ENITAN
By the time Enitan turns into the Peters’ compound on Saturday afternoon, the harsh glare of the midday sun has finally softened, casting long, geometric shadows across the driveway.
The gateman waves enthusiastically before she can even lower her window.
“Welcome, Aunty Enitan!” Rilwan calls out, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Ma.”
“Good afternoon, Rilwan,” she replies, rolling the glass back up as she maneuvers into her usual parking space near the side hedge.
She switches off the ignition and sits in the brief stillness of the car cabin. Rilwan has been manning these gates since she was in secondary school, and he still uses that exact same deferential, high-pitched greeting every single time she visits. Some things truly never change.
She shoulders her laptop bag and finds the front door unlocked, stepping into the familiar scent of vanilla polish and lemongrass that has defined this house for over a decade.
“Mama P?”
Her voice has barely traveled down the hallway before Mrs. Peters emerges from the kitchen.
“Eniscosco!” The older woman’s face illuminates instantly with a vibrant smile. “My goodness. See this girl.”
Enitan bends slightly to greet her but the woman pulls her into her arms instead, sinking into a warm embrace. “You’ve become a scarce commodity these days,” Mrs. Peters notes as she pulls back.
“I was literally here barely three weeks ago.”
“And?” Mrs. Peters arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a long time?”
“Three weeks is short?” Enitan teases.
“Completely,” her mother’s friend replies, though the twinkle in her eyes betrays her. She holds Enitan by the shoulders, her objective radar scanning her features with that uncanny maternal precision. “You look drained, my dear.”
“I’m always drained, aunty. I blame capitalism.”
Mrs. Peters lets out a brief laugh, tapping her cheek gently. “I’ll blame your stubbornness instead. Come and sit down.”
“I actually came to—”
“Don’t worry, I know why you are here,” Mrs. Peters interrupts smoothly, her fingers sliding the strap of the laptop bag off Enitan’s shoulder. “Kitan mentioned that you both are working on a project together. Thank you for helping him with this his office work. For someone that fought his father to the last, I am surprised at how seriously he is taking the whole thing.”
Enitan offers a sheepish smile, walking beside her. “You know your son. He doesn’t know how to half-heartedly do things. I hope we are not disturbing you sha.”
“Disturb away, please,” Mrs Peters says, guiding her toward the second living room. They meander past it and settle in the dining room. “I’m actually happy that you’re here. Ever since your best friend got married and moved out, I barely see you again.”
“Work has been so intense, but I promise I’ll do better.”
“You must,” Mrs Peters insists, setting the laptop bag down. “Kitan stepped out to the terrace to take a call, but he’ll be back in a minute.”
She disappears briefly into the kitchen and returns balancing a small silver tray containing a bowl of chin-chin, a small dish of roasted groundnuts, and an insulated flask of herbal tea.
“Haba, Mama P...”
“I don’t want to hear pim,” Mrs Peters commands gently, pushing the plate closer. “I made this chin-chin myself this morning, so you cannot tell me no.”
Enitan laughs, yielding grudgingly as she pinches a handful of the crunchy pastry. “To be fair, you actually make the absolute best chin-chin.”
“Good. So you’ll be spending the night in Oyinda’s room.”
Enitan pauses mid-chew. “Ah, I’m not staying that late o. I can always drive back home.”
“You can,” Mrs. Peters nods matter-of-factly, smoothing the edge of the linen tablecloth with unhurried deliberation. “But you won’t. By the time you and Olakitan finish whatever serious calculations you are planning to do, night will have fallen. I will not feel at peace allowing you to navigate those bad roads alone. Lagos is not safe anymore.”
“Haba. I have driven home late from work uncountable times.”
“Yes,” Mrs Peters says softly, her gaze becoming affectionate as she looks up. “But just take it as an old woman who has missed you and wants to see this beautiful face for a while longer. Stay and have dinner with us. You can have breakfast tomorrow before you leave. If your church outfit is the issue, I can easily send the driver to pick something up from Luxenoir. You still wear a size 10, right?”
“Who is still a size 10?” Kitan’s deep voice booms from the archway.
