The Girl Who Drew Her Pain

Chapter One

The morning light seeped softly through the cracked wooden window of a small, weathered room nestled in a quiet corner of a bustling town. Inside, a slender figure sat cross-legged on a worn mat, her fingers gliding carefully over a sheet of rough paper. Boluwatife’s touch was deliberate, confident, and full of quiet passion. Though her eyes had not seen the world in full color for nearly five years, her hands moved as if they painted with colors only she could imagine.

At sixteen, Boluwatife was no ordinary girl. Born with perfect vision, her life took a cruel twist when she lost her sight at the tender age of eleven due to an illness no one could fully explain. But even as darkness enveloped her world, something remarkable remained: her ability to “see” with her hands and heart, translating feelings and shapes into exquisite drawings.

She lifted her hand from the paper, brushing it over the lines she had just created—an image of a woman with sorrowful eyes and tightly clenched lips. This was not a portrait from memory, but a reflection of what she felt deep inside. Her art was her voice, her silent scream in a world that often refused to listen.

From the kitchen, a gentle voice called out. “Boluwatife, breakfast is ready.”

Her mother, Mrs. Isibor, was a woman whose face bore the marks of years of hard work but whose eyes sparkled with fierce love and unyielding hope. She had spent most of her life cleaning the grand mansion of Mr. Desmond, a wealthy man whose house loomed like a castle on the hill overlooking their humble neighborhood. Mrs. Isibor’s job was hard, but it was their only source of income, and she took pride in every corner she polished and every floor she scrubbed.

Boluwatife smiled at the sound of her mother’s voice, setting down her pencil carefully. “I’m coming, Mama.” She rose and made her way to the kitchen, guided by the warmth of the sunlight and the familiar scents of spices and fresh bread. Her fingers brushed against the cool wooden doorframe as she entered, her other senses heightened in the absence of sight. She could hear the sizzle of food on the stove and the faint hum of a tune her mother often sang while working.

Mrs. Isibor turned from the stove, wiping her hands on a faded apron. “Good morning, my brave girl,” she said, pulling Boluwatife close for a gentle hug. “You slept well?”

Boluwatife nodded, though it was more a feeling than a visible gesture. “I dreamed about the river last night.”

“The river?” Her mother smiled. “What did you see?”

“I saw the water, cool and clear. I could feel the stones beneath my feet and the cool breeze on my face.” Her voice was soft but filled with wonder. “Even though I can’t see it anymore, I can still feel it in my dreams.”

Mrs. Isibor held her daughter’s hands tightly. “You have a special gift, Boluwatife. You don’t need eyes to see the beauty around you. Your heart does that for you.”

Boluwatife’s smile faded slightly. “Sometimes I wish I could see again. To watch the sunset, to see your face, Mama.” Tears welled up in Mrs. Isibor’s eyes but she quickly blinked them away. “I know, my dear. But even in the dark, you shine brighter than anyone I know.”

Their small kitchen was filled with the aroma of fresh yam porridge and pepper soup, the humble meal that sustained them. After breakfast, Boluwatife returned to her art supplies pencils, charcoal sticks, and sheets of paper that she treasured like gold. Her drawings were the only window she had to the outside world.

She often sketched faces of neighbors, animals she imagined, and scenes from the stories her mother told her. Each line and curve was painstakingly crafted, capturing not just shapes but emotions. Despite her blindness, Boluwatife’s drawings were remarkably detailed and expressive.

In the quiet moments, her mind drifted to the mansion where her mother worked. A place of grandeur and luxury, it was also filled with secrets. Secrets that Boluwatife didn’t yet understand but would soon be forced to confront.

One afternoon, while her mother was at work, Boluwatife sat near the window, feeling the breeze and listening to the sounds of the street. She heard children laughing, the calls of vendors, and the distant rumble of traffic. She loved these sounds they painted pictures in her mind more vivid than any she could draw.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front gate opening. She could tell by the footsteps that someone was coming inside. Her fingers instinctively reached for her drawing pad.

Moments later, the door creaked, and a voice spoke softly. “Boluwatife?”

It was Lydia, a young woman from the neighborhood who was serving as a Youth Corper at the local school. Lydia had become a close friend and sometimes helped Boluwatife navigate the world beyond her home.

Boluwatife’s face brightened. “Lydia! Come in, please.”

Lydia smiled warmly and stepped inside. “I came to check on you and your mama. How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” Boluwatife replied. “I’ve been working on a new drawing.”

Lydia looked at the paper on the table, where Boluwatife had sketched a delicate tree, its branches reaching skyward like hopeful arms. “This is beautiful. You have a gift.” Boluwatife blushed slightly, a rare expression for someone so reserved. “It’s how I tell my story.”

Lydia sat beside her, thoughtful. “Boluwatife, you’re strong. You know that, right? Stronger than anyone I know.”

“I try to be,” Boluwatife whispered.

Just then, a sharp knock came from the door. “Mama’s home!” Boluwatife exclaimed.

Mrs. Isibor entered, tired but smiling. “How’s my artist today?”

Boluwatife hugged her mother tightly. “I miss you.”

Mrs. Isibor looked at her daughter’s drawings. “These are incredible, Boluwatife. I’m proud of you.”

But beneath her smile was worry. She knew the world was not kind to girls like Boluwatife girls who were vulnerable, who had gifts but also scars unseen.

Later that evening, as the family sat quietly around a flickering candle, Boluwatife’s mind wandered to the future. She dreamed of a day when her art would speak loud enough to be heard beyond their small home. A day when she could tell her story and find justice for the pain she felt deep inside.

For now, though, she was just a girl with a pencil in her hand and hope in her heart, ready to draw the world as only she could see it.

The nights in their little home were always quiet but heavy with the weight of unspoken worries. Tonight was no different. After the evening meal, Mrs. Isibor sat on a small wooden stool, rubbing her tired hands together while Boluwatife rested on the floor, her fingers tracing the rough texture of a new sheet of paper. The dim light from the candle flickered across the room, casting long shadows on the walls.

“Tell me about your day, my dear,” Mrs. Isibor said softly, her voice like a balm after the long hours of work.

Boluwatife smiled faintly, her fingers folding and unfolding as she thought. “Mama, sometimes I dream that I can see again. I see your face, the garden outside, even the colors of the clothes people wear.”

Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears. “One day, my child. One day.”

“But until then,” Boluwatife continued, “I paint with my hands what my heart feels. When I close my eyes, I see the world in shapes and sounds, and I try to put that on paper.”

Mrs. Isibor nodded, pride and sadness mingling on her face. “You have a gift, Boluwatife. A gift that no one can take away.”

Just then, a soft knock came at the door. The neighbor, an elderly woman named Mama Nkechi, entered carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “I brought you some yam and palm oil,” she said kindly. “Your mama has been working so hard. We all must help.”

Boluwatife reached out and touched the bundle, feeling the warmth. “Thank you, Mama Nkechi.”

The older woman smiled. “You’re a brave girl. I see it in your eyes even if they don’t work, your spirit does.”

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Boluwatife lay on her mat staring at the ceiling. The dark was no longer just absence of light it was where her dreams took shape. She imagined herself walking through fields of wildflowers, her hands brushing the petals, feeling the softness. She pictured a world where no one judged her for what she could not see.

But beneath her dreams was a silent ache a pain she didn’t yet understand, but that would soon make its presence known.

In the days that followed, Boluwatife continued to draw. Each stroke of her pencil was a piece of her soul, a way to connect to a world beyond her blindness. Her mother watched with a mixture of hope and fear. Hope that her daughter’s talent would open doors, and fear of the dangers lurking in the shadows of their lives.

Mrs. Isibor worked harder than ever, saving every coin she could spare for Boluwatife’s eye surgery an expensive hope that might one day restore the sight her daughter had lost.

But fate, as it often does, had other plans.

Chapter Two

The morning sun poured golden light over the quiet streets of the neighborhood, but inside the sprawling mansion at the end of the lane, a different kind of darkness lingered.

Boluwatife followed her mother to Mr. Desmond’s mansion to work.

Boluwatife sat quietly on the worn sofa in the grand living room, her fingers running over the smooth leather surface, tracing invisible patterns. The house was huge too big for just one family and filled with echoes that made her heart race. Her mother, Mrs. Isibor, was busy dusting the chandeliers, humming a low tune, but her mind was elsewhere, weighed down by the worries that had begun to settle deep in her bones.

“Boluwatife, come with me,” Mrs. Isibor said softly, holding her daughter’s hand gently. “Today is an important day. We will go to Mr. Desmond’s house for work.”

Boluwatife nodded, but her stomach twisted with nerves. She loved her mother and wanted to help, but the idea of going to the mansion always made her uneasy. It was a world away from their humble home, where everything was polished, and the servants moved silently like shadows.

As they approached the mansion’s towering gates, the air grew colder, and Boluwatife’s fingers tightened around her mother’s. The imposing walls, the expensive cars parked out front, and the well-dressed guards standing like statues it all felt like stepping into a different planet.

“Remember to stay close,” Mrs. Isibor whispered. “And don’t talk to anyone unless I tell you.”

Boluwatife swallowed her fear and nodded. She could hear the soft footsteps of the other workers six in total each dressed in identical uniforms, moving about like clockwork. She knew they all shared the same fate to serve in silence, unseen and unheard.

Inside the mansion, the air was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers and expensive perfumes. Boluwatife’s ears picked up the faint murmur of voices, laughter that seemed hollow, and the occasional clink of glasses from the kitchen. She felt invisible, a ghost passing through a world that wasn’t hers.

Her mother handed her a small rag and pointed toward the grand staircase. “Start here. Clean carefully.”

As Boluwatife moved slowly, her fingers brushing against the polished banister and the cold marble floors, she noticed something strange. The walls seemed to close in, the paintings’ eyes almost watching her every move. She shivered.

Suddenly, a door creaked open down the hall. Mr. Desmond appeared, impeccably dressed, his smile polite but cold.

“Ah, Mrs. Isibor, and your daughter. Welcome,” he said smoothly. His eyes briefly flicked to Boluwatife, who tried to steady her breathing.

“Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Isibor replied, bowing her head slightly.

Mr. Desmond’s gaze lingered on Boluwatife a moment longer than necessary. “If your daughter needs anything, let me know,” he said, voice low.

Boluwatife felt a chill crawl down her spine.

The day passed slowly. Boluwatife kept close to her mother, but the unease grew stronger with every hour. She could hear whispered conversations when the adults thought no one was listening. The laughter grew sharper, more strained.

When the afternoon sun started to fade, Boluwatife’s toy a small wooden horse carved by her late father slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

She reached out to find it, but her fingers trembled.

From the corner of her eye, she sensed movement.

Before she could react, Mr. Desmond stepped forward.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, bending to pick up the toy.

Boluwatife’s heart pounded.

His hand brushed hers, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt.

Then, without warning, he led her down a dark hallway into a room closed off from the rest of the house.

Fear gripped her like a cold fist.

She wanted to scream, but no sound came.

The door shut behind them.

And everything changed.

The door closed with a quiet click, but to Boluwatife, it sounded like a final echo of safety fading. The air in the room was colder, heavier. She could feel the shift in the silence, in the space, in Mr. Desmond’s breathing.

She took a cautious step back.

“Sir… where are we?” her voice trembled.

Mr. Desmond didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved slowly, deliberately, as if measuring every step.

“This is my study. Don’t worry,” he said with an eerie calm.

Boluwatife’s fingers reached for something a chair, a table anything to ground her.

“I should go back to my mother…” she whispered.

He stepped closer.

“No need to rush. You’re special, you know that? Even without your sight.”

His voice had changed. It no longer held charm, only control.

Then it happened swift, confusing, brutal. The room became a storm of fear and pain. She fought, but her strength meant little against his power. Her screams were trapped inside her chest. The world faded into numbness.

When he finally left, she was alone, broken, trembling. Her clothes torn, her dignity shattered. But one thing remained with her: his scent. His voice. His shape. His presence.

And her fingers, now stained with pain, reached for the pencil in her pocket. Crawling to the nearest flat surface, she began to draw. Every line was a scream. Every stroke was memory. She drew his jawline, his eyes, his smile, his evil. She didn’t need to see him to capture him. She remembered by touch, by sound, by scent.

