KITAN
Kitan slips his phone back into his pocket, but the ghost of their back and forth still lingers on his face. He looks across the table, watching Enitan pick up her fork and say something to Oyinda that makes his sister burst into a wide, bright smile.
The warmth that spreads in his chest is almost tangible.
BZZZ.
The vibration against his thigh is longer this time. He pulls the device back out, expecting another sharp retort from Enitan.
Instead, a completely different name flashes on the locked screen.
Amelia:
The department is an absolute zoo tonight. Barry mistakenly ordered a chest CT for a sprained ankle, and I had to physically block the doors to stop him. We are missing our anchor over here. How are you holding up, Peters?
The contrast hits him like a sudden drop in temperature.
Kitan stares at the glowing text, his thumbs hovering over the virtual keyboard as the chaotic reality of St. Thomas’ Hospital rushes back into his mind. He can practically smell the chemical tang of the antiseptic and hear the relentless ping of the cardiac monitors in the resuscitation bays. That is his world. The life he built from scratch, hour by grueling hour, five thousand kilometers away.
He looks up from the screen, his eyes automatically finding Enitan again. She is laughing at a joke Kamil just made, the amber light of the ballroom catching the delicate gold edge of her earring.
The transition is jarring. A month ago, his life was measured in shift rotations, trauma alerts, and drinks with Amelia after a brutal twenty-four-hour run. Now, he is sitting in a bespoke tuxedo in a Lagos ballroom, holding the unyielding expectations of his father’s legacy in one hand and an entirely unrecognizable, hyper-awareness of his sister’s best friend in the other.
He looks back down, typing out a speedy, tightly managed reply.
Kitan:
Tell Barry I am revoking his clinical privileges from here. I’m hanging in there. Give the team my best. I miss you guys.
He locks the phone and sets it face-down on the table, the levity from moments ago completely evaporated. He can feel the distant pull of London calling him back to who he used to be, even as the gravity of everything happening in this room anchors him firmly to the spot.
KITAN
Kitan cannot believe he is still in the office at 9:30 PM, but this is where the current of his day has somehow carried him.
He leans back slowly in the ergonomic leather chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. The office still does not feel like his. Even after six weeks, the space carries the heavy shadow of the executive director who occupied it before him. Lawson had quietly suggested it would make more sense for Kitan to operate from this specific floor if he intended to “understand the flow of things properly.” Now, a temporary wooden nameplate plaque sits on the edge of the wooden desk, a daily reminder of his provisional status.
They keep insisting this arrangement is temporary, but nothing about the reality feels that way.
The truth is tucked inside his inbox. Three weeks ago, he officially requested an emergency extension on his statutory leave of absence. The formal email from the hospital’s HR department still sits unanswered, a blinking cursor demanding a response. Please confirm your expected return date. He has reread it four times since he opened it.
As a consultant in emergency medicine, he had used a combination of accumulated annual leave and an exceptional compassionate extension due to a “critical family medical emergency” to buy this time. But the hospital is bleeding staff, they cannot hold his rotation slot indefinitely.
Yet, he has no answer to give them because his father is running out of time.
The tumor is locally advanced, dangerously close to major abdominal vasculature, and the upcoming Whipple procedure is a massive, high-stakes surgery. They have spent the last six weeks aggressively prepping him - managing his biliary drainage, optimizing his nutrition, and praying his hepatic panels remain stable enough for the surgeon to operate next week.
Kitan has secretly given himself a strict deadline: he will not even think about a flight back to London until his father is wheeled out of that post-op intensive care unit.
Because of this mental tightrope, his days are entirely fractured. Some afternoons, he catches his hand automatically reaching for a stethoscope that hasn’t been around his neck in a month and a half.
Other days he wakes up genuinely disoriented in his childhood bedroom, forgetting for several seconds that he is in Lagos, not his penthouse flat in waterloo.
The transition hasn’t been entirely blind, though. Six weeks pass quickly when you are forced to adapt. Kitan learned faces first, then names, then the unspoken power dynamics of the boardroom.
The corporate world is slowly beginning to make sense in fragments. Meetings have stopped sounding like a foreign language. He is no stranger to grueling hours or digesting dense, multi-page case files under pressure, medical school had trained him well for that.
Armed with that academic stamina and guided by Lawson, who acts as an exceptionally patient, sharp-witted mentor, Kitan is starting to find his footing. He can now recognize which executives talk merely to fill the silence and which ones hold the room when they speak. It is an exhausting venture but discovering he can actually navigate this terrain is unexpectedly rewarding.
