Finding Halima.

Photo by Prince Akachi on Unsplash.

The café was louder than usual, with the continued clicking of keyboards, the soft music looping under jumbled conversations, and the occasional hiss of the coffee machine. Kelechi barely noticed. His coffee had long gone cold, and his fingers were frozen hovering over the keyboard of his laptop. He stared at the screen, seemingly lifeless.

It was her, nestled in a low-quality vertical frame of a TikTok video, surrounded by laughing dancers. She was wearing a blue boubou, standing out quite easily from the rest of the footage — not because of what she was wearing or even how she looked at the camera, no. She stood out because she shouldn’t exist. She was dead, or at least she was supposed to be.

Halima.

The caption read: “The babe in blue no gree follow us dance”

Kelechi watched the video five more times, leaning closer to his screen with each iteration. The way she moved, the unmistakable way her fingers brushed the corner of her mouth, it was her. Her smile looked a bit different, and her skin looked a little darker because of the sun. But it was her. It really was her.

He leaned even closer, pausing the video right as she turned to face the camera, her eyes sparkled in the light from the camera flash. The moment was just a bit more than a second. But it struck him like a truckload of bricks.

Halima was alive.

He fumbled with his phone, struggling to keep it still in his sweaty palms. His breath was shallow, seemingly fading with each moment. His mind was breaking, trying to rationalize it all, but it couldn’t. Dead people didn’t just randomly turn up in TikTok videos wearing blue dresses.

Three years ago, they had all buried Halima, or at least what was left of her. The fire had completely damaged the rented duplex she shared with two of her NYSC friends. There were no intact bodies, just scorched fragments of what used to be human beings. Her ID card was found on what they assumed was her mattress. Not much else could be said; the fire told the story.

But now here she was.

He stared at her face again. A little fuller, looking like she had put on some pounds. Less makeup. Her hair was wrapped under her signature scarf. Her eyes still held that unexplainable softness, a quiet awareness. She looked genuinely happy. Not ecstatic, not dancing like the rest, but just genuinely content.

He downloaded the video to his phone. Then he opened his WhatsApp and scrolled through the contacts until he found her cousin. Fatima Mohammed. Last seen 4 hours ago. He hadn’t spoken to Fatima in two years. Their last conversation had been at the burial ground, under the heavy rain. She was composed, holding her umbrella in one hand and a folded prayer mat in the other, but her eyes said everything.

He hesitated. Then tapped “Call.”

The phone rang five times.

“Hello?” Fatima answered, curious and guarded.

“Fatima,” he said, his voice hoarse. “This is Kelechi.”

Silence.

He could hear a child in the background, and maybe some cartoons playing on a TV or laptop. There was also the sound of a dog barking faintly in the background as well as honking cars.

“Kelechi… after all this time?”

“I think I just saw Halima. In a video. She is Alive.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then silence again.

“Are you mad?” she said quietly, but slowly building into anger.

“I know how this sounds.” Kelechi continued

“See, I know that people grieve in strange ways, Kelechi. But please don’t drag me back into this.” She said, cutting him off.

“Please,” he said, softer. “Just watch the video. I’m sending it to you.”

Fatima didn’t reply. He sent the link anyway.

About thirty seconds later, her voice returned.

“Kelechi, what is this? Where did you get this?”

“I was just scrolling on TikTok. I think it was taken somewhere in Kwara.”

“Kelechi, I swear… if this is all this deepfake AI rubbish…”

“It’s not Fatima. Look at the video again and check the advert on the billboard. It is recent”

Another long pause. And then: “I’ll be in Abuja next week. Can I come and meet you?”

“No,” Kelechi said. He was already grabbing his backpack and shutting his laptop. “I’m going to Ilorin tonight.”

He cut the call as all he needed from Fatima was the confirmation that he himself was not running mad. The bus to Ilorin was basically empty by 7pm and Kelechi got a window seat. The air smelled faintly of fuel and roasted groundnuts from the vendor outside. He leaned against the window and waited pensively. As the bus rolled out of the park and into the night, his mind began to spiral in both excitement and fear.

He hadn’t thought about Halima in months, not consciously anyway. But grief had a way of embedding itself into his daily routines. She was in the playlists he avoided, the restaurant he hadn’t visited since 2022, the grey hoodie she used to wear, which he still hadn’t thrown away.

And now this.

He opened the video again.

Pause. Zoom.

In the far corner behind Halima, there was a vendor’s stall right beneath the billboard with a name painted in blue: “Alhaja’s Suya Spot.” He noted that. Fatima had been calling his phone, but he was in no mood to talk anymore. He kept swiping the call away.

He started looking up possible places to find the Suya spot from the video and sending texts to the tiktok account that had posted it.

A woman two rows ahead coughed into her scarf. A man at the back was snoring gently. The bus lights flickered.

Kelechi’s thoughts drifted back, further than the fire, back to when he first met Halima.

It was at a wedding.