By the time her mother returned, Boluwatife was curled up in the corner, clutching the drawing as tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

Mrs. Isibor’s face turned pale as she rushed to her daughter.

“Bolu! What happened?! Talk to me!”

It took time. It took sobs. But Boluwatife told her everything.

And when she showed her mother the drawing, rage overtook the woman who had been quiet all her life.

“No… no… he did this to you?”

Boluwatife nodded, her voice barely a whisper.

“Mama… I want justice.”

That night, neither of them slept.

Mrs. Isibor sat by her daughter’s side, staring at the drawing again and again. It was him. So perfect, it could be used in a wanted poster. She held it like a weapon, because to her it was.

Morning came with a storm not in the sky, but in their hearts.

Later that morning, the neighborhood was already stirring with market sounds vendors calling, buses honking but inside Mrs. Isibor’s room, time had frozen. Boluwatife sat on her mat, wrapped in a faded wrapper, silent. Her fingers clutched the drawing she’d made the face of her rapist. The man her mother trusted. The man everyone respected.

Mrs. Isibor stared out the window, trembling.

“Why didn’t I come back sooner?” she muttered, tears streaking her face. “Why did I leave her alone in that house?”

There was a gentle knock on the door.

Lydia, the NYSC corper who lived in the compound, peered inside. “Mama Bolu?” she called softly. “You didn’t come out today. Is everything okay?”

Mrs. Isibor didn’t answer immediately. But the pain in her chest forced her lips to move. “Come in, Lydia…”

Lydia entered and froze when she saw Boluwatife. The girl looked crushed physically and emotionally.

“What happened?” Lydia asked.

Mrs. Isibor opened her mouth to speak, but broke into sobs instead.

Lydia walked to Boluwatife and knelt. “Bolu? Talk to me.”

Boluwatife didn’t speak. She simply raised the paper in her hand. Lydia took it. Her eyes scanned the image carefully drawn despite shaky lines, the emotion pouring through it unmistakable.

“Who is this?” she asked gently.

Boluwatife finally spoke. Her voice barely a whisper.

“Mr. Desmond.”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “The man you work for?” she looked at Mrs. Isibor, then back at Bolu. “Did he do something to you?”

Boluwatife nodded. Then she whispered the word that changed everything.

“He raped me.”

Silence.

Lydia’s hand trembled as she placed the drawing on the floor. She sat with them for a long while, processing it.

Finally, she said, “We have to go to the police.”

“They won’t believe her,” Mrs. Isibor said, her voice filled with defeat. “She’s blind. They’ll say she made it up.”

“But she drew him,” Lydia argued. “She remembered every detail.”

Still, doubt lingered.

Later that afternoon, the three of them stood in front of the police station. Boluwatife clung to her mother’s arm. Lydia held the drawing like it was evidence in a courtroom.

They explained everything to the officer at the front desk a man who barely looked up until the word “rape” was mentioned. He squinted at Boluwatife, then laughed lightly.

“How does a blind girl identify her rapist?” he asked, voice heavy with disbelief. “And you brought a drawing?”

Lydia pushed forward. “She has a gift. She drew him based on touch. Her drawings are accurate.”

The officer waved it off. “Do you know how many stories we hear every day? If you’re serious, find a lawyer. Take it to court.”

Mrs. Isibor exploded. “Story?! My daughter was defiled and you call it a story?!”

She grabbed the officer’s shirt collar, shaking with rage and grief. Two other officers rushed in to separate them. Lydia pulled her back quickly, whispering, “Not here, Mama. Let’s go.”

As they stepped out, Lydia realized this wasn’t going to be easy.

They had forgotten the drawing at the station.

Back home, Lydia paced the room, phone in hand.

“I know someone,” she said suddenly. “A lawyer. Not famous, but he’s good. He helped my cousin once. Let me call him.”

“Lydia,” Mrs. Isibor sighed, “We don’t have money…”

“Let’s try first.”

She dialed the number, her hands sweating.

“Hello?” a male voice answered.

“Barrister Ekong good afternoon. This is Lydia, the Corper who interned with your firm last year.”

“Ah! Lydia! How are you?”

“I’m fine, sir. Sir, I need your help. It’s serious.”

She explained everything the blind girl, the rape, the drawing, the refusal of the police to act.

There was silence on the line.

Then “I will not be available I have a lot on my plate.”

“But sir, you are the only one I know who can help us on this case.”

“Lydia you are like a daughter to me? I wish I could help.”

Lydia’s eyes welled up. “Alright thank you, sir. God bless you.”

Later that evening, Boluwatife sat on her mat, her hands gliding across a new page. Her spirit was tired, but her heart burned with purpose. She was going to fight.

“Mama,” she said quietly, “I know you want to protect me. But I don’t want silence. I want justice.”

Mrs. Isibor took her daughter’s hand. “Then we’ll fight. Even if the whole world is deaf to your pain we will scream until someone listens.”

A week passed. Hope was fading.

“I found someone,” Lydia announced one morning, entering the room with urgency. “A lawyer in town. Barrister Collins. They say he’s handled cases like this.”

Mrs. Isibor clutched her chest. “But we don’t have much money”

“I already called him. He agreed to a discount. Let’s just go.”

Mrs. Isibor woke up her daughter’s room to check on her she is asleep. “She is sleeping,” said Mrs. Isibor to Lydia.

They rush out of the house.

The office was small but polished. Barrister Collins a man in his late 40s, smooth-talking and confident welcomed them with practiced sympathy.

After hearing their story, he leaned back in his chair.

“This case will be tough,” he said. “But I can help for a legal service fee of ₦300,000”

Lydia blinked. “Sir, can’t we”

Collins interrupted. “You want justice, yes? It costs. The system is not a charity.”

Mrs. Isibor went silent. She reached into her wrapper and handed over a tied polythene bag. Inside was ₦190,000. All her savings.

“I will find the rest before court day,” she whispered.

Collins smiled faintly. “Very well. I’ll file the case.”

Chapter Three

The courtroom was full. Mr. Desmond, calm and well-dressed, sat beside his sharp lawyer. Boluwatife sat with her mother and Lydia, hands trembling.

When it was Boluwatife’s turn to speak, her voice was steady but the defense mocked her blindness.

“No witness. No evidence. Only a drawing from a blind girl?”

Collins, their own lawyer, barely objected.

When the verdict came, it stung deeper than words.

“Insufficient evidence. Case dismissed.”

Mr. Desmond walked out smiling.

Lydia cried. Mrs. Isibor collapsed on the bench.

Outside the courtroom, Barrister Collins said coldly, “I told you it wouldn’t be easy.” He got into his car and drove off, without even saying goodbye.

Later that day outside the Courthouse

They sat on the pavement, defeated.

That’s when a man in a simple shirt walked up. “Lydia?”

She looked up. “Please who are you?”

“I’m Barrister Kunle,” he nodded. “I came to court today. I watched everything.”

“You… you saw?” Lydia got confused.

He turned to Boluwatife. “I saw your drawing and I believe your truth. But the truth alone doesn’t win battles not when power and wealth speak louder.”

Mrs. Isibor stared at him. “Then what do we do now?”

Kunle took a deep breath.

“We start again. Not in that courtroom… but with strategy. If you’re ready to keep fighting, I’ll help.”

Lydia looked up straight to Barrister Kunle and said.“What is it going to take to fight for justice.”

Barrister Kunle firmly “₦1,500,000 will be alright”

Do we look like politicians’ children? Where do you expect them to get that?”

Mrs. Isibor sat silently, her voice trembling “I have ₦1.7 million,” she said quietly.

Lydia turned sharply. “Auntie, no! That’s your contribution money for the eye surgery.”

Mrs. Isibor swallowed, tears filling her eyes. “What’s the point of surgery if my child walks this earth wounded and without justice?”

Boluwatife sat quietly, “Mummy,” she said faintly. “Is it worth it? Maybe if I could see, none of this would’ve happened.”

Mrs. Isibor pulled her into a tight hug, resting her chin on Bolu’s head. “Don’t you ever blame yourself. You didn’t do wrong. He did. And you will see again, my child. But first we fight.”

Kunle watched them, visibly moved. He reached into his case, pulled out his business card, and handed it to Lydia.

“Let’s get to work,” he said, his voice firm but hopeful. “You may not have sight, Bolu but you have vision. And that’s enough to bring him down.”

The courtroom was colder than usual, not because of the air conditioning but because of the atmosphere. Tension clung to every wall, every wooden bench, and every breath drawn by those present. Mrs. Isibor sat quietly beside her daughter, Boluwatife, and Lydia, their silent warrior. Across from them sat Mr. Desmond, shoulders squared, eyes unreadable.

The courtroom was packed. Journalists, students, civil society observers everyone had come to witness the trial that had shaken the community.

Judge Adesuwa sat firm, pen in hand, eyes sharp.

“Let us proceed,” she said. “Prosecutor, bring forth your evidence.”

Barrister Kunle stood confidently. “My Lord, I present three core pieces of evidence to prove Mr. Desmond committed this heinous act.”

He walked toward the center.

“Exhibit A” – The Drawing

“This is a sketch, drawn by the victim, Boluwatife. She is blind. However, after the incident, she was able to sketch Mr. Desmond’s face with shocking accuracy only through touch. A neurologist will testify that her sense of touch is heightened due to her blindness, making it possible for her to recall his facial structure with near photographic memory.”

Gasps filled the courtroom. The judge examined the sketch.

“Exhibit B” Medical Report

“A certified medical examination shows physical trauma consistent with sexual assault. Though delayed, it still aligns with the timeline. This confirms penetration and injury.”

The court grew tense.

*“Exhibit C” Testimony from the Victim*

“She may be blind, but she is not voiceless. She will tell this court what happened, how he lured her, what he said, and how he left.”

Kunle turned toward the defense table. “Mr. Desmond isn’t a stranger. He used his influence and familiarity to take advantage of a minor. A blind minor.”

He stepped back.

Defense Lawyer rises.

“Your Honour, we do not deny the tragedy the victim has endured. But we question the accuracy of this story. I present three counterpoints.”

Counter-Evidence 1: Character Testimony

“I have testimonies from three staff members of the Desmond household who claim Mr. Desmond is never left alone with visitors especially not children. Their statements confirm he left the compound that day shortly after the child arrived.”

Counter-Evidence 2: Timeline

“We have mobile phone location records and CCTV showing Mr. Desmond driving out of the compound at 2:07 PM. The alleged incident supposedly took place between 2 and 3 PM. There is a 15-minute overlap where Mr. Desmond could not have been present.”

Counter-Evidence 3: No DNA Evidence

“No DNA of my client was found on the victim. Despite being a delayed report, this weakens the prosecution’s medical argument.”

“This is a case of misunderstanding maybe even mistaken memory. The sketch may be powerful, but it does not prove an assault. No direct witnesses. No forensic link. We sympathize, but sympathy must not replace fact.”

Disproof Kunle stands again.

“My Lord, the defense relies on technology and routine alibis. But humans commit crimes in moments. The 15 minutes they claim he was unavailable are more than enough for what occurred. And Boluwatife’s testimony is not confused it is detailed, consistent, and courageous.”

He looked the judge in the eye.

“She is blind, but not blind to truth.”

After hearing both sides

Judge Adesuwa removed her glasses and looked up, her expression unreadable. The room fell into a heavy silence.

“I have listened carefully to both the prosecution and defense,” she began. “What I see before me is a case built on pain, strong emotion, and partial evidence. While the victim’s testimony and sketch are compelling, the defense has raised valid concerns regarding the timeline and lack of forensic proof.”

She paused, looking at Boluwatife calm, blind, yet firm in her seat.

“This is not a case the court will rush. Justice is not served in speed, but in truth.”

She turned toward both lawyers.

“This court is hereby adjourned. I am giving both parties 14 days to provide stronger, verifiable evidence. I want clarity on the timeline. I want more testimony. If possible, I want forensic backup. Until then, no ruling will be made.”

She banged the gavel.

“Court adjourned.”

Murmurs echoed through the courtroom. Mrs. Isibor slumped slightly in her seat. Boluwatife remained composed. Lydia, clenching her fists, whispered, “We’re not done. This fight is still on.”

