Across Lagos, Nkiru sat at the edge of her bed in a small flat where the ceiling fan had begun making a ticking sound. Her husband was asleep beside her, one hand curled against his chest, his face thinner than it had been a year earlier. On the bedside table lay a school-fee reminder from their nephew's school, a pharmacy receipt for Nkiru's mother, and a rent payment notice they had been unable to settle. She stared at her phone as it displayed a message from Meridian asking her to report to corporate headquarters at eleven. She imagined a termination interview conducted by polite strangers who would offer sympathy without wages.
Tobi woke when she rose. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Your former employer wants to see me." He sat up so suddenly that the bedsheet fell to his waist. "Akinwale headquarters? Nkiru, don't go." She turned toward him. "They own the restaurant where I work. What choice do I have?" He rubbed his face. "You can find another job." She looked at him for a long moment. "With what rent money, Tobi? With what savings? Tell me what you're so afraid they'll find, because I am tired of being frightened without knowing why."
He looked away. He had given her the same explanation for eight months: somebody changed a transaction after he approved it; the company blamed him; he had done nothing criminal. She believed he hadn't stolen the money. But belief was harder to live on when every bank balance went down and every conversation about the past ended with him asking her to trust him. That morning she put on the only dark suit she still owned, brushed her hair, and left before he could tell her again to stay away.
Akinwale headquarters occupied a glass tower on Victoria Island, a building Nkiru had seen often from passing buses but had never expected to enter. The receptionists checked identification with practiced discretion, and an assistant led her into a conference room overlooking traffic crawling toward the bridge. She refused the offered tea. When Tunde Akinwale arrived, she recognized him from the corporate photographs hanging in Meridian's employee corridor, although he looked less confident in person. He gestured toward a chair. "Please sit, Mrs. Eze."
"I'd rather stand until I know whether I'm still employed," she answered. Tunde stopped halfway to his seat. He had expected a nervous employee eager to accept whatever apology he offered. Instead, he found a woman whose exhaustion had sharpened into a refusal to pretend. "Your suspension has been withdrawn," he said. "All missed shifts will be paid, and your record will show that no misconduct occurred." Nkiru folded her hands. "The two shifts I lost?" "Both. With the service compensation you would reasonably have earned."
"Then thank you," she said, and finally sat down. Tunde apologized for Meridian's treatment of his father. She listened without softening her expression. "Did you know who he was?" he asked. "No." "Not when he asked your name?" "Not even then." Tunde considered her. "That makes what you did valuable as evidence of your judgment." Nkiru shook her head. "Sir, I wasn't applying to become evidence of anybody's character. An old man wanted dinner. Another customer insulted him. Those facts don't require a billionaire."