She showed up wearing a silver lace gown, dragging a stubborn zipper up the back while arguing with a tailor on the phone. He made a joke, and she laughed, and the night evolved into beautiful conversations plus three unforgettable dances. A week later, she asked him out.

“You’re too shy for your own good,” she said. “So let me help you.” He couldn’t stop smiling for at least a week.

Everything after that moved really fast.

The late-night walks, the weekend trips. Her poetry slams, the political debates. She loved Zadie Smith and, oddly, hated fried plantains. Who hates dodo??? He always took jabs at her for that.

And then NYSC came. They got posted to different states.

Then the fire.

And then… silence.

The bus pulled into Ilorin Park at 11:46pm. He stepped off into the night, shouldering his backpack. He had no hotel booked. No plan. Just her name and a face he couldn’t ever forget.

A few taxis waited nearby. He walked toward one.

“Which side you dey go?” the driver asked.

Kelechi thought for a moment. “You sabi where Alhaja suya spot dey?”

“Ah yes na, which one you wan go?”

“How many of dem dey?”

The man grunted. “Dem be like 4 for this Tanke side alone”

“Take me go the one wey dey closest”

“Na 5k oga”

“Oya na, make we dey go”

Kelechi sat in the passenger’s seat.

As they drove through the city, he stared out the window, mentally replaying the moment she looked into the camera just for a second. Was it intentional? Did she see someone she recognized behind the phone? Was it a cry for help? A warning?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he would find her, or at least find answers, even if the answers killed him.

The taxi came to a stop in front of a quiet corner of Ilorin’s Tanke area. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed above the modest suya stall. The air smelled of charred meat and peppered smoke. The handwritten sign confirmed it—“Alhaja’s Suya Spot.” But the stall was empty, closed for the night.

Kelechi stepped out of the car, ignoring the driver’s expectant look.

“I go wait five minutes,” the man said. “After that, na extra money.”

Kelechi nodded, his eyes scanning the area. There was a cluster of small shops, most shuttered, a buka still open with a few tired-looking students sitting on wooden benches and eating silently. The billboard from the video was there too, towering above him with a bright advert for a mobile data promo.

It was the exact place.

He pulled out his phone and opened the video again, his eyes jumping between the screen and the real-life scenery. Halima had been standing right in front of the suya stall, her blue boubou catching the late afternoon sun.

But now it was midnight. There was nothing but darkness, fried meat smells, and his pounding heart. He asked a roadside vendor packing up sachets of pure water, “Madam, you dey know the babe wey dey always stay here? She dey wear hijab or boubou sometimes?”

The woman squinted at him. “Which one?”

“Fair a bit. Round face. Her name fit be Halima.”

She shook her head. “People dey waka come buy suya here all the time. I no sabi their name.”

“Person post video here yesterday. She stand here. You no see am?”

“No get time for TikTok abeg. Go ask Alhaja, maybe she go sabi. She dey come open by 5:30 morning.”

Kelechi sighed. He returned to the car.

“Hotel dey near here?” he asked.

The driver nodded. “Student lodge wey dem dey use as hotel dey around back. E go cheap pass proper one.”

“Take me there.”

By 5:20 a.m., Kelechi was already back at the suya spot. The early morning chill bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. He paced like a stray cat, rehearsing questions in his head, dreading what the answers might be.

A short woman emerged from the alley with a small cart, setting up under the suya stall. Her green veil fluttered in the breeze.

“Alhaja?” Kelechi asked gently.

She looked up. “Yes. You dey find suya by this time?”

“No. I dey find someone. A woman wey I see for TikTok video wey dem shoot here. She stand here for background, wear blue. You sabi who she be?”

Alhaja looked skeptical. “You dey find woman from TikTok?”

Kelechi pulled out his phone again and showed her the video.

She stared for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Then, quietly, she said, “That na Mama Aisha.”

“Who be Mama Aisha?” Kelechi’s voice cracked.

“She just dey move come this area small time ago. Quiet

woman. No too dey mix. She dey live for that side,” she

pointed beyond the road to a dusty path that

disappeared into a residential cluster.

“Do you know her real name?”

“I no too sabi. People just dey call her Mama Aisha

because of her daughter. Small girl like this.” She

showed a hand to her waist level.

Kelechi’s breath hitched. “She get pikin?”

Alhaja nodded. “Fine small girl. Dey follow her go market

sometimes.”

Halima had a daughter?

His knees buckled slightly, and he caught the suya table

for balance.

“You go fit take me there?” he asked.

Alhaja hesitated. “Why you dey find her? You be police?”

“No. I… I used to know her. Thought she died. Please, I

just need to talk to her.”

She sighed. “Wait make I pack small meat for my

husband. Then I go show you.”

Ten minutes later, they reached a small bungalow near

the outskirts of the estate. The paint was peeling and the

gate hung lazily from one hinge. The compound was still.

“That na the place,” Alhaja said, and quickly turned back

down the path.