Mr. Desmond stood silently, the weight of public shame creeping into his bones.

Mr. Desmond’s home was not the same since the accusations began. Its walls were still pristine, the furniture still gleamed, and the chandeliers still glittered in the evening sun but the warmth had died.

Mrs. Desmond no longer laughed. She no longer touched her husband. She only cooked, dished his meals onto the dining table, and disappeared to her son’s room. They hadn’t shared a meal in weeks.

Desmond sat at the table again, alone. His jollof rice was steaming, untouched. He could hear his wife humming softly in the kitchen to Elijah, their ten-year-old son.

He slammed his spoon down. “Loveth!”

She did not answer.

He rose, his chair scraping the marble floor, and stormed to the kitchen. “Loveth, what is this? What have I done to deserve this punishment?”

She paused, not looking at him, spooning cereal into Elijah’s bowl.

Desmond’s voice trembled. “You won’t even look at me. You won’t eat with me. You barely speak to me.”

She turned, eyes glassy. “Desmond, what do you expect?”

“I told you I didn’t touch the girl!”

“Then what happened?” she demanded, voice rising. “She’s sixteen. No she’s blind! You left her alone in this house! And the next thing, she says you raped her?”

Desmond dropped his gaze. “It didn’t happen that way.”

Desmond narrates his own story to his wife.

It was quiet that afternoon.

Boluwatife was sitting in the main living room, fingers trailing across the armrest, toy in her lap. She dropped it accidentally and groped for it.

Desmond, dressed for a meeting, entered the room and noticed her struggling.

“You need help with that?” he asked, approaching.

“Yes, please,” she said, soft spoken.

He picked up the toy and placed it in her hand. “You like toys?”

She nodded faintly. “The ones I can feel. They have shape.”

“Come,” he said suddenly. “Let me show you something.”

He led her to the family lounge. Rarely used, it housed expensive toys he’d bought during business trips. Elijah rarely touched them.

“Here,” he said, pressing one into her palm. “Feel that.”

She smiled as her fingers traced it. “It’s funny.”

Desmond watched her smile. Something stirred in him a mix of admiration, pity and something darker. He sat beside her.

She leaned back slightly, and his hand moved, involuntarily, grazing her arm. She froze.

He pulled away.

Without a word, he got up and left the room.

He didn’t touch her. But the guilt had stuck ever since.

Desmond end his narrative.

“I never raped her,” Desmond said. “I swear on everything. I sat beside her. I gave her toys. That’s all. She’s blind, Amaka. Maybe she got confused.”

Mrs. Desmond walked their son to his room, kissed his forehead, and returned to the kitchen.

Tears rolled down her face. “Do you know what this has done to us? To our son? Our name?”

“I do,” he whispered. “But I’m telling you the truth.”

She looked at him, her chest rising and falling. “If you’re found guilty, I will divorce you. I will take our son and leave. But if you’re not.” She walked forward, placed her hands on his shoulders.

She hugged him. But it wasn’t warm. It was cold. Conditional.

Desmond closed his eyes.

Because he knew.

The court might ask for evidence.

But only he and that blind girl knew the truth.

The sun dipped low over the city skyline as Mr. Desmond paced his private office. It was the first time in weeks he looked nervous. His neatly pressed shirt clung to his back with sweat as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. He glanced at his Rolex, then at the door.

A knock.

“Come in,” he barked.

Barrister Kunle stepped in, briefcase in hand, brow raised in curiosity. “You sounded urgent.”

Desmond gestured to the chair across his desk. “I didn’t call you here for legal strategies.”

Kunle raised an eyebrow, taking the seat slowly. “Then what for?”

Desmond leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I want this case dropped. I don’t care how you do it.”

Kunle’s mouth twitched. “It’s not that simple”

“I’ll make it simple,” Desmond interrupted. He unlocked his drawer and pulled out a brown envelope. “Five million naira. All yours if you convince your clients to back down.”

Kunle blinked, trying to keep his face still. “You know this is illegal.”

“You think I care?” Desmond’s tone grew sharper. “She wanted to ruin my reputation.”

There was a pause. A silent moment of power, money, and pressure.

Desmond pulled out his phone. “Give me your account number.”

Kunle, with barely a second’s hesitation, rattled off the digits. His hands were shaking slightly greed and shame dancing in his veins. A few taps later, Desmond turned the screen for him to see another ₦5,000,000 transferred to him.

Kunle exhaled.

“They’ll back off,” he said.

“You better make sure of that.”

Chapter Four

Later that afternoon, Lydia sat across from Barrister Kunle at his office. She had come in with a smile, hopeful, trusting the man who had stood boldly in court.

“First, thank you,” she began, smiling warmly. “You were brilliant in court. We believe we might actually win.”

Kunle forced a smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

There was a pause.

“But, Lydia” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “I need to speak with you honestly. You see, these kinds of cases are hard. Very hard. Sometimes, justice is better found in peace.”

Lydia frowned. “Peace?”

“What if you convinced Mrs. Isibor and Boluwatife to let go of the case? Desmond is willing to compensate generously. Enough to cover the eye surgery. More than enough. Imagine what a second chance could mean for Bolu.”

Lydia stared at him, stunned.

“You want us to collect hush money?”

He gave a nervous chuckle. “Call settlement. You’re smart. She’ll win at life, even if not in court.”

Lydia’s expression turned cold. Her voice, low and shaking with anger. “You disgust me.”

She stood up without another word and stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

Across town, Mrs. Desmond pushed a shopping cart beside her 10-year-old son at a local mall. She wore sunglasses and a scarf, hoping to stay unnoticed.

But whispers followed her.

“That’s her the rapist’s wife.”

“I heard the girl was blind.”

Mrs. Desmond’s grip tightened on the cart. Her son looked up at her with innocent eyes, unaware of the daggers being thrown in whispers.

Unable to take more, she abandoned the cart, grabbed her son’s hand, and stormed out, her dignity trailing behind her like a torn veil.

A day before the court date, Barrister Kunle called Mrs. Isibor.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, fake sorrow lacing his voice. “An urgent legal retreat came up in Abuja. I’ll be flying out. Can’t make the next court session.”

Mrs. Isibor sighed. Her voice was weak. “So we are on our own again?”

“I’ll return soon. You’re strong, ma.”

As the call ended, Mrs. Isibor leaned against the wall, tears slipping down.

But Lydia Lydia didn’t flinch.

“We’re not done,” she whispered. “I will find another way. We’re going to finish this.”

It was evening Lydia was in her room.

Lydia sat on the edge of her bed, eyes fixed on the wooden floor, her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her skirt. The late evening sun poured in through the dusty curtain, painting long orange streaks across the small room. Her thoughts were loud, overwhelming, and choking.

Tomorrow was the court date.

But they had no lawyer.

Barrister Kunle had disappeared—just like hope. After collecting her mother’s hard-earned contribution money, he had vanished under the excuse of an emergency trip to Abuja. She knew deep down, he’d sold them out. Justice had a price, and Mr. Desmond paid it in full.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. It was David.

“You’re not looking good, Lydia,” he said gently, stepping inside.

She forced a tired smile. “There’s no more strength in me.”

David sat beside her. “What happened?”

She told him everything about Kunle, the bribe, the betrayal, and the weight on Mrs. Isibor’s shoulders. David’s face hardened.

“This system,” he muttered. “It’s always the rich who win.”

Lydia leaned back, hands on her face. “We need a lawyer, David. Someone who won’t sell us out like Lawyer Kunke.”

He nodded slowly. “I know someone.”

She looked up sharply. “Who?”

“He sells newspapers at Second Junction.”

Lydia blinked. “David…”

“I know how it sounds,” he said quickly, “but just listen.”

She sighed.

“His name is Mr. Rahmon. Used to be a top lawyer, one of the best. But then… life happened to him.”

David’s voice dropped, becoming more serious than usual.

“When we first moved here for NYSC, I used to stop by his stand to read papers. One Saturday, I was ranting about a footballer, then flipped to a political piece about unemployment. I was talking non-stop, and suddenly I noticed he wasn’t even listening. He was lost in his instinct, long gone.”

David paused. Lydia was now fully engaged.

“I tapped him. When he snapped out of it, he said, ‘Today should’ve been her final year.’ I asked who. He said his daughter. She was raped in school. She came to him for help, but instead of comforting her, he focused on revenge. He tracked down the boys, got them expelled, and even shot two of them.”

Lydia gasped.

“They survived, but that one act cost him everything. His license. His reputation. And worst of all his daughter left and never came back. He lost her, Lydia. That guilt eats him every day.”

Lydia’s eyes were glossy now.

“I think… he might help us,” David added. “He knows pain. Real pain.”

“Will he even agree?” she asked quietly.

David nodded. “He might not at first. But if he sees Boluwatife, if he hears her story, he won’t walk away.”

Lydia stood, determination returning. “Take me there.”

David looked at the sky it was getting dark.

“If we hurry, we’ll catch him.”

They left immediately, hearts pounding not just from hope, but from the fear that this last card might not play out. But Lydia knew one thing if there was still a chance to fight for Boluwatife’s justice, she would take it, no matter what it cost.

The orange color of dusk form long shadows along the dusty path as David and Lydia made their way to the small roadside newspaper stand. Mr. Rahmon, an elderly man with a sun-worn face and wise eyes, was already packing up for the day. His weathered fingers folded newspapers with a familiar rhythm.

David approached with a calm smile.

“Good evening, Baba Rahmon.”

“Ah, David. You came late today,” the man said, stacking the final paper.

“I know, sir. I need a favor,” David said, glancing at Lydia beside him.

Mr. Rahmon raised a brow.

“Can you follow us somewhere? Just… to see something. I promise it won’t take long.”

Lydia opened her mouth, but David gently nudged her and shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said quickly.

Mr. Rahmon hesitated, then finally nodded. “Let me grab my bag.”

At Mrs. Isibor’s modest home, the air was heavy with anxiety. The room was dimly lit, the flickering of a single bulb above them humming gently. Mrs. Isibor welcomed the visitors and offered them plastic chairs. Boluwatife, meanwhile, remained quietly in her room, unaware of what was unfolding.

David took the lead.

“Mama, this is Baba Rahmon. He’s… someone special. We thought he should hear from you.”

With that, he sat down.

Mrs. Isibor looked at Rahmon with tired eyes, then lowered her gaze as tears welled up.

“Sir… I am just a cleaner. I’ve spent my whole life scrubbing homes, trying to give my daughter a better future. She’s blind… but talented. Gifted. Until a man destroyed everything.”

Her voice trembled.

“She was raped in the house I worked. And the world… it doesn’t believe us. They say a blind girl can’t recognize evil. They say our story is a lie.”

Her voice broke. “I was supposed to use my savings for her eye surgery. But I gave it to a lawyer who vanished.”

Silence fell.

Mr. Rahmon sat still, eyes fixed on the floor. His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he finally did, his voice was low and broken.

“I’m sorry… but I can’t take up this case.”

He stood, reaching for his bag.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

As he turned to leave, a soft voice echoed from the hallway.

“Mom… did the new lawyer reject our case too?”

Everyone turned.

There, standing in the doorway, was Boluwatife. Her white cane rested at her side, and her sightless eyes stared ahead as if seeing the whole world. Her voice was steady, fragile yet strong. “If he didn’t stay, maybe God doesn’t want it,” she said softly. “It’s fine.

That is what my name means Boluwatife. ‘What God wishes.’

She turned toward her mother. “Mom, let him go. I’ve accepted my fate. But I still believe… God will show up for us tomorrow.”

Lydia couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst into tears, shoulders shaking. Mrs. Isibor followed, holding her daughter like she was porcelain. Lydia rushed forward and wrapped Boluwatife in a tight hug, whispering through sobs, “We believe. We still believe.”

Mr. Rahmon froze by the door.

He didn’t look back not immediately.

But something in him stirred. A familiar ache. A long-lost fire.

He took a deep breath, then walked out into the night.

David remained in his chair, speechless. The weight of hope and heartbreak pressed against them all.

And tomorrow… tomorrow would decide everything.

