Obianuju

I waited until the house was quiet again.

No footsteps in the hallway. No slamming doors. No angry voices echoing off the walls. Just silence—broken only by the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the quiet chirping of crickets outside the closed windows.

Papa had left early that morning with his usual routine: briefcase in one hand, sharp orders in his mouth. Nobody was to enter my room. Nobody was to speak to me. And certainly, nobody was to mention Salisu.

But Papa forgot something: when you lock a bird in a cage for too long, it eventually learns how to peck open the door from the inside.

I stepped out of my room slowly, barefoot, careful not to alert the housekeeper. The floor was cold under my feet, and the hallway stretched before me like a tunnel—one I’d walked for years, but tonight it felt unfamiliar. My fingers touched the walls gently, helping me stay steady—not because I was weak, but because I needed to reach the door without falling.

Papa’s study.

It was never locked. He believed fear was stronger than any lock or key.

But I wasn’t afraid anymore.

Inside, the room smelled of old tobacco, sweat, and paper. The desk was covered with maps, letters, bills, and scribbled notes. Piles and piles of papers, all stacked in perfect little towers. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. But I knew I would recognize it when I found it.

And I did.

A thick brown envelope, sealed with red wax and signed with Papa’s initials. My hands shook slightly as I opened it. Inside were receipts. Lists. Shipments. Boxes of arms and ammunition. Deliveries made through the General.

I didn’t understand everything. But I understood enough.

Enough to make my stomach twist and a wave of sickness rise to my throat.

He wasn’t just supporting the war.

He was feeding it.

I sat down in his chair, still holding the papers. My heart beat faster—not out of fear, but out of urgency. Salisu needed to know.

But how?

The last time I tried to write to him, Papa stopped it. My letters never left the house unless Papa approved them himself. He only sent letters for business—and sometimes to the military command in Ibadan.

That was when the idea came.

I would wait. He always sent letters once a week. I would hide mine inside his next one.

Just as I began planning what to say, I heard a sound at the door.

I froze.

But it wasn’t Papa.

It was Nnamdi.

He stepped into the room without knocking, holding a bouquet of red hibiscus flowers in one hand. His smile was the same as always—lazy, practiced, like he was pretending to care.

“I thought these might brighten your mood,” he said.

I stared at the flowers. Then at him. Then back down to the paper still clutched in my hand, hidden beneath the desk.

“No,” I said.

He blinked. “No?”

“No, Nnamdi. I don’t want your flowers. I don’t want your visits. I don’t want anything from you.”

His smile faded. “Is this still about that soldier boy? The one who ran?”

I stood slowly. My voice was quiet, but sharp. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

He took a step forward. “He’s gone, Obianuju. You really think he’s coming back for you? You’re wasting your life waiting for a ghost.”

“Better a ghost,” I said, “than a snake.”

He flinched, just for a second.

“Get out.”

He stood there a moment longer, as if expecting me to change my mind.

I didn’t.

Finally, he turned and walked out, muttering something I didn’t bother to catch.

When the door closed behind him, I let out a long, shaking breath.

Then I reached for a blank sheet of paper.

This wasn’t going to be a love letter.

This wasn’t a goodbye.

This was the truth.

Everything I’d seen. Everything I suspected. The lists. The names. The weapons. Papa’s involvement. I wrote it all, trying to stay calm, trying to make sure my words were clear.

I didn’t sign my name.

When I finished, I folded the page carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and waited.

Papa would send his next letter soon.

And this time, mine would go with it.

---

Salisu,

If you are reading this then I'm very grateful. I didn't keep my promise because I'm at my father's house. I'm also getting married soon. To my sister's ex fiance. That's not the point right now though.

My father—Chief Ifeanyi Nwoko—has been secretly buying military weapons during the war.  I have found papers showing shipments of weapons and supplies moving through unofficial channels. He works closely with The General.” I do not know the General’s full name, but his seal appears on several documents. I always knew that the man was up to no good.

The papers I saw include:

Receipts for arms and ammunition

Lists of supply routes

Letters between my father and military leaders (including the Sergeant)

I don't know how the law for the military works, but I do know that it is a heinous crime. You could use this information to put them to justice

I believe they will bury the truth if nobody acts.

But I need you to understand: this is not just politics. It is not just war.

This is murder hidden behind paper.

I hope you're doing well by the way.

Greetings
Nafisa

---

I placed the letter between two blank pages and slid it into one of Papa’s outgoing folders. He would send it with his usual reports, never suspecting anything had been added. The envelope didn’t have my handwriting. It didn’t carry my scent. I had been careful.

And then, I waited.

Waited for morning. Waited for him to collect his papers. Waited for the messenger to carry my truth out of this house, out of this city, out of the lie they built around us.

Because if the world wasn’t going to listen to us...

Then I would make them.