Chapter 13: The Detective’s Obsession

Nnenna’s father’s threat was not empty. I soon started feeling the heat.

Calls came in from above. The DPO's voice became clipped. The pressure was thick, heavy, and suffocating. Even my landlady started hinting that I should be careful.

The team leader asked me every day when the case would close, and the DPO himself kept telling me to hand it over to the court quickly.

'Officer, do you like your job?' my team leader asked one morning. I could only nod and bite my tongue.

But the more Nnenna’s father pressured me, the less I wanted to drop the case. I was sure Baba Tunde must have suffered something that made him kill Nnenna out of anger.

My stubbornness grew. My spirit refused to rest. I started dreaming of Nnenna, of her eyes begging for justice.

I copied the CCTV of my conversation with Nnenna’s parents and replayed her gesture again and again.

The replay became my obsession. I watched the video late into the night, ignoring my wife’s sighs and my children’s laughter from the parlour.

She seemed to be gripping something with both hands and suddenly swinging it forward, like she was hitting something.

I slowed the video. Her wrist movement was smooth, familiar—almost professional.

I asked a few fishing lovers online, but after watching the video, they all said it didn’t look like fishing.

“Fish hooks are sharp. If you swing them behind you, you’ll hook your own skin or clothes. Her motion is much bigger—more like hitting something.”

Their voice notes came in with laughter and jokes, but no answers. My frustration deepened.

The word “hit” made me think. I rushed to the nearby tennis court to watch the players swing.

It was late evening, but the court was alive with shouts. The snap of strings, the grunt of effort. I saw the same motion, again and again—backhand, forehand, slice.

I realised—Nnenna’s mother’s gesture was a classic backhand stroke.

A shiver ran through me. The kind you get when you realise a masquerade knows your name.

Could it be that the issue between Baba Tunde and the Okafor couple had something to do with tennis?

I paced outside the court, mind racing. Tennis was more than a hobby for them—it was a sign, a language, a secret?

But there was nothing tennis-related among Baba Tunde’s belongings, and to be honest, he was big and didn’t look like someone who played tennis.

You could tell by the way his shirt strained at the buttons. No tennis shoes, no wristbands, nothing. He looked more like the type to play draughts at the corner shop.

I had no choice but to visit the Okafor family’s home to look for clues.

My wife warned me, 'Be careful. These big people get power.' But I went, clutching my notepad like a talisman.

I bought some gifts at the market and, pretending to offer condolences, was allowed in by Nnenna’s mother.

I came with bread, Maltina, and a bottle of olive oil—things that show respect, things you offer when words fail.

Unlike Baba Tunde, the Okafor couple were real tennis lovers. Their rackets hung proudly in the living room, with trophies and photos filling the shoe cabinet by the door.

You could smell fresh polish and see their names engraved on the plaques. They wore tennis whites in almost every photo, grinning, hands raised in victory.

I asked if I could see Nnenna’s room, but Nnenna’s mother told me—Nnenna didn’t have her own room.

I paused, pen frozen midair. Who doesn’t give a girl her own room in such a big house?

“She usually studied in the study, and at night she slept with me. My husband sleeps in another bedroom.”

There was a sadness in her voice, but also pride. 'We are very close,' she said, forcing a smile.

I was shocked. Didn’t this mean Nnenna had no privacy at all?

Even the housegirl, who brought me a glass of water, looked away. I wrote it down: "No privacy."

Nnenna’s mother seemed uneasy. “That girl always sneaks novels to read at night. Her eyes are now so bad. We have no choice.”

She sounded annoyed, as if blaming Nnenna for her own misery. My heart squeezed small, like when NEPA takes light in the middle of a Champions League match.

I became even more sure that Nnenna’s parents were not normal. Their control over their daughter was almost like a sickness.

It reminded me of a pastor’s sermon on overprotection—that too much love can be like a chokehold.

Living in a house like this, it’s no wonder the girl wanted to run away.

Any girl would long for air, for space to dream, to fail, to be.

But the question remained: how did she just happen to run into Baba Tunde on her way out? Could it really be by chance?

Too much coincidence, I thought. In our land, we know that when a goat runs towards the butcher, something is wrong somewhere.

Suddenly, a thought came to me—

An idea, sharp as broken glass. Was it possible Nnenna left home that day not to escape, but to find someone?

Could it be that Nnenna went to find Baba Tunde on purpose?

My pen trembled. If this was true, everything would change.