The sky over the courthouse was thick with clouds, a brooding gray that matched the atmosphere building inside and outside the building. Cameras were lined up, microphones were extended, and reporters eagerly waited for a statement. The live broadcast of the trial had drawn attention across the nation. On screens from Lagos to Kaduna, over thirty thousand people were tuned in, hungry for justice or scandal whichever came first.

Standing in front of the court building, flanked by two suited guards and a slim, composed wife, Mr. Desmond adjusted his tie, cleared his throat, and stepped into the spotlight.

“I want to say this publicly,” he began, his voice smooth like a practiced speech. “I am a man of integrity. I have my beautiful wife beside me. I have a ten-year-old son. I know what it means to love and protect. The things being said about me… they are painful lies.”

Cameras clicked. Phones recorded. Reporters jotted notes furiously.

“I would never hurt a little girl,” Mr. Desmond continued, placing a hand over his chest. “Where did I keep my divinity and humanity, if I could do such a thing? I have been accused unfairly. But I believe today, the truth will prevail.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“I know what this woman wants,” he added, referring to Mrs. Isibor. “She wants help for her daughter’s eye surgery. And I want to help. Whether or not this case is dismissed today and I believe it will be I will still assist her. Because that is what we call humanity.”

Inside a small rented apartment, far away from the courthouse, Mr. Rahmon stood in silence, staring at the TV. He watched Mr. Desmond speak so eloquently, so convincingly and his gut twisted. There was something about that speech, the polished words, the crafted sincerity… it reminded him of the same public deception he once tried to fight.

Enough.

Without a word, he turned off the TV and walked to his wardrobe. The wooden doors creaked as he pulled them open. Inside, untouched for five years, hung his old prosecutor robes. Faded, dusty, but still sharp. He reached for them. His fingers trembled.

One by one, he laid out the pieces on his bed: the white shirt, the robe, the bands, the shoes. As he dressed, he didn’t rush. Each item felt like armor returning to a warrior. When he finally looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the man he used to be and the man he needed to become again.

Outside the courthouse, anxiety buzzed through the crowd like static. Inside, the judges had taken their seats. The hall was packed, filled with murmurs of spectators, lawyers, police, and curious citizens.

The chief judge adjusted his glasses and looked over the courtroom.

“Where is the representative for the plaintiff?” he asked.

Mrs. Isibor rose nervously from her bench. Her voice cracked. “Sir… our lawyer… he hasn’t arrived yet.”

The room stirred.

“Is he delayed? Did you not prepare for today’s hearing?” the judge asked sharply.

Lydia was outside the court, her heart pounding. She had gone from office to office, searching for anyone who would stand for them. But all she got were sympathetic glances, polite refusals, and murmurs of *”God will help you.”*

She was exhausted. Her eyes were wet. Her throat dry.

As she stood near the court gates, wondering how everything had crumbled so fast, a taxi pulled up.

Out stepped David.

And behind him Mr. Rahmon.

Lydia’s breath caught.

He was dressed. Full courtroom attire. His eyes were sharp, his gait steady. He stood in front of the courthouse, looked up at the stone statue of justice, then to the sky.

“So help me, Lord,” he whispered.

Lydia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She placed a hand over her mouth. Relief and disbelief swirled together.

He was here.

He came.

Inside the courtroom, the murmurs rose again as Mr. Rahmon walked in.

The judge looked up, puzzled. “Who are you, sir?”

Mr. Rahmon approached the bench. “Your Honour, I am representing the complainant. My name is Barrister Rahmon.”

The courtroom buzzed.

Lydia entered behind him, stunned.

“He is the complainant’s previous representative” the judge began.

“I am no one’s colleague,” Mr. Rahmon cut in calmly. “I am not here for politics. I am here for truth.”

Mrs. Isibor looked at him with widened eyes. Lydia stared. David gave him a subtle nod from the back.

The court clerk cleared his throat.

“The court will now begin hearing the matter between Boluwatife Arowosegbe and Desmond Williams.”

As the session officially began, the courtroom fell silent.

The courtroom murmurs began to rise as Judge Adesuwa motioned for silence.

“Prosecuting attorney,” she said, “this court awaits your submission in response to the defense’s evidence. Be brief and clear.”

Mr. Rahmon stood slowly, his robe draped with presence, his eyes unwavering. He did not rush to the front like a man chasing a point he walked like a man bringing truth to a table where lies had been feasting.

He stood before the judges, then faced the gallery.

“Your Honour, what I bring today is not just rebuttal it is revelation.”

He held up a document.

“This is Exhibit A, a forensic report from an independent lab, after we contacted them after discovering a stained piece of fabric left in Mr. Desmond’s guestroom. That fabric, retrieved from a laundry co-worker in the same compound, contains biological traces of both Mr. Desmond and the victim. A DNA match confirms it.”

Gasps filled the courtroom.

Desmond stared at his wife. Loveth looked away she didn’t want to look at him.

“Let me be specific saliva and sweat. The same materials were found on Boluwatife’s dress on that day.”

He paused, watching Barrister Adeyemi shift in his seat.

“This evidence was not planted. It was ignored. Hidden under routine. Overlooked because nobody believed a blind girl could know what happened to her.”

He moved forward.

“Your Honour, if the defense claims she made up this story, I now ask how did her body end up with material that matches the defendant’s DNA?”

He turned, raising his voice just slightly not yelling, but commanding.

“I have here a signed affidavit from the co-worker who admitted she kept the soiled cloth out of fear but gave it to our team after learning what had happened. She feared for her job, so she washed the rest but held onto this one, wrapped and sealed. We opened it, and science answered for us.”

He turned to the judge, calm.

“So now we don’t need cameras. We don’t need to be biased, we don’t even need pity. We have proof.”

The room was still.

Barrister Adeyemi rose, clearly shaken. “Your Honour, this is irregular. Why wasn’t this presented earlier?”

Mr. Rahmon responded without turning. “Because we did not find it earlier. Because our first lawyer abandoned us. Because justice delayed does not mean justice denied.”

Judge Adesuwa leaned forward. “Prosecuting attorney are you prepared to submit all documents related to this test and chain of custody?”

“Yes, Your Honour. All signed, dated, and recorded. I’m prepared to submit them.”

Judge Adesuwa exchanged glances with the two other judges on the panel.

“This evidence,” he said carefully, “alters the weight of this case.”

Mr. Rahmon stepped forward, no hesitation in his voice.

“I ask this court, with great respect, to adjourn this hearing once more. So that the truth may be examined thoroughly. Because if this court delivers judgment today, it will do so with incomplete facts.”

The judge nodded slowly, took a breath, then hit the gavel.

“Court is adjourned for 21 days to allow for full forensic verification and testimony from the lab and laundry witness. No judgment will be made until then. Court dismissed.”

The courtroom buzzed as Mr. Rahmon quietly walked back to his seat, while Mrs. Isibor wiped her tears and Lydia clutched Boluwatife’s hand.

“Hope restored again,” Lydia said to herself.

Chapter Five

Outside the courtroom, the hot afternoon sun bore down, but Lydia didn’t notice. She was still stunned by what had happened in court. Mr. Rahmon walked ahead of them, loosening his tie as if the courtroom heat still clung to him.

David jogged to catch up. “Sir… that was brilliant! That evidence how did you get it? When did you even find time to do all that?”

Rahmon gave a tired smile. “Fabricated it.”

David stopped walking. “Wait what?”

“I said I made it up,” Rahmon repeated, eyes fixed forward. “The DNA report. The affidavit. All of it. I don’t know anything about a cloth or laundry worker.”

Lydia’s mouth parted. “But… you sounded so sure.”

“That’s the job,” Rahmon muttered. “Confidence convinces. Fear collapses. If I didn’t stand there and shake them, you’d already have lost this case today.”

They walked into a quiet corridor, and Rahmon turned around to face them. “I didn’t do it to lie. I did it to buy time. The time you should’ve had from the beginning. Now we have 21 days. I need to build a real case. And I need you both. We start tonight.”

Lydia swallowed hard. “So… we need to find the real cloth? The real testimony?”

“Yes,” Rahmon said firmly. “And anything else that puts Desmond in that room with Boluwatife. I know he’s guilty. I just need proof.”

David nodded. “We’re with you.”

Inside the grand living room of the Desmond estate, silence wasn’t peaceful it was threatening. The air conditioner hummed softly, yet sweat dotted Mr. Desmond’s forehead.

His lawyer, Barrister Adeyemi, paced across the rug.

“This is a problem,” Adeyemi said. “That Prosecutor Rahmon he played something we didn’t expect. I thought he was a washout. But today? He cornered us.”

Desmond slammed his hand on the glass coffee table. “It’s impossible one of my staff? I paid them all doubled their salaries after the first hearing. Nobody’s turning on me.”

Adeyemi gave him a sharp look. “Clearly someone did. That fabric didn’t fall from heaven. And I doubt they fabricated everything. Something or someone gave them access.”

Desmond stood, his voice low but threatening. “If I find them whosever give them the evidence.” Threaten them if you must. Pay them more. I don’t care. Just make it stop.”

Adeyemi raised a hand. “Not so fast. Before I play dirty, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

He paused.

“I’m going to investigate Rahmon. Quietly. Find out what broke him. What makes him tick. Every man has a crack in his wall. I’ll find his.”

Desmond raised an eyebrow. “And what will that achieve?”

“If I know what he fears,” Adeyemi said, walking slowly to the window, “I know how to control him. Even better, how to break him.”

Desmond leaned back on the couch, expression hard. “Do it. And if he won’t bend then let buy his voice.”

The chime above the restaurant door rang softly as Lydia and David stepped in, the smell of grilled chicken and spice wafting toward them. It was the same restaurant located two blocks away from Mr. Desmond’s mansion the one Mrs. Isibor mentioned she used to stop at after cleaning, and where she once picked Boluwatife up. The staff knew them. Lydia hoped they’d also have what they desperately needed the CCTV footage of the day of the assault.

They approached the front counter. A middle-aged man in an apron, likely the manager, looked up from his register.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Lydia began politely. “We were hoping to see your CCTV footage from about five or six weeks ago.”

The manager frowned. “Six weeks? For what purpose?”

“It’s connected to an investigation,” David cut in quickly. “There was a case nearby. A girl… it’s very sensitive. We think your outside camera might have captured something.”

The man scratched his head, looking toward the kitchen before lowering his voice. “Sorry to disappoint you. Our system only stores footage for thirty days. That day’s been long gone.”

Lydia’s heart sank. “Is there no backup? No cloud storage? Anything?”

The man shook his head apologetically. “We’re not that advanced, madam. Once it’s gone it’s gone.”

Lydia turned away silently, blinking rapidly to hold back tears. David exhaled and stepped aside. He dug his phone from his pocket and immediately dialed Rahmon.

It rang twice before the calm, steady voice answered.

“Yes, David?”

“Sir,” David said, walking a few feet away from Lydia. “We’re at the restaurant. They don’t have the footage. It’s been overwritten.”

A moment of silence passed on the line. Then Rahmon spoke, not flinching. “Don’t worry about that.”

David furrowed his brows. “Sir?”

“Just come over. Don’t lose hope,” Rahmon said with authority. “I know what to do.”

David hung up slowly, walking back to Lydia, who stood staring blankly out the restaurant window.

“They deleted it?” she whispered without turning.

David nodded. “Yes. But Mr. Rahmon said not to worry. He sounded sure. Said we should head to his place.”

Lydia rubbed her hands down her face. “He always sounds sure. I just don’t know how he keeps it together.”

David offered a tired smile. “That’s why he’s the one wearing the prosecutor’s robe.”

They left the restaurant with slow steps. Outside, the city moved as if it had no idea their whole case was crumbling. But inside them something else still flickered hope.

Rahmon’s apartment was small, but organized like a war room. Files, sticky notes, court prints, and diagrams pinned to cork boards and even the wall. When Lydia and David arrived, he had already set out a notebook and a pair of reading glasses beside a pot of coffee.

He looked up from a stack of paper. “I expected worse news.”

David shrugged. “The footage is gone. We are out of luck there.”

“No, we’re not,” Rahmon said simply. “We’re going to focus on closeness. Patterns. If that restaurant’s camera saw something once, then so did another.”

He pointed to a street map taped to the wall.