Enitan turns instinctively. He is standing at the threshold, leaning his tall frame easily against the doorpost with his phone clutched in one hand. He is wearing a black V-neck t-shirt that molds perfectly to his broad shoulders, paired with loose grey lounge pants. Her eyes track the relaxed line of his collarbone for a fraction of a second before she quickly forces her gaze back up.
“I’m trying to convince Enitan to spend the night here,” his mother explains, gesturing toward the table.
Kitan slides his phone into his pocket, his expression unreadable as he walks over to pull out a chair. “Mummy, please free her. If she needs to go home, allow her to go in peace.”
“See this boy...” Mrs Peters grumbles.
“It’s okay. I will stay,” Enitan cuts in, offering a reassuring smile to defuse the friction. “But nobody is buying any new dress. I will just leave early in the morning and go home to change. I can’t promise to join in for breakfast, but I’ll be here this evening.”
“Awesome. That settles it then,” Mrs Peters says, her triumphant energy returning. “I changed the bedsheets in Oyinda’s room yesterday. You still love fried rice, right? I’ll make it myself for you.”
“No, please don’t stress yourself.” Enitan says quickly, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Kitan and I can just order something light later.”
“Nonsense. I insist. I’m making Ikokore for Oyinda anyway. These her pregnancy cravings have her wanting all sorts.”
Enitan chuckles, leaning her elbows on the table. “We spoke earlier. She is definitely going through it.”
“Her husband pampers her too much,” Mrs Peters notes, though a proud warmth softens her features.
“Just the way your own husband used to pamper you,” Enitan counters playfully. “I remember how you and Uncle Kola used to terrorize all of us with those your old-school public displays of affection in this exact living room.”
The vibrant energy fades from Mrs Peters’ face at the mention of her husband, the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere dragging their minds right back to the looming surgery waiting for them next week. The reminder of his fragile condition saturates the room like an unuttered truth.
Enitan realizes her misstep instantly. She reaches across the table, covering Mrs. Peters’ hand with a supportive, grounding squeeze. “Everything will go well. Don’t worry.”
Mrs. Peters takes a slow, measured breath, nodding once as she forces a brave smile back into place. “I believe that too, my dear. God is in control.”
Then, as if consciously deciding she has hovered over her anxieties enough for one afternoon, she pats Enitan’s hand and straightens her posture as she stands up. “Let me leave the two of you to your serious project work.”
“Thank you, Ma,” Enitan says softly.
As Mrs. Peters turns and starts toward the kitchen, Kitan finally breaks his silence, his voice low and steady as he tracks his mother’s retreating frame. “Mummy, make sure you take a resting break too. Allow Margaret assist you.”
Mrs Peters pauses at the swinging door, glancing back over her shoulder with a small, grateful nod. “I’ve heard you, Doctor. Adjust your chairs and start your work.”
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the dining room in a pressurized stillness. Kitan pulls his chair closer to the table, his analytical focus returning instantly as his eyes lock onto Enitan’s face.
“Did you bring the files?” he asks, his tone dropping into that exclusive register meant only for the two of them.
Enitan reaches for her bag, the levity of the afternoon completely vanishing. “They’re right here. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
********
Three hours later, the dining table is buried under a sprawling landscape of paperwork. Official documents overlap architectural project maps, and audited financial statements sit stacked beside valuation reports. Brightly coloured sticky notes have found their way onto almost every available surface, each carrying a hurried reminder in Enitan’s handwriting.
Kitan returns from his father’s upstairs study, balancing another massive stack of files against his chest.
“I think this is the last one,” he says, shifting his grip.
She glances up at the fresh pile. “You’ve said that three times already.”
“I mean it this time,” he insists, dropping them onto a clear corner.
“You also meant it the first two times,” she notes dryly.
“The previous files were just preliminary testing,” Kitan counters, pulling out his chair and settling into the soft knit fabric. “These are the actual master registries. I got them from my dad’s study. Pass me the acquisition ledger from the bottom of your tray.”
Enitan doesn’t move a muscle, keeping her eyes fixed on her laptop screen. “The blue folder?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“It’s not an acquisition ledger, it’s a vendor reconciliation summary,” she says levelly. “And it’s green, not blue.”
