Lagos Island – Early Morning
The sun crept slowly over the lagoon, painting its restless waters in fractured gold. From his balcony, Bayo Adeniran watched the city wake beneath the haze — Lagos, alive and unrepentant. The air carried the mixed scent of salt, exhaust, and frying oil from the vendors already shouting below. It was the smell of survival, of chaos disguised as routine.
He stood still, one hand gripping the cold rail, the other tracing the rim of a half-empty cup. The night before had left its residue — whispers, warnings, and that invisible weight of eyes following from somewhere unseen. Down below, hawkers arranged loaves of Agege bread like offerings to the dawn; taxis honked impatiently; the city exhaled impatience and fear in equal measure.
Behind him, the apartment felt too quiet — sterile, like the aftermath of an argument that had no winner. He turned, eyes brushing over the framed photograph of Amaka. Her smile, eternal and kind, reflected in the morning light. For a moment, he imagined her voice again:
"You can't fight the wind, Bayo. You have to breathe through it."
A knock came at the door. Tope entered, hair loosely tied, phone clutched like a lifeline. Fatigue dulled her features, but her eyes were sharp — alert, like prey that had learned the rhythm of hunters.
"They raided Mutiu's cousin's printing shop," she said, the words rushing out before courage could falter. "Confiscated everything. And the commissioner's office froze two of our accounts."
Bayo exhaled slowly, the breath of a man who'd already seen the strike before it came. "They're tightening the net," he murmured.
Tope hesitated, lowering her voice. "Maybe we should pull back. Lay low for a while. They're making examples out of people."
He turned to face her. "If we run now, the story ends here. And they win."
His tone was even — too calm for the storm beneath it.
She wanted to argue, but his conviction stilled her. Outside, the sky darkened as clouds began to gather. The city's usual rhythm — horns, chatter, blaring radios — sounded slower, cautious. Even Lagos seemed to sense the shift.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled. The storm was coming — not just in the skies, but in every heart that refused to kneel.
---
Surulere – Mid-Morning
The office buzzed with tension disguised as productivity. The blinds were half-drawn, muting the sunlight into slanted stripes that cut across the desks. The hum of computers and the scratch of pens filled the air, but no one was truly working — they were waiting.
Mutiu paced near the window, phone pressed to his ear. Each call ended the same way — silence, rejection, fear. When he finally tossed the phone onto the table, his voice cracked with frustration. "They've started tagging us as agitators. Even the journalists who promised to help have gone dark. This morning, a headline called you a 'dangerous populist.'"
Bayo didn't flinch. "Then we make noise loud enough to scare them."
Tope looked up, exhaustion shadowing her eyes. "That noise could get us silenced, Bayo. You, me — all of us."
He smiled faintly, the weariness behind it barely hidden. "Then they'll know we were never afraid to breathe loud."
Mutiu stopped pacing. "We need money, boss. Real funds. If they keep freezing the accounts, even our data backups won't survive."
Bayo's eyes lingered on the skyline through the blinds — the city glowing under deceitful calm. "There are people who still owe truth a debt," he said quietly. "We'll collect it."
Mutiu gave a bitter laugh. "You're still talking like Lagos listens."
"It does," Bayo said. "It listens to courage — even if it takes time to answer."
The room fell silent. Outside, a generator coughed to life, its rattle blending with distant horns. The sound was steady, relentless — Lagos breathing through the storm.
---
Lagos Island – Afternoon
When Bayo returned home, the air felt heavier. Rain loomed on the horizon, thick and gray. The apartment was neat — too neat. He noticed it instantly.
He dropped his keys on the counter and froze.
The frame of Amaka's photograph had been moved — slightly, deliberately, tilted toward the door.
His breath hitched. The refrigerator hummed softly in the silence, too loud for the stillness around it. He stepped slowly toward the dining table.
Photographs.
Dozens of them.
Him at the protest.
Him leaving his office.
Him and Tope through this very window.
His stomach twisted. Someone had been here — had stood in this room, breathed this air, touched his life without permission.
A phone buzzed on the counter. Unknown number.
You still believe light survives the dark?
He deleted the message, but his hand trembled. His pulse pounded in his ears, and for the first time, the silence of the city didn't feel like peace. It felt like surveillance.
He shut the curtains and stood still, counting each breath until the tremor left his hands.
Outside, the first drops of rain fell, each one hitting the window like a warning.
---
Surulere – Evening
The storm clouds broke as people gathered outside the community center. The streetlamps flickered weakly against the wind, casting long, fractured shadows across faces lined with exhaustion and determination. They came anyway — vendors, students, workers — drawn by one shared belief: that the right to breathe was not negotiable.