“I marked three shops, two residential gates, and a bank. All of them have exterior-facing cameras. And they’re all within range of the mansion.”

David’s eyes widened. “So we go on a new hunt?”

Rahmon nodded. “Exactly. This isn’t just about one camera. People forget crime lives in angles. You miss one, you catch another.”

Lydia finally spoke. “But even if we find the footage won’t they say it’s not enough to prove what happened inside the house?”

Rahmon stood, his voice low but full of charge. “We’re not trying to prove what happened inside the house yet. We’re trying to prove who was where, when, and why. We build context. Then we break through with detail.”

He looked at both of them, as though sealing them into his mission.

“If Desmond touched that girl, something will give. Whether it’s a glance caught on a different camera, a lie in his alibi, or someone who saw more than they said. We’re not done.”

Lydia nodded slowly, finally breathing fully for the first time all day. David smiled faintly.

“Alright,” Rahmon said, reaching for a file and sliding it across the table. “We’ve got 13 days left. Let’s use every one like it’s the last.”

The night air was thick with the smell of expensive cigars, fried goat meat, and aged whiskey. Inside a private lounge tucked in one of the intellectual estates, five men sat in a semicircle of soft leather chairs. Dim lights reflected off gold wristwatches and sparkling bottles. This was not an ordinary gathering it was Desmond’s circle. His people. His brothers in influence.

Mr. Desmond sat in the center like a king on trial, his face tired but his jaw still clenched with pride. Across from him sat Segun wealthy estate developer, then Folarin the ever calculating politician. On Desmond’s left was Mayowa, a big time importer, and beside him, Jide his old university roommate and current media executive.

The air buzzed with tension and unspoken truth, but they all wore the mask of friendship.

Segun leaned forward, pouring himself another drink. “Bro, let me talk true. If this court wahala goes sideways… your name go scatter.”

Desmond sighed. “I know.”

“But,” Folarin cut in, tapping his glass, “we’re not going to let that happen. You’re not alone in this mess. We stand.”

Desmond forced a dry smile. “Thank you, guys. Honestly. It’s been tough. Even Loveth hasn’t really looked at me the same since…”

“You messed up, yes,” Jide interjected calmly, “but you’re Desmond. DTV boss. Philanthropist. Family man. That’s what people know. That’s what they must remember.”

Desmond exhaled deeply. “They’ve asked for witnesses next week. I need all of you. They’ll call you in to testify character, habits, whatever. Please. Say it right.”

One by one, they nodded.

“You have me,” Segun said.

“Always,” Folarin added.

“We dey your back,” Mayowa confirmed.

Desmond reached for the remote and turned on the speaker. Music started to throb as Asake’s “Ototo” filled the lounge. The beat rolled in like an anthem for the broken, the flawed, the brothers in smoke and secrets.

“Mr. Money dey here so…

Man a come from a place way bad…

Pray to Jah that we never lack…

And you know, man, I’m goin’ hard…

Highly cele’-celeatial…

Oh Jah, high-high…

(Go high, go high), oh-oh, oh…

(Go high), yeah-yeah, (go high), uh-uh….

(Go high), oh high (go high) go high, yeah….

Ototo (ayy-ayyy)…

Ototo sha la waye sha (wa’ye sha)….

Carry your own, I no get stamina(stamina)….

they hummed, some singing, others just nodding, cups raised.

In that moment, loyalty masked fear. Brotherhood masked guilt.

And Desmond, lost in the rhythm, forgot truth doesn’t always dance to the beat of lies.

The night was heavy with cloud and tension as Mr. Rahmon stepped out of the black cab and approached the side entrance of Desmond’s mansion. The sun was still trapped behind thick grey skies, casting a muted light across the high-walled compound. He had made sure no one saw him coming not the guards, not the housekeepers, not even Desmond himself. This visit wasn’t official. It was personal. And it was necessary.

He adjusted his blazer and walked toward the back quarters, where the long-serving kitchen staff lived. He had made contact through a quiet call, carefully arranged through a friend of David’s, and now he was about to meet the one person who had seen Desmond more intimately than most.

She was waiting for him, her hands busy with vegetables on a wooden table just behind the mansion. Her name was Madam Felicia. About 58 years old, her face was creased with time, and her hair, wrapped tightly in a faded scarf, peeked out in grey tufts. She didn’t stop cutting, but when Rahmon drew closer, she looked up at him with weary but observant eyes.

“You’re the one David mentioned, abi?” she asked.

“Yes, ma,” Rahmon said politely, taking off his cap. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I just want to talk.”

“I no get plenty time,” she said, chopping onions with steady precision. “Talk quick. Na my break be this.”

Rahmon nodded and took out his small notepad. “I’ve been investigating Mr. Desmond for a while now”

“Me, I no get hand for trouble o,” she cut in sharply. “I just dey do my work here.”

“I understand,” Rahmon said calmly. “But it’s about something from the past. Something that might be repeating itself now.”

She paused, lowered her knife, and gave him a measured stare. “Na about that blind girl, abi?”

Rahmon nodded slowly.

She sighed heavily and sat on the bench beside the table. “Wetin happen to that girl pain me. But this one wey you dey dig, you sure say you ready?”

“Yes, ma. Please. I just need the truth.”

She looked around cautiously, as if the mansion walls had ears. Then she spoke in a low voice.

“Many years ago maybe twelve when I still dey work for Mr. Desmond for him small house in Gbagada, there was one girl. Her name na Omolewa. She and oga dey work for the same company, the media one. Na brilliant girl, full of energy. I dey see am come house sometimes, come help oga with documents.”

She paused, adjusting her wrapper.

“Rumour begin fly say oga rape her. I no know whether na true or lie, but the girl comot for the company. Dem say she no fit continue after the shame and gossip. People just dey whisper, and oga himself no talk anything. He just dey carry himself like say nothing happen.”

Rahmon frowned. “What happened after?”

“Oga resign small time after, then marry madam Loveth. Dem comot from Gbagada go this big mansion. Everything change. Staff change. Only me remain.”

“Do you know where I can find this Omolewa?”

She shook her head. “Since she comot that company, I never hear her name again. But… she get one close friend wey still dey work for one big shopping mall for Surulere. That one fit sabi her whereabouts.”

Rahmon quickly jotted it down. “Do you know the friend’s name?”

She thought for a second. “Tosin. Slim girl, always dey wear long braids. Na cashier she be. Very respectful.”

“I appreciate this, ma,” Rahmon said with sincerity. “You may have just saved someone’s future.”

Madam Felicia looked down at her cut vegetables, her voice softer now. “I no talk because I hate my oga. I talk because I get daughter too. Life fit turn anyhow. If na my daughter, I go want person fight for her.”

She stood and picked up her chopping board. “Abeg, make I go before person see us. No mention say I talk o. I beg you.”

“You have my word,” Rahmon said, rising with her.

The midday sun poured over Surulere like boiling oil, heating the tarred roads and bouncing rays off the cars packed around the shopping mall. Mr. Rahmon pulled his faded cap low, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and stepped into the cool air of the plaza. It was busy young people laughing around ice cream stalls, mothers dragging their kids, and security officers loitering with walkie-talkies at the corners. His mind was elsewhere.

He grabbed a pack of snacks and a bottle of water, enough to justify his entry. His eyes scanned the store like a detective in plain sight. And then he saw her slim, braided hair tucked behind her ears, dark blue uniform shirt, and a calm face that didn’t look like it smiled often. Victoria. He had asked about her. Now he had found her.

As he approached the counter, he felt his chest tighten slightly. He hoped this lead wouldn’t go cold like the others. Victoria began scanning the items mechanically, her eyes tired but focused.

“Good afternoon,” Rahmon said, placing his items gently on the counter.

She gave a polite nod. “Good afternoon, sir.”

As she worked the barcode scanner, Rahmon leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “My name is Rahmon. I’m not here to buy snacks. I came to speak with you… about someone you know Omolewa.”

Victoria froze slightly mid-scan. Her eyes lifted to meet his, searching, cautious.

“I know this is sudden,” Rahmon continued. “But it’s important. I believe she was once hurt by a man I’m investigating. Desmond.”

Victoria’s hand hovered over the last item.

Still quiet.

She blinked once and said flatly, “Please wait for me outside.”

Rahmon nodded, pulled out cash, paid for the items, and collected the receipt. He moved toward the exit where a young mall attendant checked his bag and receipt without much interest. The moment he stepped into the warm air, he exhaled.

A few minutes passed. Then he saw her again. Victoria walked out of the staff exit around the side of the building, her expression unreadable.

“I’m here,” she said, folding her arms. “But I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“I want to hear the truth,” Rahmon replied. “I’m representing a blind teenage girl who was raped by Desmond. But I know this isn’t the first time he has done it. I believe your friend, Omolewa, was one of his victims too.”

Victoria looked down and exhaled hard.

“She was.”

Rahmon waited silently, letting the air hang between them.

“She worked with him,” Victoria said. “They were in the same media firm. He was a senior presenter then polished, popular, untouchable. She admired him. Everyone did. She was fresh from NYSC… hopeful. Talented. He took interest in her. He offered to mentor her. Then… it happened.”

Rahmon nodded slowly. “She told you?”

“I was the only one she told,” Victoria said. “She came to my house one night, shaking, crying. She said he invited her to his apartment to discuss her show pitch. She trusted him. He served her wine, talked sweet, then… everything spiraled. She couldn’t fight him off.”

She paused. “And the next day? Desmond denied everything. Said they had a good time. Said she was bitter because he rejected her proposal.”

Rahmon’s jaw clenched.

“She reported it to HR,” Victoria continued. “But no one did anything. They said it was her word against his. People at the office began gossiping painting her as desperate, confused, emotionally unstable. Omolewa resigned after two weeks. She couldn’t take the shame.”

“Where is she now?” Rahmon asked softly.

“She’s in Osogbo, staying with her aunt,” Victoria replied. “She needed peace. Her mental health was… it was bad. She’s getting better now.”

“Can I get her contact?” Rahmon asked carefully. “Please.”

Victoria hesitated. Then, reaching into her pocket, she scribbled a number and address on the back of an old receipt and handed it to him.

“She might not want to talk,” she said. “She has buried that part of her life.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Rahmon promised. “I only want her voice. Even if it’s a whisper.”

As Victoria turned to walk away, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I hope you win. He is powerful. Influential. But I hope you bury him with the truth.”

Rahmon smiled faintly. “I’m not burying him. I’m uncovering him.”

Victoria nodded once and slipped back into the building, disappearing into the rhythm of routine.

Rahmon stood outside the mall a little longer, the receipt still warm in his palm. There were ghosts to wake. And he was done knocking softly.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting an amber glow through the dusty blinds of Mr. Rahmon’s home. He sat by his desk, flipping the worn receipt Victoria had written on earlier, reading the Osogbo address again and again. His instincts told him this was the key Omolewa’s testimony might be the turning point.

But he couldn’t go by himself, he needed someone else. Someone younger, trusted, and bold.

He picked up his phone and dialed Lydia.

She answered quickly, her voice tired but alert. “Hello, sir?”

“Lydia,” Rahmon said, “I need your help. There’s a woman Omolewa. She’s in Osogbo. I believe she was also a victim of Desmond. I just got her address.”

There was silence.

“I can’t go there myself,” he continued. “But I need someone I trust to go. You and David. Can you do it?”

Lydia didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. Just send the address.”

As Rahmon ended the call, a tired sigh escaped his chest. He had played his part. Now, it was in their hands.

At Mrs. Isibor’s modest home, the atmosphere was heavy. Boluwatife sat on the floor, surrounded by crumpled sketch papers. Her hand moved quickly, furiously across the surface, trying to shape something that resembled her rage a face, a scream, a cry for justice. But each time, the lines betrayed her. The paper tore under pressure, and her frustration boiled over.

“I hate this!” she yelled, slamming her fists into the floor.

Her mother rushed in. “Tife, Tife, what is it?”

Boluwatife wiped angry tears off her cheeks. “It’s useless, Mom. I drew him, he is the one, he didn’t let me screamthat day, but nothing will change. He’s still walking free.”

Mrs. Isibor knelt beside her daughter and held her. “Don’t say that, my daughter. Justice may be slow, but it’s not blind like the world. God sees. I see. And we’re fighting.”

