Sisterhood
Chief Inspector Yemi Adedeji settled into her dim office, with walls decorated with awards and a window revealing the lively city below. The room stretched out, dominated by a mahogany desk, surrounded by chairs awaiting guests. A potted plant and family photos broke the formality, hinting at her personal touch.
The air conditioner hummed and the wall clock ticked, each second stretching her patience thin. She fought the urge to glance at the clock, distracting herself with thoughts of the restaurant where she’d meet her husband. The thought of their dinner date made time crawl. Papers from the day’s work cluttered her desk, and the muffled chatter of her colleagues heightened her unease.
Leaning back, her eyes settled on the framed photo of her husband, Mike. Warmth spread through her as she took in his tall figure and dark skin, set off by a crisp white shirt. Those playful eyes peeked from behind glasses, a hint of a beard outlining his jaw. To an outsider, her gaze might seem like that of a smitten teenager.
Yet they’d shared thirteen years of marriage. Her fingers brushed her wedding ring, its cold touch sending a shiver through her. That ring symbolised their shared vows and lives. Memories flooded in: their laughter, dreams, and promises. Few married their first love, but they did, sealing their bond when she was twenty-two and he was twenty-six.
She gave in, sneaking a peek at her watch: 1:50 p.m. In just ten minutes, she’d escape this dreary office, heading home to her heart’s delight.
Her phone chirped. It was a message from Bola, saying she’d gone home to prep dinner. Yemi hadn’t told her she’d be dining out with Mike. A wicked thought crossed her mind: let Bola stew a little. Old wounds resurfaced, filling Yemi with a simmering rage. She tried pushing the memories away, desperate to keep her composure.
Yet, the past’s grip tightened, leaving her gasping, fingers digging into her desk’s edge, struggling for breath. Memories surged, pulling her back to that fateful day eight years prior. Bola had cruelly revealed that blood ties didn’t always mean loyalty or love.
She and Mike were the picture of success. She wore her police uniform with pride while he thrived as a businessman at Alaba International Market. Their love was unyielding, even when her job demanded so much. Mike, ever understanding, often tended to their home, especially during her pregnancy.
She tried to pull herself from the past, fearing it would sour her upcoming date. Yet, her memories clung, playing out like a haunting film she couldn’t pause. Every painful moment replayed, each emotion raw and cutting.
July 18, 2008, marked a pivotal moment. Under a grey, drizzling sky, Yemi wore her cherished blue dress, cradling her seven-month baby bump, crooning. She’d taken an extended maternity leave, having saved up her days. That evening, the aroma of ewedu soup and amala filled their home, awaiting Mike’s return.
He’d burst into their compound, his face drained of colour, eyes wide with terror. She raced to him, desperate for answers. Gripping his shoulders, her voice quivered. “Mike, what happened?” Her heart raced, fearing for his sanity.
He met her gaze, his voice trembling. “Fire!” Without another word, he dashed towards the market. Only later did the grim reality sink in: their shop, filled with newly imported goods, was devoured by the market blaze. The crushing debt of ten million naira loomed over them.
Their lives unravelled like a tragic film. The bank seized their home, leaving them scrambling for shelter. Returning to Mike’s village empty-handed wasn’t an option. Desperation gnawing at her, Yemi turned to her sister, Bola, for refuge. Though Bola had always been competitive, Yemi was taken aback by how quickly she welcomed them.
When her sister directed them to the boys’ quarters instead of the guest house, her excitement masked the smug look on her sister’s face. Just two days into their stay, Bola summoned her and her husband for a talk. In the main house, she laid down the rules: Yemi needed her own kitchen gear and foodstuff.
A nauseating sensation gripped her as Ade, Bola’s husband, explained that her pregnancy meant a different diet. It stung, reminding her of her fragile status in this house. Silently, she nodded, later borrowing money for her kitchen needs.
She wrenched her mind away from those tormenting memories. The past, like a lurking predator, threatened to ambush her. Old wounds and betrayals weighed on her heart.
Glancing at her watch, it read two minutes past two. In a flurry, she tidied her desk and dashed out. Sliding into her car, thoughts of the dinner reservation for Mike filled her mind, a planned surprise at their cherished eatery.
She tried calling Mike, but his phone was out of reach. Muttering a curse, she recalled urging him to switch networks. Navigating between two buses, she halted at a red light. The roads were mercifully clear, and soon, she was turning into her estate.