Kitan pauses, staring at the distinctly teal binder resting right beside her elbow. “Madam, that is very clearly blue.”
“It is actually turquoise, Kitan. If I say you are color blind now, you will say I have started but how is that even blue in your eye?”
“Do you need glasses?” Kitan deadpans, reaching across the table to snatch the file himself. “Because it is like the stress is getting to you.”
She scrunches her nose at him and a comfortable, focused stillness settles over the room as they plunge back into the documents individually. For twenty minutes, the only sound is the rustle of turning pages and the soft tap of Enitan’s pen against the wood.
Kitan suddenly halts, his eyes tracking a line of numbers on the first page of the ledger. He clears his throat softly. “You were right.”
She doesn’t look up from her spreadsheet. “About?”
“It’s a vendor reconciliation summary,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a low, reluctant register.
A small, genuine laugh escapes her before she can stop it. “I graciously accept your apology.”
“I didn’t actually apologize,” Kitan notes, a faint, amused glint in his eye. “I merely verified an empirical fact.”
“Same difference,” she murmurs, writing a quick note in the margin of a report before turning another page.
It takes another hour before either of them even thinks to check the time, so they barely notice when Mrs Peters appears in the dining room with the maid in tow, carrying a full tray.
“The two of you have not moved from this table in hours,” Mrs Peters notes, her voice instantly filling the room. “Don’t you people take breaks at all?”
Kitan reaches absentmindedly for his ceramic mug, his fingers tracking the handle before he realizes it is completely empty.
Mrs Peters sets the tray down with determination.
“Please, drop the pens and eat,” Mrs. Peters sets the tray down on the sideboard with absolute determination. The rich, savory aroma of the delicacy fills their nostrils. The platter consists of steaming fried rice as promised, golden fried plantains, peppered chicken, and a large glass jug of zobo.
“Food first.” she insists as she waves the maid off.
“Mummy—”
“No.” She points a stainless-steel serving spoon at both of them, leaving zero room for negotiation. “Your father used to do this exact same thing whenever he got obsessed with a new land bid. He would lock himself away and forget that human beings require sustenance.”
Kitan offers a helpless smile. “I know. But this one is entirely different, I promise.”
Mrs Peters begins dishing out generous portions before either of them can mount a proper protest. “You cannot solve all the company’s problems on an empty stomach.”
“We’re not trying to,” Kitan says, accepting his plate.
She raises an eyebrow, leaning against the sideboard. “It certainly looks like you are.”
For a little while, the treacherous files are completely forgotten. They devour the food as Mrs Peters settles into the chair at the head of the table, instantly launching into a hilarious chronicle from her week to keep their spirits up.
“You won’t believe what Mrs. Adebayo did on Thursday,” the older woman says, shaking her head. “She accidentally walked straight into the wrong wedding reception hall at the event center. She sat down, ate a full plate of jollof rice, finished a portion of small chops, and was halfway through her dessert before the bridal train finally marched in. It was only when she saw a completely strange bride and groom walking down the aisle that she realized she was supposed to be in Hall B, not Hall A.”
By the time she finishes the story, even Kitan is laughing loudly at her mannerisms.
Mrs Peters sips her herbal tea, her gaze drifting speculatively between the two of them before her maternal radar locks onto Enitan. “Anyway, Eni baby. Let’s leave Mrs Adebayo and her two plates of food. Tell me, are you seeing anybody at all? Any serious man in the picture?”
Kitan swallows his mouthful of zobo entirely wrong, hacking violently as he sets his glass down with a loud clatter.
Enitan narrows her eyes at him, coughing slightly into her napkin to hide her own fluster. “No, Ma. There’s nobody like that right now.”
“Ah-ahn, what are you waiting for?” Mrs Peters asks, throwing her hands up in genuine bewilderment. “A beautiful girl like you, with this your brilliant fire-brain? I am certain that they are rushing you out there. Abi, Kitan, am I lying? Tell your sister to open her eyes.”
Kitan suppresses a chuckle, wiping a stray drop of zobo from his lip as he glances at Enitan’s burning cheeks. “Mummy, you are not lying at all. They are truly rushing her.”
Enitan glares at him across the table, her foot making a blind, warning jab toward his shin beneath the wood.