“But I don’t want to fight anymore,” she whispered, broken.

Mrs. Isibor kissed her forehead. “Then rest. Let us fight for you.”

The next morning, Lydia and David boarded a rickety interstate bus to Osogbo. They didn’t speak much both lost in thought, their expressions tight with purpose.

As they journeyed through winding roads, the cityscape slowly melted into stretches of red earth, scattered huts, and thick groves. The air smelled different cleaner, calmer.

After four hours, the bus finally dropped them at the edge of a small neighborhood lined with quiet homes and hawkers calling out roasted corn and puff-puff. Lydia checked the address on her phone again.

“This is the street,” she said.

David nodded, carrying a small bag with bottled water, notepads, and a voice recorder just in case.

They walked toward a yellow bungalow with peeling paint. A woman in her early thirties was tending to potted plants in front. She looked up, startled, when they approached.

“Good afternoon,” Lydia said, gently. “Are you Omolewa?”

The woman hesitated, but nodded. “Yes…”

“We came from Lagos. Mr. Rahmon sent us.”

Her face paled.

“We’re not journalists,” David added quickly. “We’re just… seeking truth. For someone else who was hurt. Like you were.”

Omolewa’s eyes narrowed, but something in Lydia’s trembling voice disarmed her.

“Come in,” she said finally.

They stepped inside a small living room filled with books, and dried paintbrushes. She offered them water but didn’t sit.

“Why are you really here?” she asked, her tone guarded.

Lydia took a breath. “We’re fighting a case. A blind girl. Sixteen years old. She was raped by Desmond.”

Omolewa flinched at the name.

“She can’t see, but she drew his face from touching him. We’ve been in court. But his power… his influence… it’s almost unbearable. We were told you might know something. Or that maybe you could say something. Anything.”

Omolewa sat down slowly, her hands trembling. “I was twenty-three,” she began. “He was charming. Respected. Everyone said I was lucky he noticed me. Until the night he locked his door.”

Lydia and David listened in silence as Omolewa’s voice cracked through her trauma.

“I reported it. No one believed me. I quit my job, left Lagos. For five years I’ve tried to forget. I don’t even want to talk about it.”

David reached into the bag and pulled out a photo a printout of Boluwatife’s sketch of Desmond’s face. He slid it toward her.

Omolewa stared at it, eyes widening.

“She’s blind?” she whispered.

Lydia nodded. “But she saw enough.”

Tears welled in Omolewa’s eyes. “She deserves better than silence.”

“So will you help us?” Lydia asked.

Omolewa looked at the sketch again, then at Lydia.

“I will.”

Omolewa sat still, staring at the drawing in her lap the one Boluwatife had made. The face haunted her. It was accurate. Too accurate. A silent confirmation of a pain she thought she had buried forever.

David leaned forward gently. “We brought a recorder. If you’re ready… even a voice record from you could change everything. It’s not a court appearance yet. Just your truth.”

Omolewa’s fingers curled slightly, then relaxed. “Will this really help?”

Lydia nodded. “More than you know.”

She closed her eyes. Took a slow breath. Then said, “Okay.”

David pulled out his phone, opened the voice recorder, and placed it on the table between them. He glanced at Lydia, who gave a small, encouraging nod.

With trembling fingers, David pressed the red button.

Her voice, soft but clear, filled the room.

“My name is Omolewa Adebayo. I am 28 years old. Five years ago, I worked at the same media organization as Mr. Desmond. He was my superior. I admired him. Trusted him. Until one evening, during a work meeting in his private office, he locked the door and… he raped me.”

She paused. Swallowed hard.

“I reported it to HR. They said it was my word against his. He claimed it was consensual. The whispers started. The stares. So I left.”

Her voice cracked now, but she kept going.

“I heard about the case involving the blind girl, Boluwatife. When I saw the sketch, I knew she was telling the truth. Because that face… is the same face I’ve been trying to forget.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I was too ashamed to fight back then. But I won’t be silent anymore. If this testimony helps her get justice, then maybe… maybe we both win.”

She reached across the table and pressed stop.

Silence filled the room for a few seconds.

Lydia helped her wipe her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

David looked at the phone, then at Omolewa. “This… this is everything.”

Omolewa managed a small, sad smile. “Give that girl her justice. She deserves it more than I ever did.”

They left the house quietly. As the door closed behind them, the late afternoon sun spilled across the dusty street and in that moment, Lydia felt the tide finally shift.

Chapter Six

The courtroom was tense, the air thick with anticipation. Judge Adesuwa presided with a stern demeanor, flanked by the defense attorney, Mr. Adeyemi, and the prosecutor, Mr. Rahmon. The gallery was filled with spectators, journalists, and the families of both the accused and the victim.

Mr. Adeyemi rose confidently, addressing the court. “Your Honor, the defense calls upon the four associates of Mr. Desmond to testify.”

One by one, Desmond’s friends took the stand, each affirming that they were with Desmond at the time of the alleged incident. Their testimonies were consistent, painting a picture of camaraderie and shared alibis.

Mr. Rahmon observed silently, his expression unreadable. When it was his turn, he approached the bench with a calm demeanor.

Boluwatife sat beside her mother, trembling, her hands tightly clasped together in her lap. Lydia leaned in, whispering reassurance, but the fear etched across Bolu’s face couldn’t be softened by words.

Judge Adesuwa adjusted her glasses, eyes shifting between the two lawyers now standing at opposite ends of the courtroom. Mr. Adeyemi was calm, polished, and oozing confidence as he began his statement.

“My Lord, you’ve heard from four individuals respectable men. Community men. All of them have confirmed, under oath, that the defendant, Mr. Desmond, was with them on the day in question. This allegation,” he said, casting a long, pitiful glance at Boluwatife, “is nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding possibly driven by financial desperation.”

There was a murmur from the crowd, and Mr. Rahmon slowly rose from his seat. His face bore no arrogance, just quiet strength.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice deliberate and steady, “a well-rehearsed lie sounds like truth when it’s told in harmony. But harmony does not make it honest. These men… these loyal friends of the accused… are not objective. They are here to preserve their reputation. I am here to protect the truth.”

He walked to the clerk and handed over the flash drive. A moment later, Omolewa’s voice played through the speakers broken, but clear:

“He said I was lying. That we both have fun together Tha it. I quit that job with shame because no one believed me. No one helped me.”

Silence fell like a blanket across the room. Even Judge Adesuwa paused, her hands folded tightly.

Adeyemi rose slowly, attempting to recover. “With all due respect, this is not an admissible piece of evidence. We cannot validate this woman’s story”

“Then summon her,” Rahmon said, his voice unwavering. “Let her speak for herself. Let the truth walk in.”

The judge leaned forward. “Do you have her available?”

“She’s on her way to Lagos, My Lord. I have her sworn statement, but she is willing to testify.”

Adeyemi looked shaken now, a slight twitch in his right eye betraying the stress that had finally caught up to him.

“This court,” Judge Adesuwa said slowly, “will review the admissibility of the recording once the witness is present. Until then, we break for thirty minutes.”

As the judge stood, the clerk called out, “All rise.”

The courtroom returned from its break with a tense silence that stretched like a tightrope. Judge Adesuwa took her seat once more, her eyes scanning the room with seasoned calm. Everyone had returned to their places Mrs. Isibor was clutching Boluwatife’s hand tightly, Lydia was seated beside them with anxious breath, and Mr. Desmond was seated with a measured, calculated calm that barely masked his arrogance.

Mr. Rahmon rose slowly from his seat, eyes fixed ahead.

The judge’s voice sliced through the quiet.

“Mr. Rahmon, do you have any valid evidence to proceed with your case?”

“I do, My Lord,” Rahmon said clearly. “I’d like to re-examine the defense witnesses Mr. Desmond’s four friends who testified earlier that they were all with him at the time of the incident.”

A rustle of confusion passed through the courtroom.

“I request that they each be questioned separately, to ensure their accounts remain consistent outside the influence of one another.”

Adeyemi, Desmond’s lawyer, immediately shot to his feet. “Objection, My Lord! This is highly irregular. This is not a cross-examination circus!”

Judge Adesuwa barely glanced at him. “Mr. Adeyemi, the integrity of their testimonies is now in question. The court will allow it.

Adeyemi clenched his jaw and sat, frustration flickering across his face.

Rahmon folded his arms behind his back and spoke steadily, ‘Justice is not served by eloquence, but by truth.’”

One by one, Desmond’s four friends were escorted from the courtroom and brought back separately for questioning in a side room, where Rahmon waited calmly, pen in hand.

Witness number one Mayowa.

Mayowa entered with a casual confidence, offering a polite nod.

“Mr. Mayowa,” Rahmon began, “can you tell the court what vehicle Mr. Desmond arrived in on the evening in question?”

“Uh…” Mayowa shifted. “It was a black 4MATIC Benz.”

“And what color shirt was he wearing?”

“White,” Mayowa replied, then added quickly, “or… maybe grey. It’s been a while.”

“You testified earlier that you hugged him when he arrived. Still, you’re unsure of the color?”

Mayowa scratched his head. “It was… maybe off-white. Something like that.”

Rahmon noted it silently.

Witness number two Segun.

“Mr. Segun,” Rahmon began again, “Desmond’s car?”

Segub smiled confidently. “White Range Rover.”

Rahmon raised a brow. “Range Rover, not 4MATIC?”

“Yeah. He’s got multiple cars, I guess.”

“What shirt did he wear?”

“Blue. A blue shirt, I remember.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Rahmon nodded, made another mark.

Witness Three Folarin.

“Mr. Folarin, which vehicle did Mr. Desmond drive that day?”

“I can’t remember.”

“And his shirt?”

“He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wore a plain jersey.”

Rahmon paused. “So, not shirt?”

Another mark on the page.

He called on the last person and said he was wearing a red polo he answered confidently. “I remember because he stained it with palm oil from the suya.”

Back in the courtroom, Rahmon stood tall, facing Judge Adesuwa with an expression calm but sharpened by conviction.

“My Lord, you’ve now heard it from the mouths of the witnesses themselves. Four different stories one says 4MATIC, another Range Rover, One says a white shirt, another blue, another brown plain jersey and another, a red polo. These men who swore to be present with Mr. Desmond have just contradicted one another completely.”

Adeyemi sprang up. “People forget things, My Lord! A shirt color is not a crime”

“But consistency is evidence, Defensive lawyer, Mr. Adeyemi,” Rahmon responded. “If they can’t get the simplest facts right, how can we trust them with the most critical one that Desmond was with them?”

Murmurs filled the courtroom.

Judge Adesuwa remained still for a long beat, then leaned forward.

The courtroom had fallen still. Even the murmurs of earlier cross-examinations now seemed like distant echoes. Judge Adesuwa sat forward slightly, sensing the heaviness still looming.

“Barrister Adeyemi,” she said, “do you have anything further?”

Adeyemi stood, smoothing his robe. “Yes, My Lord. I would like to examine the victim’s mother Mrs. Isibor.”

A quiet wave of reaction moved through the gallery.

Boluwatife’s fingers tensed in Lydia’s hand. Lydia gave a small, reassuring squeeze.

Mrs. Isibor rose. Her steps toward the witness stand were measured, as though every pace was weighed with years of labor, dignity, and quiet pain. She had scrubbed floors for decades, raised a daughter through blindness, and now stood as a pillar in court, tested again.

She was sworn in.

Adeyemi’s voice cut sharply through the silence.

“Mrs. Isibor, I’ll ask that you respond with clear yes or no answers wherever possible. Understood?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Do you work for Mr. Desmond?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Over three years.”

“Would you say you trusted him?”

She paused.

“Would you say you trusted him?” Defensive lawyer repeated himself again.

Mrs. Isibor was paused again, and tear was rolling down her face.

“I just want you to answer my question,” Said the Defensive lawyer, “Did you trust Mr. Desmond”

With tears “I thought he was a good man, not until the day he proved himself as an animal.”

The whole court shifted their leg and was gripped with the emotion of a broken mother, Desmond’s wife, Loveth, looking at Desmond with evil eye.

Defensive lawyer continues.

“That is not what I asked you, Yes or No?” Said gently.