Beside his laptop, his phone screen illuminates with a notification. It’s a WhatsApp message from Amelia.
Amelia:
Your locum replacement nearly contaminated a sterile field today. Okay, fine, she didn’t, but she’s definitely not you. The A&E is in shambles. I’ve barely slept this week so I’m probably seeing double. Our favourite coffee machine is broken. Also, you owe me a phone call.
Despite the exhaustion pressing on his eyelids, a faint smile touches his lips as his thumbs move over the keyboard.
Kitan:
Tell the clinical lead I am officially blacklisting you from taking extra shifts until I get back. You need to sleep, Amelia. An exhausted registrar is a liability.
Amelia:
Tell that to the double shifts logged on my rota. I’m practically covering your tracking list and my own patients. When are you coming back? It’s brutal out here without you.
Kitan stares at the glowing screen, the smile fading. He locks the phone without replying and sets it face-down on the desk.
He shifts his attention back toward the massive spreadsheet glowing across his laptop screen. Rows upon rows of data stare back at him - acquisition costs, project disbursements, subsidiary accounts, and loan schedules.
Earlier that afternoon, wanting to test his own progress, he had asked the group’s chief accountant to send him a comprehensive breakdown of the holdings’ current financial structures. The man had looked distinctly impressed by the request.
By evening, Kitan understood why. The files are monumental.
In medicine, tiny inconsistencies are everything. One abnormal lab result, one symptom slightly out of sequence, one detail that refuses to fit the diagnostic criteria, that is usually where the truth hides.
Right now, looking at the Q2 disbursement tabs, his diagnostic instincts are prickling in that exact same way. Something feels mathematically misaligned.
The problem is, his medical degree hasn’t given him the vocabulary to articulate why it looks wrong.
He stares at the glowing ledger for another thirty seconds before conceding defeat. He picks up his phone and calls Enitan. She answers on the third ring.
“Prodigal son,” she greets him immediately, her voice vibrant through the speaker. “Don’t tell me you are still at the office at this time?”
Usually, he would fire back with a sarcastic comment about her own work hours, but tonight his energy is spent. “Eni,” he says softly, rubbing a hand over his temple. “I need your help.”
The teasing tone drops instantly, replaced by a protective alertness. “Ah. You sound completely drained. What’s wrong?”
“I asked the finance team for a breakdown of the group’s project accounts,” he says, exhaling a labored breath. “I’m looking at the sheets right now, but it may as well be written in Greek.”
An understanding chuckle comes through the line. “Welcome to financial forensics. What exactly did they dump on you?”
“Everything from the past two quarters. Could you help me look through it?”
“Of course. Forward the files to my email.”
Kitan glances back at the endless columns of data. “I should probably warn you that the file looks like a digital endless scroll. I gave up after the twentieth tab.”
“Please,” she scoffs playfully. “That’s light work. I analyze multinational energy portfolios for breakfast. Your supposed one million tabs doesn’t scare me.”
The effortless confidence in her voice coaxes a soft laugh from him, the tight knot of frustration in his shoulders loosening slightly. “I’m sorry to dump this on you, Eni. I know you already have a crazy workload.”
“Haba, Kitan,” her voice softens, “It’s family. Don’t even mention it.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Don’t thank me yet. Let me make sure I can actually make sense of your project codes first before you celebrate.”
“Fair point. I don’t think I have your email address, though.”
“I’ll text it to you right now.” There is a brief pause punctuated by the sound of shifting papers on her end. “And Kitan? Close the laptop and go home. You’ve done more than enough for one day.”
He glances around the dimly lit executive floor, his eyes landing back on the temporary nameplate on his desk. “Yes, ma.”
She lets out a knowing hum, clearly unconvinced that he will actually obey. “Goodnight, Kitan.”
The call ends. Kitan lowers the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before sliding it into his pocket. He looks back at the spreadsheet, hesitates, and then deliberately shuts the laptop lid down, honoring her instruction.
His head is pounding with the onset of a tension headache but as he gathers his keys and drags his tired feet out into the hallway, the day feels a little less insurmountable.
ENITAN
By midnight, her dining table has disappeared beneath a landscape of printed financial statements, handwritten notes, and her laptop, all flanked by two empty mugs she forgot to clear away hours ago.
Enitan pushes her glasses higher up her nose and stares at the screen. Then back at the printed statement in front of her. Then back at the screen.
