, all the time.

Whatever it was, it had made her relegate her history to the background.

But all that changed one night.

It was a Friday night, specifically. She’d just read a storybook to Nwamma and her twin brother Tochukwu and then tucked them in together in the double bed they loved sharing. After that she retired to her own room for the night and threw the windows open—the Eko Electricity Distribution company had taken their power supply earlier and she had instructed Musa not to turn on the generator or switch the power to Solar. They could stay in darkness for a couple of hours.

From the moment she finished opening her windows Adamma could have sworn that a change overcame her. She felt dizzy, but that, she attributed to her gruelling weight training routine earlier that day; she needed rest now. She stumbled into bed without turning off her phone, her eyelids heavy, so heavy they felt leaden. Her body felt boneless and weighted down.

What. . . she mumbled as she lay there sprawled on her bed covers.

Her limbs felt weighted down, leaden. It was as if she’d lost control of herself. She slipped into darkness.

*

She was a different woman now—not herself, but another woman, really—seated in the front passenger-side seat in a fast-moving car, talking and laughing and occasionally staring out the car windows at the swiftly moving scenery at the sides of the road.

Soon, we will be in Onitsha, dear, she said, then laughed again.

Yes, darling. We will be in Onitsha. It was the driver of the car speaking; the man she was seated beside, responding to her declaration.

She saw him clearly as her head tilted back to look at his profile; chiselled jaw, a five o-clock shadow on his chin, crown of dark hair atop his head. His body was firm and hard, she could see, even with the covering of the spotted flannel shirt that hung loosely on his frame.

A bridge loomed in the distance, one she recognized as the Onitsha-Asaba head bridge, the monument that demarcated Southern Nigerian from Western and Mid-Western Nigeria. As the car sped towards it she turned her eyes out to the passing scenery once again; to the women hawking various edible delicacies on trays balanced on their heads who were calling out to those in cars and buses to patronize them.

She spoke to the man beside her and he responded, their conversation helping them to pass the time as the car zapped towards the bridge. Then they were atop it, moving in a long, fast-moving queue with other cars and large trucks hurling merchandise into Onitsha.

Are you not going too fast, eh? she asked, suddenly, as the car kept picking up pace, kept accelerating forward.

This car. . .seems like something is wrong with the brake pad, was the taut response.

She noticed the beads of sweat on his upper lip; she noticed the clench of his facial muscles as his attention remained focused on the road, his palms gripping the steering wheel tighter.

We need to slow down, honey. Slow down, she said.

But the car was not slowing down, and before them loomed a large, sturdy-looking fuel tanker, its white, blue and sunflower colors showing it belonged to Oando PLC, black smoke belching forth from its exhaust pipe, reducing visibility for them.

Babe, we have to slow down! she gasped, urgently.

Jesus! he cried out.

In that moment their car slammed into the back of the tanker and force of the hit made the car to careen off their lane into the opposite lane, to an oncoming Toyota Sienna heading into Asaba from Onitsha. Adamma opened her mouth and screamed, feeling a sharp pain hammer straight into the back of her head with crushing force as the front fender of the car thudded off.

Noooooooo! she screamed.

What remained of the front of the car hammered into the metal railings of the bridge and Adamma felt herself pitch forward, her body crashing through the front glass. Concrete rushed up to meet her moments before she felt searing pain tear through her limbs, and yet her body kept moving, kept hitting the concrete, then she felt a rush of wind on her body. It was as if she was falling through deep, fathomless space, her entire body on fire with searing pain.

She heard a thud and a loud splash as she hit the waters of the Niger, felt the monstrous body of water hit her nostrils before she went under. The force was so great, so jarringly great that for a moment she couldn’t fathom how to kick against it. The pain was unbearable.

Her eyes closed.

*

She struggled to open her eyes.

Adamma felt her limbs but it felt as if it was not her limbs; as if she was someone else, experiencing something else. Her entire body felt afire with severe debilitating pain, pain that seemed concentrated all through the back of her neck and her spine. Her lungs felt heavy, weighted down, as if filled and choking with scalding water.

All around her she saw darkness, or the total absence of light, given that she could not see anything. She struggled to drag air into her tortured lungs but it was laborious, each breath sending shards of liquid fire through her lungs. At that moment she wanted to die, to be rid of all that white-hot pain, even if it meant she losing her life. She just needed an Out from all that searing pain.

Hel. . . But the words could barely come out of her throat, parched and damaged as it were. She wanted to call out for help, for someone to come save her.

