The Therapist: The End

The quiet town of Abeokuta in Ogun State was nothing like the chaos of Lagos. The streets were slower, the air fresher, and the people less suspicious. It was the perfect place to disappear, to become just another face in the crowd.

Marcus Oladipo had chosen it for exactly that reason.

Or rather, Claire had chosen it for him.

She had arranged everything—his transport out of Lagos, a small, modest home tucked away from prying eyes, and enough cash to keep him afloat while he figured out his next move. It was her parting gift before she boarded her flight to South Africa, before she left him to pick up the pieces of his shattered life.

For the first time in weeks, Marcus felt something resembling peace. But peace, he knew, was an illusion.

Because the past never stayed buried.

Days blurred into weeks. Marcus abandoned his old life completely. No more therapy sessions, no more wealthy clients confessing their sins on his couch. He kept to himself, spoke only when necessary, and avoided making connections.

But solitude brought its own torment.

At night, he would wake up drenched in sweat, Victor’s last words echoing in his mind. He would hear the gunshots in his dreams, see the blood on the walls of his office. He had played a dangerous game and survived—but at what cost?

Sitting on his small veranda one evening, he stared at the orange hues of the setting sun. He should have felt relief. Instead, there was only a hollow ache inside him, a gnawing feeling that he was still trapped in a game he didn’t understand.

And then, the package arrived.

It came in the middle of the night, left outside his door with no sound, no knock. A plain brown envelope. No return address. No name. Just his own dread staring back at him.

With shaking hands, Marcus picked it up, stepped inside, and bolted the door behind him.

He placed it on the rickety wooden table, staring at it for a long moment before finally tearing it open.

A thick stack of crisp naira notes spilled onto the table. And underneath, a small, folded note.

His stomach twisted as he picked it up, his fingers trembling slightly.

The message was simple.

“Stay quiet, or we’ll find you. – Jide.”

Marcus swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. He picked up one of the notes, rubbing his fingers against it. The money was real.

This wasn’t a bribe.

It was a reminder.

A reminder that no matter how far he ran, Baba Jide’s reach was longer.

That he was never truly free.

Marcus sat back in his chair, the note still in his hand. His mind whirled with possibilities.

The money could mean many things. A payment for keeping his mouth shut. A test. A warning. Or something else entirely.

Should he take it and disappear even further? Could he?

Or was this just another chain keeping him tied to the web of deceit he thought he had escaped?

He exhaled slowly, staring at the bills on the table.

No matter what he did next, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t free.

And maybe, he never would be.