No way.
Her fingers move quickly across the trackpad. Different quarter. Different subsidiary. Same anomaly.
A slow exhale leaves her mouth. It has been roughly three hours since Kitan forwarded the files and well past her bedtime. At first, she genuinely thought she was overthinking it. She blamed fatigue, her own unfamiliarity with Peters Holdings’ internal maze, or perhaps an overeager tendency to find patterns where none existed.
But the deeper she digs, the more calculated the pattern becomes.
The red flag first appeared when she stopped looking at the polished quarterly financial summaries and began cross-referencing the group’s consolidated Trial Balance directly against the raw Subsidiary Ledgers for Project Atlas.
That is where the holes started to show. A massive eight-figure disbursement for “initial site procurement” is listed as fully cleared on the main corporate balance sheet, but when she pulls up the actual bank reconciliation ledgers for that subsidiary, the corresponding cash outflow simply isn’t there.
The money leaves the parent company’s accounts, but it vanishes before hitting the project’s actual ledger. When she digs further into the previous quarter, she finds the exact same anomaly: large round-sum payments categorized as “vendor advances” that completely lack supporting journal entries or invoice matching.
Individually, every single transaction sits just beneath the threshold that would trigger an automated internal audit or flag an external reviewer. It is a brilliant camouflage because it’s easy to write these off as standard timing differences or backlogged paperwork waiting to be cleared by a lazy accountant.
But as she stacks the statements side by side, the gaps are too consistent, the omissions too clean. It isn’t a definitive proof of fraud yet, nor does she know where the money is actually landing, but the books are fundamentally failing to balance.
The scaffolding is completely out of alignment, and Enitan knows with absolute certainty that this isn’t a clerical error. Something is very wrong.
She leans back slowly in her chair, her eyes burning as another reconciliation refuses to balance.
A biting headache has started building behind her eyes. Absentmindedly, her right hand moves to her left wrist, her thumb finding her pulse point before sliding down to trace the small, raised scar just below it. It is a faint, puckered remnant from a childhood fall.
An unconscious habit that she only ever retreats to when her mind is spinning out of control. She traces the ridge of skin once, twice, pressing down until the dull ache matches the throb in her temples.
No matter how she turns the figures over in her head, the conclusion remains the same. Somebody is cooking these books.
Enitan closes the laptop halfway, staring down at the scattered papers across the table as the numbers replay relentlessly behind her eyes: Project Atlas, the land acquisition schedules, the subsidiary transfers, and those inflated consultancy disbursements that somehow kept circling back through intermediary accounts.
Her mind immediately goes to Uncle Kola. He gave his life for the integrity of this company. Then she thinks of Kitan and what this news will do to a family already balancing on emotionally shaky ground. His father’s surgery is only a week away. If this explodes now, it will tear them apart before the man even makes it to the operating theater.
She traces the scar on her wrist again, harder this time.
Maybe I should wait, she thinks. Maybe I need more confirmation first. More evidence. Because if I say something and I’m wrong—
But the thought cuts off instantly. She isn’t wrong. She knows beyond a doubt that she is right.
Enitan shuts the laptop fully. The sharp snap of the lid echoes too loudly in the apartment, swallowed immediately by the low, continuous hum of the refrigerator. For several seconds, she simply sits in the stillness, a cold unease settling at the base of her spine.
The terrifying part isn’t just the fraud; it’s that Kitan is sitting in that office trusting the people around him completely, entirely unaware that he is surrounded by a den of vipers.
Her phone lights up suddenly, a bright flash between the scattered documents.
Kitan:
You alive?
Despite the tightness in her chest, a small, sad smile tugs briefly at her mouth. Before she can type, a second message follows. Why is he still awake?
Kitan:
Gosh. Please tell me I didn’t bury you under too much work. Haven’t heard from you since I sent the email and I know you. Ignore if you’re actually asleep and see this in the morning.
Enitan looks from the glowing screen to the closed laptop. The timing feels almost cruel. She understands with painful clarity that whatever she says next could permanently alter the trajectory of his life, his family, and the company.
Her fingers hover briefly above the glass before she finally types back.
Enitan:
Alive. Barely.
The three blinking dots appear immediately.
Kitan:
That bad?
Enitan looks back toward the closed laptop, her thumb rubbing against the scar on her wrist one last time as she makes her decision. She cannot dump this on him tonight. Not with his father’s life hanging in the balance next week.
Enitan:
It’s nothing I can’t handle, don’t worry.