Adamma did not know what was happening to her or why it was happening to her. She felt as though she’d drowned or was drowning, even though she knew that she was on her bed. Or was she, indeed? I need to wake up from this horror!

But the pain—so real and searing through her entire being in fiery shards—would not let her concentrate. If anything, it was robbing her of her mind.

She did not know how long she lay there; and where was the There, exactly? She could smell the earth, mixed with water and mud and fresh fish. She felt as though she was in the open; in some open space, exposed to the sky, for cool breeze caressed her face, blew through her battered body. Her ears picked on the unmistakable buzz of mosquitoes, sealing her suspicion that she was in some open space into pure conviction that she was indeed in some open space. But still, she could not move, could not have her brain signal her limbs to move; she could not get her eyes to start working, neither could she form fully cogent thoughts in her mind.

Anthony, she mouthed.

Anthony. . .the man she had been travelling with, driving with before he lost control of the brakes in that Honda car. Even with the loss of control over her body, over her mind, even with the cold and the chill descending on her now, she knew with a solid certainty that Anthony was dead. But asides him, she knew nothing else; not her name, not her pedigree, not where she was nor what was happening to her.

For an eternity she was sure that she lay there, body broken, the cold chill sweeping on her damp body, her eyes closed. She lacked the energy to keep her eyelids open.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, but she saw nothing but darkness; solid darkness of the night. The pain was still there, like a crushing physical weight bearing down upon her, one she couldn’t shake off. She was resigned to that monstrous pain now; she could do nothing about it.

*

Adamma did not know what had happened or what was happening to her, but what she knew was that she had witnessed something extremely profound, like a revelation.

That was her first thought when she opened her eyes, blinking them open and catching sight of the familiar intricately designed POP ceiling of her room in her home in Victoria Island, Lagos. But it was no longer night, for the brightness she noticed all around her was not the brightness of a bulb turned on, but of daylight.

I slept till daybreak? she wondered. It was rare for her to sleep till daybreak. She was often up before the dawn, up latest at 5AM when she’d dress up, swig down some water, then head down either to her home gym or drive out to her regular Gym club to work out. It was routine and habitual that she’d be pumping iron while the Morning dawned across the sky, dispelling the Darkness of the Night.

She eased up from the bed slowly, her head throbbing with severe pain, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and battered her skull to irrecoverable fragments. Pressing her right hand to her back, she noted the dull, throbbing pain there, and with it, coldness and dampness.

Jesus! she exclaimed.

Her nightgown was wet all over, as if she’d soaked in a swimming pool and then lain down without drying off. Her fingers reached up to her hair and she noted that even her long river of hair was drenched, thick with water, literally soaking wet. The bed sheets around her were also drenched.

Good Lord, she marvelled.

This had never happened before in her entire life.

Adamma swung her feet to the floor and then stumbled to the door. Right as her hand reached for the door knob the door flew open and her husband Obi Obiekwe stood framed in the doorway. He was dressed to the nines, but his tailored dark suit did not match the frown that creased his forehead.

Adamma! he called. He swept into the room as she pulled back, then he kicked the door shut behind him.

What are you doing here? she demanded. She knew that he was supposed to be flying to Abuja that evening and he had a lot of stuff to handle at the Hotel Marine before he left to catch his Plane. He was not supposed to be here.

Adamma, you slept in this room for a whole day. Obi’s face was squeezed into an expression Adamma could not fathom.

The whole day? she echoed. Her fingers flew to her breasts. Did you say the whole day?

Adamma, it is 5PM!

She stopped, literally stopped as if her brain had issued an order to her limbs to cease all motor functions. She struggled to process what Obi had just said.

Adamma, you slept inside this room for a whole day! No one could wake you up.

For what seemed like an eternity she struggled to process what this man had just said but couldn’t. She had been out like a light a whole day? Literally, a whole day? That was impossible.

Adamma, are you alright? he demanded, reaching for her.

But she raised her hands, stopping him from touching her. Once again she touched her nightgown—it was still soaking wet, drenched all through. She raised her hands and touched the hair atop her head—it was as if she’d drenched her hair in water, all that thick mass of it. She held the top of her nightgown and sniffed at it but it smelled clean, not soggy, not sweaty. If clean water had a smell, she would have said that it smelled of clean water. Strange.

I had a dream, she murmured, remembering the events of last night. But now, now that she thought of it, it did not feel like a dream. It had been more than a dream.

A dream that made you not to wake up all day? Babe, what’s with you? Obi sounded as though he thought that she’d lost her senses.

