Chapter 8: Accidents by Moonlight

As I said before, one of the children who hurt Eniola, Chisom, still lived in the county town.

His house sat near the Anglican church—a place many thought safe. Evil, abeg, no dey fear holy ground.

Before Yetunde was caught, we had men watching his house. After her arrest, we relaxed, thinking the storm was over.

Then, trouble knocked again—quiet, deadly.

This time, it was a car accident. The roads at night are dangerous, but nobody saw this twist coming.

That night, Chisom’s parents packed in a hurry, neighbours said, as if running from something chasing them in the dark.

On the traffic camera, their car sped—doing eighty, maybe ninety—fear pressing their foot on the pedal.

Then, a crash. Tyres screeched, metal twisted, the world flipped. Villagers rushed out with lanterns and cutlasses.

Chisom and his mother, in the back without seatbelts, died on the spot. The mother’s headscarf was still tied, as if hoping for better days. The father landed in ICU, fate hanging like a cassava stem after heavy rain—ready to snap.

The other driver? Mr. Femi. The same man who always claimed he couldn’t leave his daughter’s side.

His own car didn’t go off-road. Broken ribs, fractured foot. Lucky—or cursed—to survive.

When I saw him in hospital, he looked transformed. Hair cut, eyes red but sharp, beard gone. Even lying in bed, he looked ready for war.

He nodded at me, eyes steady. No fear, no apology.

I asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

He stared back. "Officer, life no easy. Sometimes you do wetin you must do."

He claimed it was an accident—changing lane, both cars to blame.

But we both knew the truth was more tangled than police forms.

Still, unless he confessed, it was just a traffic accident.

Law is blind to motive, unless you open its eyes.

I couldn’t hold my anger. “Your wife is mad, now you too? If you die, who will look after your daughter?”

He stared through me, pain bigger than my uniform. I felt like a small boy caught stealing meat.

He leaned forward, voice low. “Officer, let me ask—are the parents innocent? If not, can the law punish them?”

I had no answer. Even elders say, "If pikin dey bad, na house e start." But the law cannot punish them.

“Also, officer, one more thing…”

His next words changed the case forever. My head spun as I left, burden heavy on my chest.