Chapter 7: Vengeance and Accidents

Yetunde was kept in detention, waiting for trial and assessment.

The building looked like a forgotten place—paint peeling, guards sleepy, hope left at the gate. No visitors allowed. Mr. Femi couldn’t see her. Some officers called it a blessing; others pitied him, left alone with a broken child.

Rumours flew. Some said they saw Mr. Femi at the chemist, buying strange things. After Yetunde was caught, we informed him, but he said he had to look after his daughter. His voice was flat, neither sorrow nor joy.

He had vanished, existing only as a ghost in his own house.

Sulaiman’s guardians—just old grandparents—came daily to the station, shouting and weeping. Their pain was so raw even the hardest officers turned away.

We let them sit in the waiting room, bringing water, sometimes food. Nobody could drive away their grief.

They forgot how they’d danced when Sulaiman escaped punishment, now cursed when the table turned.

Yetunde’s lawyer arrived sharp-sharp. Shiny shoes, big English, ready to defend to the last. Some suspected Yetunde was pretending. The speed of the lawyer made people talk.

For days, trouble followed trouble. The whole town buzzed with gossip and fear. I didn’t realise all these small things were building a puzzle.

As my father used to say, "No matter how long the night, morning go show."

But trouble, once born, does not die young.

Another incident happened.

The village held its breath, waiting for the next blow.