My Daughter’s Killer Wore My Husband’s Face / Chapter 15: The Zobo Revelation
My Daughter’s Killer Wore My Husband’s Face

My Daughter’s Killer Wore My Husband’s Face

Author: Jeanne Lopez

Chapter 15: The Zobo Revelation

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After school, Amara ran over, hooked my arm, and pecked me on the cheek.

I froze. My heart jumped. All the market women watched, whispering. I remembered my own wife’s warning: 'If I hear story for road, you go explain tire.'

I was shocked and quickly pushed her away. If my colleagues on patrol saw this, I’d have to write one long apology letter.

She giggled, flashing her phone for a quick selfie. 'Oga, relax na.'

Amara winked at me. “Help me out. Some bad boys have been disturbing me. If they see I have a police boyfriend, nobody will trouble me again.”

I looked across the road. Sure enough, four stubborn boys sat in a Toyota Corolla. When they saw me, they quickly wound up the windows and drove off.

One of them hissed, then sped away. Amara waved after them, triumphant.

Amara asked me to buy her zobo. She brought out a pack of cigarettes and lit one right in front of me.

The zobo seller grinned. 'Officer, na ya babe be this? Oga, if na your babe, better hold am well—Lagos boys no dey smile.' I shook my head, but Amara just laughed, smoke curling from her lips.

I started to wonder if she really saw Baba Tunde, or if she was just playing me.

I watched her, weighing her words like pepper in the market. Lagos girls—sharp, but not always reliable.

“First tell me, why didn’t Nnenna come to school? Why are you investigating her?”

I decided to be blunt. 'No time for games,' I told myself.

“She’s dead. Murdered.” I pointed at Baba Tunde’s photo. “This man is the suspect.”

People nearby gasped, their conversations turning to murmurs. Amara’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

Amara took the photo and looked at it carefully, then said, “No way. He can’t be the murderer.”

She twisted the picture in her hand, frowning like someone trying to solve a riddle.

“Why do you say so?”

My patience thinned. I could see my own reflection in her sunglasses, waiting for the truth.

“This man is Nnenna’s father! How can he kill his own daughter?”

Her words struck me harder than any slap. For a moment, the world tilted. I felt a cold wind pass through my soul, as if someone somewhere had whispered the true name of this darkness.

In that moment, I knew the real story was still hiding—deeper, sharper, and closer than I’d ever imagined. The truth was waiting, crouched in the shadows, ready to bite.

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