Chapter 1 — “The City of Glass and Guns”

(Lagos → Johannesburg, 1993)(Lagos → Johannesburg, 1993)

The airport was a chaos of cigarette smoke, diesel fumes, and hustlers shouting promises they’d never keep. Amara stepped off the tarmac in high heels and a navy skirt suit, her sunglasses masking a fatigue she refused to admit. Lagos had taught her one thing — if you ever look tired, someone will try to own you.

Behind her, Tunde Adeyemi barked into a Motorola phone, pacing. His voice was the sound of authority barely holding on to its own temper. “No, tell them the shipment leaves Apapa tonight! If those papers aren’t cleared, heads will roll.”

They were flying to Johannesburg on a private charter — a gift from their South African partners. The deal was simple on paper: diamonds for cars, cars for guns, guns for influence. But nothing was ever simple when it came to Tunde.

“Amara,” he called. “Pack light. We’ll be meeting the Maseko brothers tomorrow. Big men. Don’t smile too much — they take that for weakness.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes followed a ground crewman — Chike Madueke, dressed in a borrowed uniform, loading luggage into the hold.

He looked up once, met her gaze for a split second, then looked away.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

Two weeks ago, he’d quit the bar after overhearing that Tunde planned to expand into South Africa. He’d started working odd jobs around the port, quietly watching the Adeyemi operation. Something about Amara’s silence that night — the tightness in her jaw when Tunde mentioned Johannesburg — told him she wasn’t going willingly.

The plane hummed awake. The city shrank beneath them like a bad memory.

Johannesburg, South Africa — three hours later.

The air was cold and dry, smelling faintly of coal and money. Neon lights hummed across Sandton’s skyline. Amara stepped into a black BMW waiting at the curb, driven by a man with a scar that looked surgical.

Tunde introduced him. “This is Victor Maseko — the younger brother. Handles distribution. Older one, Sipho, runs the mines.”

Victor turned halfway, gave a polite nod. “You Lagos people always look like you’re ready for war,” he said in a clipped accent.

“Depends who you’re fighting,” Amara replied.

He smiled at that — not warmly. “Then maybe we’ll get along.”

The drive wound through industrial suburbs, past warehouses and silent cranes. They stopped before a compound surrounded by steel fencing. Armed guards in leather jackets stood at the gate, holding Uzis like cigarettes.

Inside, music thumped — local kwaito beats mixed with American rap, Tupac’s voice echoing through the courtyard.

Tunde clasped Sipho Maseko’s hand like an equal. “My brother,” he said. “Lagos sends its regards.”

Sipho’s handshake was strong and brief. “Let’s hope Lagos also sends what we paid for.”

“Of course.” Tunde motioned toward Amara. “My associate, Miss Nwokedi. She keeps the books. And the secrets.”

Amara offered her hand. Sipho didn’t take it. He just stared — not rudely, but with the wary admiration of a man used to betrayal.

Dinner was served on a long wooden table: pap, grilled meat, and wine older than the republic itself. Business followed.

“The diamond routes are tightening,” Sipho said. “Too much noise from Antwerp. We need new ports.”

“Lagos,” Tunde replied. “And Chicago. My man there can move anything through the docks.”

Sipho raised a brow. “Chicago? You play with fire, my friend. The Italians don’t like competition.”

“We’re not competing,” Tunde said, smiling. “We’re supplying.”

Amara listened silently. Every deal sounded like seduction before it turned to blood. She caught Victor watching her from across the table, eyes dark with curiosity and something colder.

Later that night, she slipped out to the balcony to smoke. The city stretched below — glass towers and rusting trains, the hum of a country trying to forget its own wounds.

Chike stepped from the shadows.

She froze. “How did you—”

“Lagos taught me to follow what’s wrong,” he said quietly. “And you looked wrong that night.”

She wanted to scold him, tell him to leave before Tunde’s men saw. But the words tangled in her throat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

“I could say the same to you.”

From inside, Tunde’s laugh roared through the open windows. Victor’s voice followed — “Tomorrow we go to the mine. See the source.”

Amara turned back to Chike. “You need to disappear.”

“Not until you tell me what he’s really doing with those diamonds.”

She hesitated. “They’re not just diamonds. They’re collateral.”

“For what?”

She didn’t answer.

Inside, the music changed — Marvin Gaye now, soft and slow. Someone closed the balcony door, muting the sound.

“Amara,” Chike said, his voice steady, “whatever this is, it’s going to kill you.”

She looked at him then, really looked — at the man who used to pour her whiskey in a Lagos bar, who had once said he’d never leave the city because every exit led back to the same dirt.

“Maybe,” she said. “But not tonight.”

A spotlight swept across the compound — guards checking perimeters. She touched his hand once, fast, then pulled away.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “If I’m still alive, meet me by the train yard.”

Then she slipped back inside, the silk hem of her dress whispering against the glass.

Outside, Chike stayed in the shadows, listening to the distant hum of engines and the slow beating of his own heart.