“Mike and I have weathered so much,” she mused. But memories surged, overpowering her resistance again. The past, once summoned, rushed in, each flashback searing her with layers of pain.
As Yemi strived to piece her life back together, fate dealt another blow. One market day, a speeding bus struck her. When she awoke in the hospital, her pregnant belly, once prominent, was tragically flat.
That blow pushed her to the brink. Despair often whispered dark thoughts, but Mike’s comforting presence held her steady. He became her lifeline, his steadfast support helping her rebuild, step by painful step.
Yemi’s sister put on a mask of sympathy, but the burning rage inside Yemi threatened to erupt. If not for the walls of her sister’s house, Yemi might have acted on her darkest thoughts. She confided in her husband, insisting they leave Bola’s home within a month or she’d return to her parents. Somehow, he made it happen. In three weeks, they left, and over the next four years, they pieced their lives back together, reclaiming their lost status.
As she drove past her gate, the sweet scent of jasmine from her garden filled the air, soothing her frantic heart. The driveway, framed by manicured hedges, led to their two-story home — a beacon of their shared triumphs and trials. Every corner of her home offered a fleeting solace from her chaotic thoughts. Sisters should signify trust and love, but for Yemi, it was a scar of betrayal. Climbing out of the car, she tried to focus on the happier memories, carefully avoiding the heartbreak of her lost child.
Rushing into her house, she shook off the past and anchored herself in the now. Mike was waiting, and she didn’t want to be late. Tonight was about them, a brief escape from the shadows of the past. They’d planned to meet directly at the restaurant, but she felt the day’s grime on her skin. A quick shower was a must before their date.
Silence enveloped the house. Yemi imagined her sister in the kitchen, preparing a meal for one. Not wanting to confront her just yet, she made her way to the bedroom she shared with Mike.
As her hand touched the doorknob, a muffled sound froze her in place. She strained her ears, hoping she was mistaken. But there it was again. Torn between retreating and confronting the truth, she pushed the door open.
The sight before her was a gut punch. Bola and Mike were tangled in betrayal. The dim room, lit only by the room's dim light, revealed discarded clothes and a dishevelled bed — silent witnesses to their deceit. Frozen in shock, neither made a move to cover up. As Mike began to rise, Yemi’s hand shot to her service pistol, levelling it at the pair.
Cornered, Mike stammered, “Baby, why are you here?”
Yemi’s laugh was bitter and sharp. “In my own room, Mike? That’s your question?”
“Yemi, I … I don’t know how to say this,” he mumbled, guilt evident in his downturned eyes. Bola’s gaze flitted around the room, searching for an exit. Yemi, however, had strategically positioned herself by the door, pulling up a chair to sit. She turned her attention to her sister.
“Bolanle, what did I ever do to you? You’ve always seemed to wish me harm. Even after I lost my baby because of you, I welcomed you into my home when your husband left you with nothing. Why?”
Bola’s eyes fixed on the bed, tears streaming. Yemi’s hands itched to strike her, but Mike’s voice broke through her rage.
“Sweetheart, it’s not like that. Please, let me — ”
“I don’t care how long this has been happening. Did you send me to the restaurant so you could spend time with my sister? Is that it?”
He remained silent, squirming and pulling the sheets over himself. Bola wrapped herself in the bedsheet. The room grew tense, filled only with the sound of Yemi’s ragged breaths.
Years of suppressed anger and pain exploded within her. "Bola." Yemi’s voice was chillingly calm. “You’ve always taken from me to find your own happiness. Now, you’ve taken everything. Enjoy it.”
Yemi was grateful for the silencer she’d acquired months ago. Attaching it to her gun, she dialled Emeka, her colleague.
“Emeka,” she feigned panic, “send officers to my house and some forensic experts. I’ve found my husband and sister dead in my room.”
Yemi’s heart raced, the gun’s cold grip contrasting with her warm hand. The soft click of her gun shattered the room’s silence, each shot fuelled by her pain and betrayal.
She fired at Bola, then immediately at her husband. Slipping on latex gloves, she collected the spent bullet casings into her bag. After ensuring no evidence remained, she wiped down the chair and left the room.
Minutes later, police sirens wailed outside. Her tears, already flowing, made it easy to play the part of a grieving wife.
Hello. Thank you for reading my story. It means so much to me. What did you think about the work? Do tell me in the comments. Also, you can clap 50 times for the story. This helps me get more views and engagements.
Finally, why not give me a follow and subscribe to my email list so you’ll be notified immediately when I drop a story?
