Agnes

By morning, the Emecheta estate was quiet, as if the chaos of the previous night had been nothing but a bad dream. The chandeliers still sparkled. The petals still lay scattered on polished marble. But the air had changed—heavier, colder. The celebration had ended, and with it, something else. Something permanent.

Amaka stood by the large bay window in the main lounge, wrapped in a white robe, untouched breakfast before her. Her gown was gone, folded neatly in a box somewhere. Her hair was out of its bridal style, cascading in soft curls down her back. She stared out at the stillness of the water behind the property, unmoving, unspeaking.

Chuka watched her from a distance. “You haven’t said a word all morning.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m trying to hear her voice. But it’s gone.”

He took a step toward her, hesitant. “You need to eat.”

“She wouldn’t want us to cry,” Amaka whispered. “She hated weakness.”

Chuka said nothing.

There was a knock at the door.

Chuka opened it to reveal a tall man in a navy blue blazer, low haircut, and a serious expression. “Detective Musa Dauda,” he said. “State CID. I’m here to speak with Miss Emecheta.”

“Mrs. Okonkwo,” Amaka corrected gently, turning to face him. “As of yesterday.”

Musa nodded once. “My condolences.”

She gestured for him to come in. “Do you want tea?”

“No, thank you. Just your time.”

He sat across from her, notepad in hand. “Can you walk me through what happened yesterday—from your perspective?”

Amaka took a breath. “The morning was beautiful. She came into my room while I was getting dressed and told me I looked like my grandmother. She gave me the pearls herself. Said they were a symbol of strength. She… she even teased me about crying during the vows.”

“And at the event?”

“She was smiling. Laughing. Taking photos. She gave a beautiful toast. I was standing right next to her.”

“Did she eat anything special?”

“She didn’t eat much. But she had a glass of champagne delivered—she said she preferred brut, not sweet.”

“Do you remember who brought it?”

Amaka shook her head. “A waiter. Young. Medium build. Neatly dressed. I didn’t catch his name.”

“We’ll track the catering team. What happened after she drank?”

“Nothing immediately. She danced a bit. Sat back down. Then she just… collapsed.”

“And before the wedding, was your mother in any kind of conflict? Arguments? Threats?”

Amaka hesitated. “People admired her, but my mother was… firm. She didn’t tolerate nonsense. She had enemies, I’m sure, but no one brave enough to try something like this. Not in public.”

Musa’s pen paused. “Enemies?”

“Professional, not personal.”

He looked at her. “That’s not the same thing.”

Amaka smiled sadly. “With someone like her, it is.”

Musa studied her a moment. Calm. Collected. Her voice trembled at just the right times. But there was something distant about her sadness—more polished than raw.

He flipped the page in his notepad. “I’ll need a list of all close associates. Business partners. Staff. Anyone who might have had access to her food or drink.”

Amaka nodded. “I’ll have someone send it to your office.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Detective…” she said, leaning forward. “I want you to know—I will cooperate fully. My mother was everything to me. I need to know who did this.”

Musa closed his notebook. “We’ll find out. You have my word.”

Later that afternoon, a makeshift press tent was set up outside the estate gates. Journalists had already begun spinning theories. Some whispered heart attack. Others pointed fingers at the groom’s family. One popular blog claimed Agnes had been cursed at her village shrine last year and the effects had finally caught up. None of it mattered to Amaka. She stayed inside, serene, unavailable.

By evening, the autopsy report came in.

Toxicology confirmed it was poison—cyanide, likely introduced in a drink, fast-acting, undetectable without chemical testing. It had been a small dose, expertly timed. Whoever administered it knew exactly what they were doing.

Musa read the report in silence in his car, parked just outside the Emecheta estate. He rolled the window down, letting in the salt-heavy breeze from the lagoon. He’d seen a lot in his 15 years with the force—ritual killings, jealous lovers, inheritance wars—but this felt different.

This wasn’t spontaneous.

It was surgical.

He looked up at the mansion again. The estate was too quiet for a place that had seen nearly four hundred people the day before. Too still. As if something inside was watching and waiting.

He made a call. “Get me the guest list, the catering contracts, and the CCTV files from the estate security. I want to know who went in and out of that drinks area in the thirty minutes before Agnes Emecheta dropped dead.”

“And the daughter?” the voice on the other end asked.

Musa looked toward the upper balcony.

“Leave her,” he said. “That woman’s heart is broken. She’s not part of this.”