Kelechi walked slowly toward the house. His chest ached

with every step. He raised his hand to knock—then

stopped. What if it wasn’t her? What if he was wrong?

Then, the door opened.

And there she stood.

Halima.

No video blur, no lighting tricks. Just her. Her eyes met

his—and widened.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even gasp.

She just stared.

Kelechi’s mouth was dry. “Halima?”

She looked over her shoulder quickly, then stepped

outside and shut the door softly behind her.

“I knew someone would come,” she said, almost

whispering.

Kelechi blinked. “You’re… alive. You—how? Why?”

She held up a finger. “Not here. Not now. Follow me.”

He followed her silently down a narrow alley behind the

house, heart pounding. They stopped behind a wall,

shielded from view.

She turned to him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What are you talking about?” Kelechi said, his voice

cracking. “We buried you, Halima. I cried for you. We

buried you.”

“I know.”

“You died. Or we thought you did.”

She sighed. “The fire was real. But I wasn’t there.”

“Then where were you? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I tried, Kelechi. But it was complicated. I had just found

out I was pregnant. I wasn’t ready. Not for the baby. Not

for anything. I’d left the house that night after an

argument. I went to stay with a friend in Jebba. When I

came back two days later, I saw the house was gone.

The fire had… taken everything. They assumed I was

dead.”

“You could’ve called. Texted. Something.”

“I wanted to. But something told me not to. I saw how

everyone had grieved. The posts. The eulogies. Even

you. It felt like… like I’d died and the world had moved

on. Maybe it was better that way.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

She looked down, tears welling up. “I know.”

There was a long silence between them.

He finally said, “Is she mine? The girl?”

Halima’s eyes lifted slowly. “No. Her name is Aisha.

She’s mine. That’s all you need to know.”

Kelechi asked " Where's She". Halima responded "She's

with a friend who has children of her age". She loves to

stay there.

Kelechi swallowed the ache rising in his chest. He had

no right to ask more.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered.

“But you did.”

“Because I still love you.”

She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I

loved you too, Kelechi. I still do, in ways that make no

sense anymore.”

They stood in the quiet morning stillness, words hanging

like fragile glass between them.

Then suddenly—voices.

Men’s voices. At least three, shouting and laughing

around the corner.

Halima stiffened. “Quick. Come.”

She led him further behind the building, through a back

path into a small shed that smelled of old rice sacks and

diesel.

She pulled a wooden plank aside to reveal a small

trapdoor.

“What is that?”

“A way out. In case anyone ever came looking.”

“Who are they?”

She looked him dead in the eye. “Men who think I know

things I shouldn’t. About the fire. About who really set it.

They don’t want me to talk.”

Kelechi stepped back. “You’re in danger?”

“I’ve been in danger for three years.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

She laughed bitterly. “The same police who declared me

dead based on one ID card fragment? They didn’t even

investigate properly.”

He clenched his jaw. “Let me help you. Let’s go to the

press, the authorities—”

“No!” she said sharply. “You don’t understand what

they’re capable of. If they know I’m alive, Aisha’s life is at

risk too.”

“You can’t keep hiding forever.”

“I don’t plan to. But I need time. I’ve been gathering

evidence. Names. Bank accounts. I was close—then that

stupid TikTok video…”

“So you did see the camera?”

She nodded. “I thought I had moved fast enough. But

now…”

Footsteps pounded above the trapdoor. Someone was in

the shed.

Kelechi’s breath caught.

Halima looked at him, urgent. “Go. Please. Through

here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll distract them. You run. I’ll find you later.”

“No. I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to. If they catch you here, they’ll kill us both.”

Suddenly, the trapdoor swung open and a flashlight

shone down.

Kelechi didn’t think. He grabbed Halima’s hand and

yanked her down the tunnel. She stumbled but followed.

The path was tight, made of earth and stone. They ran,

knees brushing the walls, until the tunnel opened into a

dry drainage canal behind the estate.

They emerged into the light of the rising sun.

Halima gasped for breath. “You didn’t have to come.”

“But I did.”

She looked at him, eyes blazing with tears, emotion, and

some strange kind of hope.

“Then you better be ready,” she said.

“For what?”

“To finish what they started.”

They found temporary shelter at a church safehouse in

the outskirts of Ilorin, thanks to a contact Halima had

been working with. There, for the first time, Kelechi read

the pages she had compiled—bank slips, phone call

records, voice notes—evidence that the fire had been

planned by the landlord’s associates to get an insurance

payout.

And Halima had been the unintended witness.

Now, she was going to bring them down. With or without

help.

But now, she wasn’t alone.

One month later.

Fatima adjusted the microphone at the press conference.

The hall was buzzing with journalists and lawyers.

Behind her stood Kelechi, and beside him,

Halima—alive, fierce, no longer hiding.

The truth was coming out.

The fire hadn’t taken her. It had forged her into

something stronger.

And now, justice had a name.

Halima. Alive. Seen.

Finally free.