Stop Defensive lawyer turned to Judge Adesuwa and he moved very well to the center. “my lord this woman has nothing to prove my client guilty. Emotion may sway the heart but evidence sways the court.” The defensive lawyer said.

The defensive lawyer move back a little bit to face Mrs. Isibor.

“So just to clarify for this court you left your blind daughter in the home of a man you work for, knowing neither his wife nor any other family member was there?”

A long pause.

“I trusted him,” she whispered.

“Why? Because he paid your salary?” Adeyemi stepped closer. “Because he smiled when you scrubbed his toilets?”

Rahmon stood. “Objection”

“Sustained,” said Judge Adesuwa with a pointed look at Adeyemi. “Rephrase your question.”

Adeyemi nodded. “Apologies, My Lord. Let me try again.” He turned back to Mrs. Isibor.

“Mrs. Isibor, you say you trusted Mr. Desmond. Had you ever witnessed behavior from him that made you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Did he ever make inappropriate comments toward you?”

“No.”

“Did you have any prior issues working at the house?”

“No.”

“So, in your mind, Mr. Desmond was a safe, respectable employer?”

A beat passed. “Yes.”

Adeyemi walked slowly, letting his words settle.

“Is it true, Mrs. Isibor, that you recently collected a contribution payment?”

“Yes.”

“And that money was meant for your daughter’s surgery?”

“Yes.”

“So you were in need of money?”

“We still are, but now everything is gone.”

“God will provide, but would you do anything to protect your daughter’s future?”

“Yes.”

“Even fabricate a story if you had to?”

Her head snapped up. “No!”

Lydia jolted slightly in her seat. Rahmon stood but didn’t interrupt this time.

Adeyemi stepped forward, voice raised.

“You were in desperate need of money. You left your daughter in a man’s house. And now you’re saying this man raped her. But let me ask you this… is it possible just possible that your mind played tricks on you? That grief and fear and desperation made you believe something happened that didn’t?”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she remained firm. “Something did happen. My daughter told me. She has never lied to me.”

“But she cannot see, madam! She could have been confused. You could have misunderstood her pain!”

“My daughter knows what happened!” she cried. “She didn’t see him, but she felt him. She felt his face, his build she knows.”

Adeyemi crossed his arms. “A drawing by a blind girl is what we are calling evidence?”

Rahmon stood, calm but resolute. “My Lord, again, the counsel is belittling the victim’s condition, attempting to reduce trauma to hearsay and insult.”

Judge Adesuwa raised a hand. “Let her speak.”

Mrs. Isibor turned to the judge. “My daughter was born to draw. Even when her eyes stopped working, her hands didn’t. She feels what she cannot see. That’s how she remembers him. That’s how she tells her story.”

Adeyemi narrowed his eyes. “Did you call the police immediately?”

“No. I came home and”

“So you waited?”

“I didn’t wait I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I was broken. I am still broken.”

“You waited. And when you came forward, you had no medical evidence, no camera footage, no witnesses. Only a drawing.”

“And her pain,” she said. “That’s all I have.”

Adeyemi’s voice lowered. “If this court does not believe you, what will you do?”

She looked straight at him. “I will continue to believe her. Even if the world turns against us, I will hold her hand and walk through that darkness with her. I didn’t birth her to abandon her.”

The courtroom was silent.

Rahmon rose quietly.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice steady, “this woman is not seeking fame. She is not here to destroy a man’s name for sport. She came because her daughter’s life was stolen, and she wants it back. That is what justice is.”

Judge Adesuwa sat back in her chair, her face unreadable.

Mrs. Isibor stepped down slowly, supported by Lydia who rushed to her. Boluwatife, from her seat, stood and moved toward her mother, finding her way instinctively.

The room, once loud with arguments, was now filled with something else human truth.

The judge called for a short recess.

And Rahmon sat quietly, his mind racing not with lawbooks or procedures but with the image of a mother who stood alone and still chose to fight.

The courtroom fell into an aching silence, thick with expectation. All eyes turned to the entrance where Boluwatife stood, her white cane gently tapping against the tiled floor. Lydia had taken her hand, guiding her forward, but Boluwatife paused.

“Aunty Lydia…” she whispered.

Lydia bent closer.

“I will find my way. I can walk myself.”

There was something in her tone gentle, yet firm that sent a quiet wave through the crowd. Lydia nodded slowly, letting go. “Go on, my darling.”

Boluwatife took her first step, cane outstretched, moving forward with a grace and courage that made time seem to slow. One step. Then another. The courtroom watched, utterly silent.

Even Mrs. Desmond, seated covered her mouth. Her face was sickly emotion. Her eyes were glassy. The image of the blind girl finding her way to the stand without a guide without her mother was something that would haunt her forever.

Mr. Desmond clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

When Boluwatife reached the stand, she found the seat with the edge of her cane and sat down gently. She folded her hands neatly in her lap.

The defense lawyer, Barrister Adeyemi, stood and gave a half smile.

“Well done,” he said coolly. “That was quite a performance… walking to the stand on your own.”

Boluwatife tilted her head slightly toward him. “I may be blind, sir. But I’m not deaf.”

A ripple of restrained laughter flowed through the courtroom.

Judge Adesuwa raised a brow but said nothing, quietly impressed by the girl’s poise.

Adeyemi adjusted his tie. “Let’s get to the point. You say you were assaulted.”

“I was.”

“Did you see who did it?”

Boluwatife’s lips pressed together for a moment. “No, sir. I cannot see.”

“Exactly.” He looked around. “So how do you know it was my client?”

Boluwatife sat quietly, her fingers tracing the smooth wood of the seat’s edge. Then she lifted her chin.

“Because I recognized his voice. The way he laughs. The smell of his cologne. The feel of his hands when he gave me a toy a few minutes before. The way the floor creaked beneath his feet. The lock on the door. The silence of the room when he left me there… alone. I don’t see faces. I see the world differently. But I remember everything.”

The room was hushed. Even Adeyemi was still for a moment.

“That’s not evidence,” he snapped. “That’s emotion. Can you tell this court what exactly happened?”

Mr. Rahmon was on his feet in a second. “Objection, Your Honour. The line of questioning is traumatic and not necessary. She’s already testified”

Judge Adesuwa raised her hand. “Enough, both of you.”

But just as the courtroom returned to silence, Boluwatife lifted her head.

“I want to talk.”

Everyone looked to the judge. Even she seemed uncertain.

“Are you sure, child?” she asked gently.

Boluwatife nodded. “Yes, My Lord.”

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling but steady.

“My mother had gone out. She was happy that day she said she would bring money from her contribution group to finally pay out of my eye surgery. I was so excited. I waited in the sitting room, holding my toy. Then the toy fell.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on.

“Mr. Desmond picked it up for me. He said there were more toys in another room. I trusted him. He was my mother’s boss and I followed him.”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the seat.

“When we got inside… he locked the door.”

Murmurs spread across the courtroom, but no one interrupted.

“He said to me not to be afraid. He showed me toys I was playing with, suddenly he grappled me from the back and dragged me. I begged him to let me out. I cried. I said, ‘Sir, please.’ He didn’t listen.”

Mrs. Desmond use hand to cover her son’s ears because it was bitterness.

Tears slid silently down Boluwatife’s cheeks, but her voice remained unwavering.

“He touched me. Hurt me. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t do anything, I screamed, but there was no one there. After… he just walked out.”

Gasps. A handkerchief dropped. Mrs. Isibor covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Lydia’s eyes were wide with tears.

“I waited in silence until I heard my mother return. I told her what happened. She held me so tight, like she could keep all the pain from seeping in. But it was already there.”

Silence. Heavy, unbearable silence.

Even Adeyemi had nothing to say.

Judge Adesuwa blinked slowly, then nodded. “Thank you, Boluwatife. You may step down.”

“No further questions,” Rahmon said quietly.

Boluwatife stood. She turned and tapped her way back across the courtroom. But she left something behind that day something more powerful than evidence.

She left the truth. Spoken not by eyes, but by memory, courage, and pain.

The room remained still long after she left the stand.

And deep down, even Mr. Desmond knew her darkness had just shone a light far brighter than anything he could ever dim.

As Boluwatife returned to her seat, guided gently by Lydia’s arm, the courtroom seemed unable to move on. A heavy stillness blanketed the room. Even those who had come to observe out of curiosity now sat with lowered gazes, shaken by the rawness of her testimony.

Mrs. Desmond sat stiffly, fingers trembling in her lap. Her eyes were moist, and she stared at her husband like she was seeing a man she didn’t know. Mr. Desmond, on the other hand, looked down, jaw clenched, as though trying to suppress something guilt, fear, or shame.

For a moment, the air felt frozen. Judge Adesuwa, her expression tight with emotion, tapped her gavel lightly.

“We will take a thirty-minute recess,” she announced. “The court will resume shortly.”

As the judge and court officials exited, murmurs swelled across the room like a tide. Spectators wiped away tears. Even the security guards stood still, solemn.

Lydia rushed to Boluwatife and wrapped her in a hug, whispering, “You were so brave. You did more than we could’ve ever asked.”

Boluwatife smiled faintly, whispering back, “I just told them what happened.”

Mrs. Desmond, seated beside her son, held his hand loosely, her eyes fixed on the girl who had just shattered the courtroom with truth. She looked at her husband but said nothing. Her silence screamed a thousand doubts.

Meanwhile, Mr. Rahmon stepped outside, his hands trembling slightly, not from weakness, but from the emotional weight of the case. David joined him, handing him a bottle of water.

“You alright, sir?” David asked.

Rahmon nodded slowly. “She reminded me of my daughter. That strength in fragility… it’s unbearable sometimes.”

Inside the courtroom, Adeyemi sat with Desmond, who was visibly sweating. “They don’t have proof,” Desmond whispered.

“They have her voice,” Adeyemi replied sharply. “That girl may have just destroyed everything.”

Desmond looked around the room, at the faces of the people, many no longer cheering him silently. For the first time, he realized reputation doesn’t always shield truth.

As the recess neared its end, Mr. Rahmon re-entered the courtroom with Lydia and David. Boluwatife was seated again beside her mother, calm but still breathing heavily.

The gavel struck once more. Judge Adesuwa reappeared and took her seat. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes lingered on Boluwatife for a second longer than usual.

The court came back into session, but the energy had shifted. Where there had once been tension, now sat a quiet heaviness. The kind that comes after something sacred has been said.

Judge Adesuwa adjusted her glasses and looked toward the prosecution and defense. “Is the defense ready to proceed?”

Adeyemi stood, straightening his already crisp suit. “Yes, My Lord. But I believe there is nothing further to add from the defense at this point. The testimony of the alleged victim has been heard. The facts, or lack thereof, remain the same.”

Mr. Rahmon stood as well. “My Lord, with your permission, I would like to make my closing argument before the court.”

Judge Adesuwa nodded. “Proceed, Counselor Rahmon.”

Rahmon walked slowly to the center of the courtroom. His voice was soft at first, but deliberate. “I came into this case by accident. Or maybe, divine instruction. I’m not here as someone seeking to impress or return to some forgotten glory. I am here because a young girl who cannot see the world with her eyes… has shown us the truth with her courage.”

He paused. The room was completely still.

“She did not cry for sympathy. She walked herself up here, holding nothing but memory, pain, and dignity. She doesn’t need your pity. What she deserves what every survivor deserves is justice.”

He turned to the judge. “My Lord, she described what happened not with the eyes, but with touch. With sound. With fear. With shame. But also with the apparent accuracy of someone who was there. She drew her pain. She knew him. She felt him. She carries the scar of what was done to her.”

A tear slid down Mrs. Isibor’s cheek. Lydia held her hand tightly.

Mr. Rahmon continued, now directing his words to the courtroom at large. “We heard from four men today. All friends of the accused. All gave different answers about the same day. Lies are like threads easy to unravel when you pull hard enough.”

He turned to Mr. Desmond, who sat still, staring forward. “Sir, you had power. Wealth. Trust. And you used it to silence a girl you thought the world would never believe. But she spoke. And when truth speaks, even the most gilded lies crumble.”

He stepped back, voice clear. “We rest our case.”

The courtroom had never been so still.

Not when the case had first begun, not even when Boluwatife had first taken the stand.