“Also,” Kitan adds smoothly, shifting his legs out of her strike zone with an unbothered grin, “last I checked, I only have one sister. This big head sitting opposite me is definitely not my sister.”
His mother, entirely oblivious to the sudden, electric static that sparks across the table at his words, playfully waves a dismissive hand at her son. “Iwó lo mọ̀. Na you know. Sister or no sister, she is my own daughter, and you will be nice to her. Let me even go upstairs and speak to my husband.”
She gathers the empty plates a few minutes later, stacking them onto the silver tray with practised efficiency. She pauses at the dining room doorway, her expression turning soft and protective. “Please, lock the doors when you’re done. Sleep is a necessary requirement, Olakitan. Don’t make me come down here by 2:00 AM.”
“We’re wrapping up soon, Mum, don’t worry,” Kitan says levelly.
She gives her son a look that carries the extent of her disbelief. “You think I was born yesterday.” She turns and makes her way toward the stairs, her footsteps fading into the upper corridor.
Enitan is halfway through another complex set of financial schedules when Kitan pushes a single sheet of paper across the polished wood toward her.
“I don’t understand the logic here,” he says, his voice dropping back into that serious, calculated register.
Enitan pulls the sheet of paper closer, rotating the page until the printed columns sit directly under her view. “What don’t you understand?”
“This specific consultancy firm,” he says, his index finger tapping the black lettering. “It appears here on the Lekki land development overview.” He flips a page, pointing again. “And here in the infrastructure logistics budget.” He pulls a third file from the stack. “And right here on the commercial tower funding allocation.”
She nods, studying the entries. “So?”
“They are entirely unrelated projects across three different subsidiaries,” Kitan explains, his brows knitting together in deep concentration. “But this same consultancy keeps showing up on every single major disbursement list.”
Enitan frowns, her financial instincts prickling instantly. “No, it doesn’t.”
She reaches across the table, pulling two more vendor ledgers into the sprawling mess of paperwork. “Watch the data layout.”
One by one, she aligns the printed sheets side by side, her finger tracking the corporate entities. “The registered company names are completely different on these two projects.”
Kitan nods, leaning over the table. “Yeah, I can see that. They’re registered as separate limited liability entities.”
“Exactly,” she says, uncapping her pen with a swift motion. “But look right beneath the surface at the statutory documentation.”
With two swift, precise strokes of her pen, she circles the tiny, fine-print names listed under the schedule of directors. Then she flips to the next file and circles another set, then a third.
Kitan leans sharply forward, his chair scraping lightly against the tiled floor as he stares down at the marked pages. “They’re the exact same people.”
“Different shell companies. Same board of directors.”
Enitan reaches for yet another folder, sighing. “There are perfectly legitimate reasons why a major development group might operate through multiple companies—tax optimization, risk isolation, project financing limits, or general liability shielding. So this data point alone proves absolutely nothing.”
“But...”
“But,” she echoes, a grim focus hardening her voice, “...it officially earns another sticky note.”
She tears a fresh yellow square from the pad and writes carefully: Consultancy firms—same hidden directors?
She slaps the square onto the polished wood, joining the long, disciplined line of yellow paper already lining the edge of the table. Much later that night, that wall of yellow sticky notes becomes far more valuable than any single answer they have uncovered. Because every single note, every timeline, and every missing disbursement is pointing in the exact same direction.
KITAN
By the time the digital clock on the microwave flashes 9:30 PM, the dining table has completely vanished under a mountain load of corporate records. A yellow legal pad filled with Enitan’s neat handwriting sits balanced between them, dark arrows branching out in a dozen different directions until the entire page resembles a complex road map.
Kitan has long stopped asking where she wants each file. He simply slides them across the wood whenever she asks.
By 10:00 PM, the dining table is no longer enough. They migrate to the wall. Kitan unearths a roll of masking tape from somewhere in the kitchen drawer after twelve minutes of frantic searching and one swift phone call to his mother upstairs.
“You’ve lived here your whole life,” Enitan notes, a small grin tugging at her lips as she tears off a strip. “And you don’t know where a single thing is located.”
“Objection, I haven’t exactly been living here for the past sixteen years,” he retorts, leaning his tall frame against the plaster. “Just saying.”
