Mimi Writes

BAD BOY OF BANANA ISLAND

Written by Nwauwa Chigozirim Miriam

CHAPTER 18: The Commissioner’s Office

FEMI

The ride to the station wasn't a perp walk. It was a motorcade.

My father’s convoy sandwiched the Fixer’s car where Teni and I sat. We weren't in handcuffs. We were in a Mercedes S-Class with tinted windows so dark that day turned into twilight inside.

Teni sat beside me, her hand gripping mine so tight her knuckles were white. She had changed into her jeans and a simple shirt, but she looked more regal than Zina ever had in couture.

"Are you scared?" she whispered.

"No," I said. And I meant it. "For the first time in three years, I'm not looking over my shoulder."

The car slowed. I looked out the window.

We weren't going to a regular police station. We were at the State Command Headquarters in Ikeja. The gates were swarmed. Cameras, microphones, satellite vans.

The Confession had gone viral. The world was watching.

"Keep your head down," the Fixer said from the front seat. "Do not speak to the press. Do not look at them. We drive straight into the compound."

We pushed through the sea of reporters. I saw placards. Justice for Joseph. Jail the Rich.

It stung. But it was fair.

The car stopped in the inner courtyard. The Chief’s car was already there. He stood by the entrance, surrounded by a phalanx of lawyers who looked like they charged by the nanosecond.

I stepped out. The heat was stifling.

"Femi," my father said. He didn't look at me. He looked at the building. "Inside. Don't say a word."

We walked into the Commissioner's office. It was huge, air-conditioned, and smelled of lemon polish and corruption. There was a portrait of the President on the wall and a Nigerian flag in the corner.

The Commissioner, a large man with a face like a bulldog, stood up.

"Chief Adeleke," he boomed, extending a hand. "A very unfortunate situation. Very unfortunate."

"Commissioner," my father nodded. "My son is unwell. He has been under extreme duress. Kidnapping. Trauma. He wasn't in his right mind when he made that... video."

"I was," I said, stepping forward.

The room went silent. The lawyers looked at me like I was a bomb that hadn't detonated yet.

"I was in my right mind," I repeated. "And I am here to make a statement."

"Femi," one of the lawyers—a SAN with grey hair—interjected smoothly. "We advise you to remain silent. We can file a motion for—"

"I don't need a motion," I said. "I need a pen."

I looked at the Commissioner.

"I want to confess to vehicular manslaughter," I said. "And I want to file charges against Sunday Udoh for kidnapping and extortion."

"And your father?" the Commissioner asked, his eyes darting to the Chief. "You mentioned... complicity."

My father stood rigid. He was the most powerful man in the room, perhaps in the state. He could crush careers with a phone call.

I looked at him. I saw the fear behind the sunglasses. If I implicated him on record, he was finished. The Adeleke Group would collapse. Thousands of people would lose their jobs.

But if I lied, I was just another rich boy buying his way out.

I looked at Teni. She gave me a small nod. Do the right thing.

"My father," I said slowly, "paid Sunday Udoh to dispose of the vehicle because he thought... he thought it was just property damage. He didn't know about the victim until recently."

It was a lie. A partial lie. A mercy.

The Chief exhaled. His shoulders dropped an inch.

"However," I continued, "I knew. And I ran. That is on me. I am the driver. I am the one who killed Joseph Akpan."

I sat down in the chair in front of the Commissioner’s desk.

"Book me," I said.

TENI

The interrogation—if you could call it that—lasted four hours.

They treated Femi with kid gloves, but he refused the comfort. He refused the tea. He refused the breaks. He told them everything about the night of the accident. He gave them the dates, the times, the location.

I sat in the corner, watching him. He was dismantling his own life, brick by brick, and he looked... peaceful.

The Chief sat on the other side of the room, on his phone, doing damage control. He was selling assets, calling board members, spinning narratives. He was trying to save the Titanic after it had already hit the iceberg.

Finally, the statement was signed.

"Based on your confession and the circumstances," the Commissioner said, "we will charge you with vehicular manslaughter. However, given that you turned yourself in, and given the kidnapping situation... bail is set at fifty million naira."

"Paid," the Chief said instantly.

"And your passport is seized," the Commissioner added. "You are not to leave Lagos."

"I'm not going anywhere," Femi said.

We walked out of the office. The sun was setting.

"Femi," the Chief said. We stopped in the courtyard.

The Chief looked at his son. There was no warmth in his eyes. Only calculation.

"You saved the company from a criminal investigation by taking the fall alone," the Chief said. "That was... smart."

"I didn't do it for the company," Femi said. "I did it because I'm tired of your help."