But now, the silence was something else weightier, deeper. Even the walls seemed to be holding their breath.

Mr. Rahmon continued, slow and sure, but his voice carried a gravity it hadn’t held before.

“My Lord,” he began, locking eyes with Judge Adesuwa, “with your permission, I would like to ask the court to allow the victim, Boluwatife, to make a drawing of someone she has never seen in her life maybe someone in this court.”

The murmur was almost instant confused, skeptical.

Judge Adesuwa leaned forward slightly, brows arched. “You want this court… to wait while a drawing is made?”

Before Rahmon could reply, Adeyemi, the defense lawyer, stood sharply. “My Lord, this is nothing but another delay tactic. A waste of time. What does art have to do with truth?”

Rahmon didn’t flinch. “Counselor,” he said, his tone crisp, “wasn’t it you who claimed this girl might have fabricated her previous drawing? That she might have been coached?”

Adeyemi folded his arms but said nothing.

Rahmon turned to the judge again. “This isn’t just about a drawing, My Lord. It’s about proving memory, intuition, and pain. She has never seen this man. Yet if she can draw him from touch alone… then it tells us something deeper than any words ever could.”

The courtroom paused again. Then, slowly, Judge Adesuwa exhaled.

“If that is what it will take to reach the truth,” she said firmly, “then let it be done. I’m granting the prosecution two hours to prepare and speak to the victim.”

Adeyemi made a slight sound of protest.

The judge silenced him with a glance. “If the truth matters as much to you as you claim, counselor, then you will allow it to be found however it chooses to show itself.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Adeyemi said tightly. “I volunteer myself. Let her draw me.”

The judge nodded.

Mr. Rahmon turned and signaled to David, who already had the art materials ready. Lydia touched Boluwatife gently and led her forward.

The room watched as the blind girl raised her cane, feeling the space around her with delicate precision, step by step toward the stand and Lydia holding the other hand.

A hush fell across the courtroom, not just out of reverence, but awe.

There was something almost holy in the way she moved.

Adeyemi stood in front of her. She reached out and gently placed her fingers on his cheek, tracing his jawline, forehead, and chin. Her hand trembled, but not from fear from memory.

The sketch pad was set on a platform near the judge’s bench. Shielded from the court’s view, Boluwatife sat with her back straight, pencil in hand.

And she drew.

Time stretched like a flimsy series. Mr. Rahmon kept glancing at the ticking courtroom clock, trying not to pace.

Desmond, meanwhile, fidgeted in his seat. He leaned toward Adeyemi.

“This won’t work,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s just a drawing”

“Shut up,” Adeyemi hissed.

One hour and thirty-seven minutes passed.

“I’m done,” Boluwatife whispered.

Lydia rushed to her side, guiding her gently away as the judge gestured for the court clerk.

The drawing was handed up.

Judge Adesuwa looked at it and froze.

There was silence.

Then she whispered, “Good heavens.”

She asked Adeyemi to step forward and turned the sketch toward him. “Who is this?”

The defense lawyer’s mouth opened. Then closed. His throat moved, but no words came. Slowly, reluctantly, he answered, “It’s… me.”

A wave rippled through the room.

The judge nodded. “Court clerk, pass the drawing around. Let the court see it.”

As it made its way from hand to hand, the reactions were the same stunned silence, a slow nod, widened eyes.

Even Desmond, seated far back, caught a glimpse.

His face changed.

It was the first time guilt actually wore his skin.

Mrs. Desmond, who had sat stone-still for most of the trial, stood suddenly. Her lips were tight. She gathered her son silently, not looking at her husband, and walked out of the courtroom.

The door clicked shut behind her like a final judgment.

In the front row, Mrs. Isibor pulled her daughter close, tears falling silently onto her head.

Mr. Rahmon closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of relief settle into his bones.

As the echo of the gavel faded, the silence it left behind was deafening. For a brief moment, it seemed like the case had truly ended the truth laid bare, the guilty unmasked, and the court satisfied. But as Judge Adesuwa adjusted her robe and prepared to bring down the final closure, Mr. Adeyemi stand up, said.

“My lord Mr. Desmond was a man I believed I knew. A man I thought was misunderstood, perhaps wrongly accused, and certainly being tried in the court of public opinion long before he sat in this one. But what I have seen today has left no space for my own assumptions. The truth is clear.”

Desmond’s eyes darted up at that moment, a flash of panic.

Adeyemi hesitated, then pushed forward.

He turned slightly toward Desmond.

“And yet, in our system, mercy still exists. Not to erase wrongdoing, but to remind us that justice and compassion are not enemies.”

He faced the judge again.

“My Lord, I ask that this court to consider my client.”

Adeyemi lowered his head, stepping back without a word. For once, the courtroom did not cheer or scoff. It simply… listened.

Then, Mr. Rahmon rose.

He walked slowly, his every footstep deliberate. There was no performance in his posture, no need to impress anyone. Just truth.

“My Lord,” he said, voice low but steady, “may I speak?”

Judge Adesuwa nodded, her gaze calm.

Rahmon turned to the crowd, to the judge, and then, slowly, to Desmond.

“I have heard the plea of mercy,” he began. “And I do not stand here to oppose the idea of compassion. But we must understand something critical before we speak of forgiveness or redemption.”

His voice rose slightly.

“We are in a country where the powerless are preyed upon daily. Where girls are taught to keep quiet. Where victims are told they asked for it. Where blind children like Boluwatife are made to carry the weight of shame they never chose.”

He paused, his face hardening.

“And the men who commit these crimes? They walk freely. They buy silence. They twist truth. And when they are caught, they do not cry for justice they cry for mercy.”

There was a low murmur again. Rahmon ignored it.

“We do not speak enough about pain in this country,” he said. “Not truly. We speak about forgiveness. About moving on. But we do not let victims grieve. We do not allow them to be angry. We want them to heal quickly so that the abusers can return to their lives.”

He turned to the judge.

“Boluwatife may never regain her sight. But she did something many of us couldn’t. She stood. She spoke. And through her art, she told the truth.”

A moment passed.

“Justice, My Lord, is not vengeance. It is not cruelty. But it is the only hope we have in a world where the powerful crush the powerless and go unpunished.”

He looked at Desmond.

“Let him serve his sentence. Not out of hatred. But so that the next man, with wealth and opportunity, will think twice before using it to harm a child or anyone.”

Rahmon’s voice softened now.

“And maybe one day, if Desmond learns what pain he caused… maybe then, redemption will begin.”

He stepped back.

Judge Adesuwa looked at both lawyers, her expression unreadable. She took a moment, breathing slowly, then glanced at the court clerk.

The courtroom was enveloped in a heavy silence as Judge Adesuwa returned to her seat. The air was thick with anticipation, every eye fixed on her, awaiting the final judgment.

Judge Adesuwa adjusted her glasses, her gaze sweeping across the room before settling on the defendant.

“Mr. Desmond,” she began, her voice steady yet tinged with emotion, “this court has listened intently to the testimonies presented. We’ve heard from the victim, a young girl who, despite her blindness, has shown remarkable courage and clarity in recounting the events that transpired.”

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle.

“The evidence presented, including the drawing made by the victim, has been compelling. It is not just the physical evidence but the emotional and psychological scars that speak volumes.”

Turning her attention to the defense, she continued, “The defense argued that the victim’s account lacked credibility. However, the consistency in her testimony, coupled with the corroborative evidence, leaves little room for doubt.”

“Your actions have not only violated the trust placed in you but have caused irreparable harm to an innocent child. Such acts are reprehensible and cannot be tolerated in any civilized society.”

The courtroom remained silent, the gravity of the moment was quiet.

“In accordance with the laws governing this land, and considering the severity of the offense, this court hereby sentences you, Mr. Desmond, to twenty-one years of imprisonment.”

A collective gasp echoed through the room, followed by a profound silence.

Judge Adesuwa continued, her voice firm, “Let this serve as a stern warning to others who may contemplate such heinous acts. Justice will prevail, and the voices of the vulnerable will not be silenced.”

She concluded, “This court is adjourned.”

The gavel struck, marking the end of the proceedings.

As the courtroom began to disperse, Boluwatife sat quietly, her mother’s arms wrapped around her. Tears streamed down their faces, a mixture of relief and sorrow.

Mr. Rahmon approached them, his expression solemn yet satisfied.

“You were incredibly brave,” he said softly to Boluwatife.

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper, “I just told the truth.”

She looked back at Mr. Desmond, her eyes piercing.

Mrs. Isibor sobbed softly into her scarf. Lydia held Boluwatife’s hand, her face streaked with tears she didn’t bother wiping.

Rahmon closed his eyes for a second, feeling the burden lift from his chest.

Adeyemi sat down slowly, no longer with the proud air of a courtroom warrior, but the quiet acceptance of a man who saw the mirror of justice… and didn’t like his reflection.

Desmond was led away, hands cuffed, a hollow look in his eyes. His wife was gone. His name, ruined. His power, stripped.

But outside the courthouse, something had changed.

For the first time, people weren’t whispering about shame.

They were whispering about courage.

And in the center of it all sat a little girl, blind but not broken, who had drawn her truth and made the world see it.

The courtroom had emptied. Silence wrapped the room like a final curtain. But for those who remained for Lydia, for David, for Mrs. Isibor, for Mr. Rahmon, and most of all, for Boluwatife the echoes of justice still rang loud.

Outside, the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue on the steps of the court. Journalists waited with microphones, but no one rushed to speak. There was no need. The truth had spoken for itself.

The media wanted to video the girl, one of the senior media who a young man at the age of twenty-eight years asked them to stop recording the girl with camera and he clear road for them to pass. They all see the courage in a blind girl. The girl who drew her pain.

Boluwatife stood, her walking stick gently tapping the marble steps as Lydia walked beside her. Mr. Rahmon followed closely, his face calm. Mrs. Isibor walked behind them, her hands clasped together, whispering a quiet thank you to God with every breath.

David reached into his bag and pulled out Boluwatife’s drawing the one that changed everything carefully protected in a folder. He held it like treasure, because that’s what it was: a testimony of pain turned into power.

They walked to the car slowly, no rush, no panic. Just peace.

At the door, Boluwatife paused and turned her face to the sky.

“Mama,” she said softly, “can you feel it?”

Mrs. Isibor placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Feel what, my baby?”

“The light,” Boluwatife said with a smile. “I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Just like justice. Just like hope.”

Mrs. Isibor broke into quiet tears again, but this time… they were not tears of grief. They were the kind that come after a long, hard fight. The kind that say, we made it.

As they drove off, the streets of Lagos stretched ahead, noisy as ever, alive and raw. But something had changed maybe just a little in the heart of the city.

Because one girl stood her ground.

And made the whole world see.

THE END

EPILOGUE

Some weeks later.

The air was still warm, and the city bustled quietly beneath the early morning sky. A new dawn, not just in time but in healing.

Boluwatife sat in the garden, sketching. Though her eyes remained closed to light, her fingers still danced with grace on paper. Her foundation, Bolu’s Voice, had grown far beyond her. It gave power to stories once buried in silence.

Inside the house, Mrs. Isibor was preparing a small meal when a knock came at the door. She opened it and froze.

It was Mrs. Loveth Desmond.

Her eyes carried the weight of the past and something else. Humility.

“I didn’t come to relive anything,” she said softly. “I came because I still remember your daughter’s eyes… even though she couldn’t see mine.”

Mrs. Isibor stood in quiet shock, her hands trembling. Mrs. Desmond reached into her bag and handed her an envelope.

“It’s for her surgery. I know it won’t undo what happened, but if there’s any part of me that still believes in doing right… it’s because of that girl.”

Boluwatife came to the door, sensing the tension. “Who’s there, Mama?”

Mrs. Desmond smiled gently. “An old shadow, child. But one who wants to help you walk into the light.”

Tears flowed from both women not of grief, but of grace.

Within months, Boluwatife underwent a successful eye surgery in India, funded quietly by Mrs. Desmond. Her first vision? The sunrise over the ocean and the face of the mother who had never stopped fighting for her.

Justice had come. Healing followed.

And though scars remained, light returned — not just to Boluwatife’s eyes, but to her world.

THE END.