She laughs softly, taking the roll from him. Soon, sheets of white paper begin climbing the wall in a sprawling grid. Enitan insists on arranging the files chronologically. Kitan keeps pulling them down, trying to cluster them according to specific real estate projects.
They bicker for five minutes before a long exhale escapes her. “Fine.”
He smiles victoriously, stepping back. Three minutes later, the moment his back is turned, she swiftly swaps two pages back into her timeline.
He catches the motion immediately in the glass reflection of the window. “I saw that.”
“Don’t lie,” she squeaks, not looking around. “Doesn’t it look better this way?”
He studies the layout again, his analytical gaze mapping the sequence. Then, letting out a dry laugh, he reluctantly peels his own project page away. “...Continue.”
She turns and playfully flashes her tongue at him. “I thought so.”
The next hour feels painfully slow. Every apparent breakthrough evaporates almost as quickly as it forms. One suspicious, unvouched payment turns out to have perfectly valid supporting documents hidden in a rear appendix; another unusual zoning approval has a completely reasonable explanation buried deep inside an old email thread. Kitan’s initial theories are systematically dismantled by her objective financial radar, leaving them right back at square one.
“You don’t enjoy being right this much at the office, do you?” he asks, dropping his head against his hand.
She keeps her eyes locked on a spreadsheet. “I absolutely do.”
“I feel immense sorrow for your colleagues.”
“They’re not complaining,” she murmurs and he shakes his head in response.
It is close to midnight when Kitan notices the structural gap. He walks slowly toward the wall, his eyes moving from one taped page to the next.
“Eni.”
“Hm?”
“Come and look at this.”
She joins him at the wall, folding her arms as she studies the timeline. “What are you seeing?”
“I don’t know yet.” His index finger hovers over three prominent sections of the grid. “These three. They’re all flagship commercial projects.”
She tilts her head slightly, her gaze tracing his finger. Then, reaching up, she cleanly peels a single sheet of paper off the wall: Project Emerald.
“What are you doing?”
“Watch.”
She steps back, allowing him to view the adjusted space. Without that single anomaly, the remaining documents suddenly collapse into a flawless, terrifying sequence. The sudden regulatory interruptions, the late-night approvals, and the targeted land acquisitions are all tightly clustered around the exact same geographical corridor of developments.
Kitan stares at the wall, the fog clearing instantly. “I didn’t even notice that pattern.”
“You were looking for similarities across the assets.”
“And you?”
“I was following the money.” She hands him the removed sheet. “This one doesn’t quite fit the full picture. It’s a distraction.”
He turns the page over once, absorbing her logic, then lays it flat on the dining table instead. “You know...” He glances back at her, a newfound respect sharpening his voice. “...you might actually be terrifying.”
She grins, her dimples showing. “I’ve heard that before.”
“It is so true.”
They return to the table. Without looking up, she stretches out her left hand like a surgeon demanding an instrument. “The valuation report.”
He slides it across. She murmurs a distracted thanks, flipping immediately to the middle section instead of the beginning. Enitan almost never reads a file from page one; she moves with a disciplined, intuitive certainty, knowing exactly where she’s going before she even gets there.
A few minutes later, she draws a sharp circle around an authorisation line, and then she pulls a secondary ledger toward her view. “No...” she mutters to herself.
Kitan looks up from his notes. “What?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, her eyes scanning another page, then another, her concentration absolute. Finally, she lifts her head to meet his gaze. “Who approves external consultants at Peters Holdings?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“The scale of the project.”
She nods once. “And the targeted land acquisitions?”
“Same answer.”
“What about the vendor onboarding process?”
“Finance handles that mostly.”
She writes a rapid line onto the pad. Kitan watches her for another minute before setting his own folder aside. “You’re clearly on to something. What is it?”
“I’ll tell you in a brief second. Hold on.” She swivels the yellow legal pad toward him, her pen tapping the center.
He studies her handwriting. She has mapped out three disciplined columns: Money. People. Timing.
“I don’t think this starts with the money,” she says, her voice dropping into a low tone. “I think it goes deeper than that.”