Kitan:
Kai. Please take things easy. Also, food is not a suggestion. Please eat.
She stares at the message for another moment, letting the comfort from his protective instinct wash over her before locking the phone and placing it face-down on the table.
Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Enitan reaches out, lifts the laptop lid, and opens the spreadsheets back up. There is still a long way to go before morning.
ENITAN
The evening traffic from the island to the mainland is always a test of patience, but the moment Enitan steps into her mother’s sitting room, the stress of the drive evaporates.
Her mother, Mrs. Abiodun—a woman whose posture remains as straight and unyielding as it was during her thirty years as a secondary school teacher—is already coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“Enitanoluwa,” her mother greets her, her face lighting up with a brilliant, wide smile. Only she uses the full, sacred extension of Enitan’s name, a lingering habit from the years when it was just the two of them against the world. “You are finally here. Come and sit down. Let me look at you.”
Enitan smiles, pulling her mother into a lingering embrace. “Good afternoon, Mummy.”
“God bless you, my daughter.” Mrs. Abiodun steps back, holding Enitan by the shoulders and scanning her face with an educator’s critical eye. She spots the faint shadows under her eyes instantly, her smile faltering into a frown as she reaches up to cup her cheek. “Look at these dark circles. Enitanoluwa, are you sleeping at all? You cannot kill yourself because of work, o.”
“I’m fine, Mummy, just a lot on my plate this week,” Enitan says, letting out an affectionate groan as she kicks off her flats.
Her mother sighs, dropping her hands but keeping her eyes fixed on her. “Abi is it the stress of everything happening with Chief Peters? I have been lifting that man up in my prayers every single night since you told me about the operation. May God do what only he can do.”
“Amen, Mummy.”
“I just keep praying for his full recovery,” Mrs. Abiodun says, her gaze turning reflective as she turns back toward the kitchen. “Every day, I bless God for what your life has become because of his kindness. It’s only my God that can help me repay him. He and his beautiful wife. Such a lovely woman. Do you know that she still sends me foodstuff every Christmas? Bags of rice, oil, yam. My store is always full because she insists on this act of kindness even when I assure her that I am okay. Such a wonderful family. They don’t deserve this at all.”
“I know, Mummy. I know,” Enitan says softly, following her into the kitchen. She watches as her mother begins dishing out a generous portion of pounded yam and rich, steaming Efo riro into a ceramic bowl.
“So how is retirement treating you this week? Hope you aren’t overworking yourself at the church?”
Mrs. Abiodun scoffs, though there is a twinkle in her eye. “Overwork? In the Lord’s vineyard? Please. We are organizing the annual women’s convention, and these younger women don’t know how to schedule anything. If I don’t supervise the catering committee, people will eat stone-filled rice. You should even see the aso-ebi fabric we selected for the uniform. The material is one in town. I will show it to you later.”
Enitan laughs. “Mummy, please don’t let the catering committee hear you. And don’t worry about the uniform, just let me know how much it costs so I can transfer the money to you. Do you need anything else for the convention? Any way I can help?”
“Ah, please save your money. I’m okay,” her mother replies, waving a dismissive but deeply touched hand. “I don’t need a single thing. You have already done more than enough for me in this house. I am very, very content.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Enitan says, a genuine sense of pride swelling in her chest. It had taken years of grueling work, but being able to comfortably maintain this house and ensure her mother never has to count pennies again or want for anything is her greatest achievement.
“But you,” her mother says, shifting her gaze back to Enitan as she hands over the tray of food. “You are the one who looks like you are carrying the problems of the whole world on your back. Only God knows if they tied you to that your office. You better slow down.”
“I’m trying my best,” Enitan mutters evasively, carrying the tray to the small dining table.
Her mother sits across from her, resting her chin on her hands. The soft expression on her face shifts, sharpening into a look that Enitan knows all too well. It is the tactical pivot every Nigerian mother makes when they are about to strike.
“Speaking of slowing down, during my conversation with Mrs Peters last week she was with your best friend,” Mrs. Abiodun begins, her tone suspiciously too casual. “Oyindamola is carrying this pregnancy thing so well. I don’t know why you are not letting her influence rub off on you. Ordinary boyfriend sef, I never see.”
Enitan stops her spoon mid-air. She closes her eyes for a brief second. “Mummy, please abeg, don’t start.”