Bayo stepped onto the stage. Sweat beaded on his neck, but his voice carried with the precision of conviction.
"My brothers. My sisters. They want us silent. But silence is death. We breathe because we fight!"
A wave of cheers surged through the crowd. Flags lifted. Banners fluttered. "Breathe for Lagos!" someone shouted, and the chant caught fire.
Tope stood near the side, scanning the edges of the square. Mutiu hovered close, unease sharpening his every glance. "Too quiet beyond the lights," he muttered. "I don't like it."
Bayo raised his hand, voice fierce now, raw with passion.
"They tell us the air is theirs to sell. But air belongs to no one. Not the rich, not the powerful. It belongs to us — the people who bleed for this city!"
The crowd thundered in response.
Then Tope saw it — the dark SUV parked just beyond the crowd, headlights dimmed, unmoving.
Her pulse quickened. "Mutiu," she whispered, "that car hasn't moved."
Before he could answer, a hiss cut through the air.
Tear gas.
The canister clanged against the pavement, then burst into a bloom of white smoke. Panic ignited. People screamed. The chant dissolved into chaos.
"Move!" Mutiu yelled, dragging Tope back.
Bayo leapt down from the platform, shielding a woman and her child as the smoke thickened. His lungs burned, eyes stinging.
Through the haze, he saw it — the SUV's headlights blinked once, deliberate. Watching. Then it rolled back into the fog, disappearing like a ghost.
The air stung of gas and betrayal. Yet even as people fled, some voices still chanted, hoarse but unbroken:
"We breathe! We breathe! We breathe!"
The sound was defiance itself — ragged, trembling, alive.
---
Third Mainland Bridge – Night
The rain came in sheets, hammering the city with merciless rhythm. Bayo's wipers struggled against the torrent as he crossed the bridge. His headlights cut through a curtain of water, and each gust of wind shoved against the car like an unseen hand.
His phone rang. Mutiu's voice broke through static.
"Bayo—don't go home! They followed us. I saw—"
The line died. Just silence. Then thunder.
He checked the mirror.
Headlights. Two. Then four. Closing in.
The SUV.
His pulse quickened. The car gained speed, slicing through rain like a predator. Bayo's hands tightened on the wheel.
He swerved left. The SUV followed.
The bridge stretched endlessly — black, slick, glistening. The city lights blurred in his periphery. He pressed the accelerator, engine screaming, heart thundering. Another impact — metal on metal — jolted him forward.
He gritted his teeth, steering hard, trying to hold control.
The tires skidded.
The railing appeared in a flash of lightning — steel teeth waiting.
A final crash.
Glass exploded.
The world spun — sky, water, sky again.
Then the fall — weightless, silent, terrible.
The car hit the lagoon with a sound that split the night.
And then, nothing but the swallowing dark.
---
Lagos Lagoon – Late Night
The rain stopped. The water was calm again, as though nothing had happened.
A fisherman later swore he'd seen headlights vanish beneath the surface, but by the time rescue lights flashed across the lagoon, only broken glass and faint bubbles marked the spot.
Onshore, Tope stood beside Mutiu, both soaked and shaking. Police lights painted their faces red and blue. Reporters whispered. Officers barked orders. But the night seemed deaf to it all.
"He'll surface," Mutiu said quietly, his voice cracking like glass. "He'll find a way."
Tope didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on the dark stretch of water where Lagos lights bled into shadow. Somewhere beneath that surface, she believed — or needed to believe — that the truth still breathed.
A single shoe drifted to the pier's edge, circling once before the tide took it.
---
Antagonist POV – Same Night
From a penthouse high above Victoria Island, the sharp-eyed man stood by the window, watching the last remnants of the storm blur the city's glow. Cigarette smoke curled through the air, slow and deliberate.
"Clean up the bridge," he said into his phone. "No noise. No martyrs."
A pause.
Then that quiet, satisfied voice:
"If he's gone, Lagos will breathe easier."
He turned away, but the window caught his reflection — distorted, ghostly. Behind him, the city lights flickered, and for a brief moment, it looked as though something beneath the lagoon had moved.
Something alive.
Something refusing to stay buried.
---
Closing Reflection
Far below, the city resumed its rhythm — restless, wounded, unbroken. Vendors returned to their corners. Cars resumed their quarrel. The lagoon rippled with secrets it would not keep forever.
Somewhere in that darkness, between breath and silence, a heartbeat still lingered.
Lagos had tried to bury its conscience.
But some truths refuse to drown.