Kitan reaches for the nearest folder again, his competitive drive flaring. He wants to find a logical, structural variable that breaks her theory, refusing to believe the corruption is this deeply systemic.
Twenty minutes later, the confidence drains from his chest.
He traces the approval path of one stalled permit from the initial application to the final freeze. He tracks the exact same behavioural sequence on the Island development. He follows it again on the credit line delay. The same recurring footprint appears on every single bottleneck.
He pulls a separate internal routing file toward himself, checking the administrative logs. His chair rolls back slightly against the tiled floor.
“Eni.”
She hums, her eyes never leaving her laptop screen.
“Come and see something”
She moves around the table, stopping right beside his chair. Their shoulders almost touch as she bends over the open file, the subtle scent of her lingering perfume clearing the musty smell of old paper.
He points to the authorization box. “This initial regulatory clearance should have gone directly through Dantata’s Project Execution department.”
“It did,” she notes, skimming the text. “Or so it says on the cover sheet.”
“Look at the sub-routing log,” Kitan says, his finger tracing a tracking code. “The file was clearly pulled out of the system and signed off by a senior clearance director in an entirely different division. A director named K. F.“
She follows the paper trail with one finger, her brows knitting together. She reaches for a secondary folder, then another, comparing the routing metadata with practised speed, much quicker than he would ever manage.
“I think I’ve seen this before.” She returns to her seat, rifling through a stack of ledgers with an ease that suggests her brain has completely memorized the location of every anomaly.
Kitan watches the controlled chaos unfold across the table. Five heavy folders land on the wood with a dull thud. One opens, then another until she aligns the dates perfectly.
“There,” she says, her pen tip landing on the page. “Look at the authorization window for these two projects.”
Kitan leans forward. The approving departments change, the external project managers change, and even the listed sub-contractors change. One overarching managerial signature doesn’t.
His eyes settle on the formal, stamped name at the bottom of the clearing logs: Kunle Fajemirokun.
He sits back, his heart thudding against his ribs. “Could that just be standard operating procedure for his office? He is the CFO, after all.”
“It could be,” she says, her voice turning deeply analytical, though her expression remains entirely unconvinced. “So on paper, it isn’t strange.”
“Yeah. Not by itself.”
She picks up her pen again. “What bothers me isn’t that his office name appears on the clearance logs.” She draws a tight circle around one of the dates. “It’s the specific timing of when his division intervened.”
Kitan looks right where she’s pointing.
She continues, her logic razor-sharp. “Every single time the Finance department gets involved unusually early in the land procurement loop...” Her pen moves to the next ledger page. “...something fundamental changes in the project’s funding timeline immediately afterward.”
Kitan studies the data again. He isn’t ready to draw the ultimate conclusion, and neither is she. It is too early to know if the Chief Financial Officer is the true hand behind the curtain or simply a very convenient shield. But for the first time this evening, Kitan finally understands why she kept asking questions that had absolutely nothing to do with accounting numbers.
She hadn’t just been following the money. She had been tracing the blueprint.
He looks across the table at her. She has already moved on, her mind completely consumed by the next variable—another file, another handwritten sticky note, and another analytical question written into the margin.
The rest of the dining room seems to recede into a blurred background. He has known Enitan for years. He remembers the teenager who spent many hot afternoons loudly arguing with Oyinda over whose turn it was to wash the plates in the back kitchen. He remembers how she used to turn up at this exact house carrying textbooks that looked bigger than she was. He remembers teasing her ruthlessly about her meticulous, color-coded lecture notes.
Somewhere between then and now, she has become extraordinary. He isn’t quite sure when the shift happened. Only that he is seeing it now, brilliantly and undeniably without question. He catches himself and forces his gaze back to the paper in front of him just before she looks up.
What in God’s name is happening to him?
Author’s Note: Delusion don tie wrapper, who wants to answer Kitan? who will tell him?🤭🤣
Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), Chapter Nine (2), Chapter Ten, and Chapter Eleven.
See you next week Monday.🫶🏽
Kitan sharp guy😹
He quickly denied Enitan as his sister 😹😹
Make mama no sister-zone him babe 😹😹😭
Not me getting lost in all the finance terminologies. Do people actually know these things? 😭 God Abeg!