Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WITH NO RECOGNITION
The dust of Oyingbo Market swirled around them, thick with the pungent aroma of dried peppers, fermenting cassava, and the relentless exhaust of idling yellow minibuses.
Jerry Okafor’s grip on the woman’s slender forearm was hard enough to leave a bruise. His knuckles were chalky white, the pulse in his wrist thudding so violently it threatened to burst through his skin. Seven agonizing days. Seven sleepless nights spent drowning in expensive cognac, staring at the cold mahogany floors of their Ikoyi penthouse, mourning a woman who had allegedly burned beyond recognition inside a twisted Mercedes wreckage on the Lekki-Epe expressway.
Yet beneath his fingers, her flesh was warm. Her blood was pumping.
"Mirabel..." Jerry whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood. "Look at me. Please. Tell me I haven't lost my mind."
The woman pulled back violently.
The woven basket in her arm tipped, sending three heavy yams thudding into the red dirt. Her eyes widened, not with guilt, not with tearful relief, but with pure, unvarnished terror. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp with surprising strength, stumbling back against the vendor’s rickety wooden stall.
"Who are you?!" she shouted in accented English, her voice sharp and defensive. "Why are you touching me like this? Oga, remove your hand from my body before I raise alarm!"
The entire row of vendors went dead silent.
In Oyingbo, a wealthy man in a custom Italian linen shirt grabbing an ordinary woman at a market stall was a recipe for instant mob violence. Two burly market porters balancing wooden planks on their shoulders paused, their eyes narrowing as they assessed Jerry’s platinum Rolex and sleek leather loafers.
Jerry stood frozen, his hand still suspended in the air. The sound of her voice hit him like a physical blow. It had the same melodic, slightly breathy pitch as Mirabel’s, but the cadence was completely foreign. Mirabel had been educated at Cambridge; her speech was smooth, measured, and cultured. This woman’s tone carried the rapid, defensive rhythm of the Lagos mainland streets.
Yet when Jerry’s gaze swept across her face, his heart rebelled against his ears.
The delicate, almond-shaped brown eyes. The faint, crescent-shaped scar splitting the tail of her left eyebrow—a souvenir from a childhood tumble off a bicycle that he had kissed a thousand times in the dark. The tiny dark mole nestled right beneath her collarbone, barely visible above the neckline of her faded wax-print cotton blouse.
"Mirabel, stop this," Jerry choked out, stepping toward her, desperate to break through whatever cruel game was unfolding. "It's me. Jerry. Your husband. Why are you pretending you don't know me? Did someone threaten you? Who is making you do this?"
"Are you mad?!" she yelled, backing away further, grabbing an empty wooden stool as a shield. "I am not Mirabel! My name is Chidinma! Mama Nkechi, look at this strange man calling me his wife!"
The yam seller, a formidable woman wrapped in multiple layers of colorful ankara fabric, stepped between them, brandishing an iron scale like a weapon.
"Oga fine boy, hear word o!" the market woman barked, glaring at Jerry. "No carry your rich-man madness come my shop! Chidinma has been selling smoked fish in the lower shed for two years! She is not your wife! Leave her alone before boys beat you here!"
Jerry's head spun. A cold wave of dizziness washed over him. Two years?
Mirabel had had breakfast with him in Ikoyi seven days ago. She had poured his black coffee, kissed his cheek, and stepped into her chauffeured sedan to attend a charity board meeting on Victoria Island. Three hours later, the police called: brake failure on the expressway, an explosion, and a charred body recovered from the burning wreckage wearing Mirabel’s heirloom diamond wedding ring.
Behind Jerry, Tundai finally shoved his way through the gathering crowd, his forehead glistening with nervous sweat. He grabbed Jerry’s shoulder, his eyes darting frantically toward the gathering youths who were beginning to pick up empty crates.
"Sir, please!" Tundai pleaded in a frantic whisper. "We have to get in the car now! The crowd is getting angry! They will lynch us if they think you are trying to kidnap someone!"
Jerry didn't care about the mob. He didn't care if the entire market burned to the ground. His eyes remained locked on the woman who looked exactly like his late wife.
She turned on her heel, hoisted her yams from the dirt with trembling fingers, and darted down a narrow, mud-slick alleyway between two towering rows of plastic ware.
May you like
"Tundai, let go of me!" Jerry roared, ripping himself free from his driver’s grip.
He didn't run like a billionaire CEO. He ran like a condemned man chasing his only shot at salvation, diving headfirst into the maze of Oyingbo’s shadowy corridors.