“Start what? Abi am I lying?” her mother asks, her voice rising in defensive amusement. “You turn 30 next year and I am not even trying to pressure you. You know how marriage was for me so I am the last one to talk. I am just concerned because you do not even seem interested. You are beautiful, intelligent and you are doing very well for yourself so what exactly is the issue? Do you not have any plans of settling down?”
“Mummy please, I am focusing on my life. When the time comes, it will happen.”
“’When the time comes, when the time comes,” her mother mimics gently, shaking her head. “You lock yourself in that apartment with your laptop. Is the husband supposed to land on your doorstep? Or do you people think he will just fall from ceiling, Gboa. You have to try to socialize more. Asides Oyinda and that your office, what else do you do in your free time? What am I even saying, you don’t have free time”
Enitan chuckles softly. “Haba”
“I’m not saying rush,” her mother adds, her voice softening. “I just want you to be happy.”
“But I’m happy, Mummy. Very happy. So don’t worry.”
“Okay o. I have heard you” her mother sighs, placing a gentle hand on the table. “I know you are happy but you can be happier. Anyway, how is Olakitan? I hear he is helping out at his father’s company. His mother says you people are the same. Work, work, work”
“He’s fine.”
Her mother launches into another line of conversation but Enitan is barely listening. She looks down at her food, her appetite suddenly wavering. The mention of Kitan pulls her right back to the spreadsheets from the previous night, the missing eight-figure disbursements, and the terrifying financial quicksand Peters Holdings is currently standing on.
She sets her spoon down, her hand instinctively moving to her left wrist. Her thumb finds the small, uneven childhood scar, pressing into the ridged skin.
“Mummy, I have a question to ask you.”
Mrs. Abiodun pauses, her maternal radar instantly picking up on the sudden drop in her daughter’s energy. “Ah. Hope nothing? What is happening?”
Enitan hesitates, tracing the scar once more before resting her hands flat on the table. “Hypothetically... what if you have information that you know will hurt the people you care about? Deeply. Like, it could completely upend their life and their family, especially at a time when they are already going through a crisis. Would you still share it?”
Her mother stares at her, the playful chatter completely fading from her eyes.
“Is this about work, Enitan?” her mother asks.
“I can’t really give details. Just... think of it as a dilemma. If the truth will cause immense pain and chaos, is it better to hold onto it or protect them by keeping quiet?”
Mrs. Abiodun leans forward, her voice dropping into a low, grounded register that commands absolute attention.
“Look at me,” her mother commands gently. Enitan meets her eyes. “When your father left us, he didn’t just walk away. He tried to secretively clear out the small savings account I had built for your school fees. A woman at the bank bank-branch, a distant cousin of his, saw what he was doing. She knew that if she told me, it would destroy whatever little dignity was left in my marriage. It would cause a massive, ugly storm.”
Her mother pauses, a faint, distant shadow passing over her face before her gaze hardens with clarity.
“But she told me anyway. And because she told me, I was able to stop him before we became entirely destitute. Enitan, a painful truth is a shield. A beautiful lie is just a blanket that hides the fire until the whole house burns down over your head.”
Mrs. Abiodun reaches across the table, covering Enitan’s hand with her own warm, calloused palm.
“If this information is something that can protect the people you love from a danger they cannot see, then keeping it from them is not protection, it is a betrayal. You are robbing them of their right to fight back. Whatever it is, if it is the truth, you must speak it. Let the storm come. It is better to face a storm together than to let them be crushed by a collapsing roof while they are sleeping. The truth is bitter but it is the bitter pills that bring the most healing.”
The words hit Enitan with the force of a physical blow. The suffocating pressure of her hesitation suddenly begins to clear. Her mother somehow always knows the right thing to say.
“Thank you, Mummy,” she whispers.
Mrs. Abiodun squeezes her hand tightly, her eyes filled with a fierce, protective love. “My baby girl. You are my greatest joy and I raised you to be a woman of integrity. Whatever it is that is eating you up like this, I trust that you will make the right choice.”
Enitan nods, looking down at the bowl of soup in front of her. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, the fog in her mind is completely gone. She knows exactly what she has to do. As soon as she leaves the mainland, she is going to call Kitan, and she is going to tell him everything.
Author’s Note: Fire on the mountain 🤧🤧 What do you think Kitan’s reaction would be?
Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), and Chapter Nine (2).
See you next week Monday.🫶🏽
Amelia please focus on your doctor work, thank you
I'm just glad Enitan asked her mummy for advice and is not going to keep it for long
If not, it might lead to another thing 😞
My hugs to Kitan and his family🥹