"You are going to prison, Femi," the Chief said coldly. "Manslaughter carries a sentence. I can get you a light one, maybe house arrest, but you will be a convict. Your future is over."

"My future is just starting," Femi replied.

The Chief turned his gaze to me.

"And you," he sneered. "The architect of this disaster."

"The janitor," I corrected. "I cleaned up your mess."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He scribbled something and ripped it out.

He held it out to me.

"One hundred million," he said. "Severance pay. Take it. And disappear. Leave my son alone. He has enough problems without a gold-digger hanging around his neck."

I looked at the check. One hundred million naira.

That was security. That was a house. That was a business. That was never worrying about money again.

I looked at Femi. He wasn't looking at the check. He was looking at me. He didn't tell me to reject it. He didn't tell me to take it. He just waited.

I took the check.

The Chief smiled, a triumphant curling of his lip. "Everyone has a price."

I tore the check in half. Then in quarters.

I threw the pieces at the Chief's feet.

"My mother's surgery is paid for," I said. "That was the deal. Anything else? I don't want your blood money."

I walked over to Femi and laced my fingers through his.

"We're leaving," I said.

"How?" the Chief asked, stunned. "I am not giving you a car."

"We'll take an Uber," Femi said. "I hear the surge pricing isn't too bad right now."

We walked out of the police headquarters, hand in hand, leaving the billionaire and his lawyers standing in the dust.

TENI

The media storm outside was intense, but we pushed through it. Femi didn't hide his face this time. He looked straight at the cameras. He looked sad, but he didn't look ashamed.

We got into a Bolt—a beat-up Toyota Camry this time.

"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing us in the rearview mirror.

"Yaba," Femi said.

"No," I said. "St. Nicholas Hospital."

Femi looked at me. "Your mom?"

"She's going into surgery tomorrow," I said. "I need to be there. And... I want you to meet her."

He squeezed my hand. "I look like a criminal."

"You are a criminal," I teased gently. "But you're my criminal."

We arrived at the hospital an hour later. The VIP ward was quiet.

Maami was awake. She looked better than she had in months, thanks to the pre-op care. She was sitting up, watching the news.

Femi’s face was on the screen.

When we walked in, she looked from the TV to Femi, then to me.

"Teniola," she said.

"Maami," I said, walking to the bed. "This is..."

"I know who he is," she said. She looked at Femi. Her gaze was sharp, discerning. She had the same eyes as me.

Femi stood by the door, looking unsure. He was holding his hands behind his back like a schoolboy in trouble.

"Good evening, Ma," he said respectfully. "I am Femi."

"The boy who crashed the car," she said.

"Yes, Ma."

"The boy who confessed."

"Yes, Ma."

"The boy who paid for my kidney."

Femi blinked. "Technically, my father paid for it."

"But he paid for it because of you," she said. She beckoned him closer. "Come here."

He walked to the bedside.

"My daughter," Maami said, looking at me, "is very stubborn. She has a big mouth. And she judges people too quickly."

"Maami!" I protested.

"It is true," she said. She looked at Femi. "But she is also loyal. If she is standing beside you... then you must have done something right."

She took Femi's hand.

"Do not break her heart, Femi Adeleke. I might be sick, but I can still shout."

Femi smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had seen on his face all day.

"I won't, Ma. I promise."

"Good. Now, go away. I need to sleep before they cut me open tomorrow."

We walked out of the room. In the hallway, Femi leaned against the wall and let out a long breath.

"She's terrifying," he said.

"She's from Yaba," I reminded him.

"So," he said, looking at me. "What now?"

"Now," I said, checking my phone. "We wait for the surgery. We wait for the trial. We deal with the trolls."

"And Zina?"

"Zina is currently trending for 'attempted kidnapping' on Twitter," I said, showing him the screen. "The police picked her up an hour ago. She was trying to board a flight to London."

"Good," Femi said. He didn't sound happy. Just resolved.

"And us?" I asked. "What happens to us?"

He pushed off the wall and stepped into my space.

"I'm broke," he said. "My father froze my accounts. I don't have a car. I'm facing jail time."

"I know," I said. "You're a fixer-upper."

"But," he said, touching my cheek. "I have never felt richer."

He kissed me. Right there in the hospital hallway, under the fluorescent lights, smelling of antiseptic and hope.

"I love you, Teni," he whispered.

My heart did that flip again.

"I love you too, Femi."

We walked out of the hospital into the Lagos night. The air was humid, the traffic was loud, and the future was uncertain.

But for the first time in a long time, neither of us was afraid of the dark.

THE END.

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