Wait here, she commanded, then she spun away from him to the bed. Pulling the thick sheets off, she crumbled them into a large ball and then flung them towards the door. These need to be washed and I need to take a shower.

With that she spun away from him and headed into the adjoining bathroom. Quickly, she pulled off her nightgown, and, naked, she quickly brushed her teeth, then stepped under the showerhead and turned the faucet on. Quickly, she did her business there, towelled herself dry, then donned on a long gown she had retrieved from one of the cabinets that held towels and assorted toiletries.

When she returned to the bedroom she noticed that the wet bedclothes were no longer there and Obi was seated on a chaise longue beside her bed, tapping at the screen of his iPhone. He looked up at her and frowned.

My mother. . . she whispered gently. I saw my mother and my father Anthony.

Obi’s eyes widened, then one eyebrow lifted. Throughout all the years of their marriage her parents was a topic she absolutely steered clear of. She was sure that he was hearing her father’s name for the very first time, at least from her. Her past was a topic they did not explore, had never explored. With everything that had happened between them, she had just never opened up well enough to him to let him know the finer details of her life. He knew that her parents were dead, but that was right about it.

You said you had a dream, Adamma, he prodded.

She shook her head vigorously. Shockingly, she felt like her normal self now; all the pain was gone, as was the incredible feeling of lethargy and that sheer terror that had threatened to choke her.

It was not a dream, she said now, her eyes fastening to the bed, her mind recalling with perfect clarity all that had transpired, or at least the major highlights of it. She crossed over to the bed and flopped down onto it, then she turned to him. Look, you were supposed to be in Abuja. Go.

I cancelled the flight. I rescheduled it for tomorrow morning. First thing tomorrow morning, I should head back to Abuja.

You should not have done that, Adamma chided him. Right now, I need to be alone. Please.

Truly, she needed to be alone, not just so that she could get away from him—who on earth had informed him that she was out like a light anyway?—but also more importantly, because she wanted to process everything that had happened last night. She was grateful when he stood up and exited from the room, trailed by the smell of his cologne.

For several minutes she sat on the stripped bed and waited. She heard the sound of his car rev outside, then silence.

Adamma strode down to the kitchen, fetched a plastic can of water from the fridge, then downed the entire content in large gulps. She sat down on a high stool before her kitchen table where she routinely had breakfast or dinner and pondered what she had witnessed.

It was not a dream.

She was dead sure of it. Her parents had died in 1992, or specifically, her handsome father had died but her mother’s body was never recovered from the waters of the River Niger. For years she hadn’t thought of it, of the exactitude of the circumstance of their death and disappearance respectively. She could not recall what her father had worn, neither did she know the details of what had transpired on the Niger Bridge which led her father Anthony Onwuta to ram his car into the back of a fast-moving fuel tanker. It had been so many years, after all. Now, she did.

She now knew exactly what had happened with them—failed brakes in her father’s Honda Accord. She had witnessed it—by some bizarre stroke of luck she had travelled back in Time and gotten into her mother’s skin and she had witnessed the accident that took them away from her.

Anthony Onwuta and Mmirimma Onwuta, heading down to Onitsha and not making it beyond the Niger Bridge, not making home. . .because they had met their Waterloo at that bridge. At least her father had.

Adamma had seen it now.

Mum, good evening.

Adamma glanced up at her first child, Helen. The girl had silently snuck into the kitchen and for the first time, Adamma really scrutinized her daughter’s features, as if seeing her for the first time. At fifteen, Helen was blossoming into a young woman, ripe and lush. It was bizarre, how so incredibly alike they looked, she and Helen, such that if not for their obvious age differences a bystander could mistake one for the other. But Adamma knew better; Helen was a ringer for Adamma’s own elder sister, Gloria. Change Helen’s hair to gold and you’d be looking at the exact physical replica of Gloria Onwuta, Adamma’s elder sister who had gone missing several years ago. It seemed as if she was fated to either have family members dying or disappearing on her, never to be seen again.

Did I ever tell you about your grandmother, Helen?

Helen seemed puzzled by the question. She settled into a chair opposite Adamma on the table and faced her mother. Are you okay, mum? she asked. You don’t look like yourself.

Adamma sighed. I asked you a question, Helen. Have I ever told you about your grandmother?

No.

"My mother went missing in 1992. She and my father were on their way to Onitsha from Lagos and they had an accident at the Onitsha Head Bridge. My father died on the spot. My mother’s body was never found and