There is a strange kind of silence that exists only after someone tells you they may have accidentally stolen eight hundred million naira. It is simply the silence that follows the realization that everyone in the room has begun calculating consequences…Mine included.
I excused myself from the conference room before anyone could ask me what we should do next. Mr. Daniels understood immediately as he knows my process.
I closed the door to my office behind me and stood there for a moment without moving. The room felt familiar in a way it never had before. Perhaps because I had spent the last two weeks rediscovering myself outside these walls. Or perhaps because I suddenly had two crises demanding my attention. One belonged to a client and the other belonged to someone I loved.
I picked up my phone…Eight missed calls. I dialed Adaora’s number. It rang once, twice, three times and then voicemail. I called again, straight to voicemail. That was unlike her, very unlike her.
Adaora always answered eventually, even if it was only to say she would call back, even if she was busy or even if she was upset. I opened WhatsApp, her profile picture was still there. Last seen unavailable, no blue ticks, no online indicator, nothing.
It is remarkable how quickly the human mind manufactures disasters from silence. Within thirty seconds, I had imagined at least six possibilities. An accident…A medical emergency…Something involving Lanre…Something involving his mother…A fight…A miscarriage…A hospital.
The imagination is astonishingly efficient when fear is involved. I immediately disliked mine. I considered calling Lanre. My thumb hovered over his contact and then I stopped.
What if whatever had happened involved him?
What if calling him complicated things?
What if he genuinely knew nothing?
What if I was overreacting?
The phone began dialing anyway…one ring, but before the second could begin, I ended the call. Cowardice or wisdom, I could not immediately determine which.
I placed the phone face down on my desk, then looked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Ikoyi. Traffic continued, people walked, boats moved lazily across the lagoon, the city had absolutely no interest in slowing down simply because my world felt uncertain. Lagos has always been like that, it sympathizes with no one.
My eyes drifted toward the conference room across the corridor. Inside that room sat a woman whose career was collapsing by the minute.
Brand partnerships were disappearing.
Public opinion was turning vicious.
Sponsors would soon begin distancing themselves.
Journalists were undoubtedly refreshing their inboxes, waiting for a statement.
Eight hundred million naira…missing…Or misused…Or stolen, depending on who eventually wrote the headline.
I leaned back in my chair. Normally, this was the part I enjoyed. The puzzle, the complexity and the impossible deadline. Usually, I would summon Ose, call Tunde, bring in research and ask Nneka to prepare a timeline. We would fill the strategy room with whiteboards, coffee, competing ideas and uncomfortable truths. Somewhere inside all of that noise, the answer would emerge.
Today…I could barely think. Every few minutes, my eyes returned to my phone, nothing. Every scenario I imagined about Adaora became slightly worse than the previous one. It occurred to me then that anxiety is remarkably creative. Unfortunately, it is also an unreliable storyteller.
I closed my eyes, not because I wanted to but because I suddenly remembered something…The mindfulness coach. His voice had become strangely familiar over the past week. Not intrusive, just… available. As though someone had quietly placed another perspective inside my mind.
“You cannot solve the problem your imagination has created.”
I frowned.
“Return to what you actually know.”
Fine. What did I actually know? I knew Adaora had called eight times, I knew she had not answered since and I knew I had no evidence that anything terrible had happened…Only fear.
Then I turned to the other crisis. What did I actually know? I knew Simi had accepted partial responsibility, I knew donations had disappeared, I knew public trust had collapsed and I knew hiding was impossible.
Interesting. Already, the facts felt clearer than the emotions.
“Notice your breathing.”
I almost rolled my eyes…Instead…I inhaled…slowly…held it…exhaled…Again.
The first breath changed nothing, neither did the second. By the fifth, however, something subtle had shifted. Not the circumstances but me. The panic loosened slightly, the urgency remained, the fear remained, but they were no longer driving the conversation inside my head.
The room seemed quieter or perhaps my mind finally was. A sentence floated into my thoughts, not from the mindfulness coach but from somewhere else.
“You cannot control outcomes. You can only improve decisions.”
That…I understood. I picked up a legal pad, instead of writing solutions, I wrote questions.
What is the objective?
Restore trust.
Protect innocent beneficiaries.
Reduce legal exposure.
Preserve whatever credibility remains.
Recover the money.
Hold the right people accountable.
Only then did I begin thinking about options.
The first idea was obvious…
Disappear…Relocate…Issue a vague statement from Dubai six months later, people have attempted worse. The internet has a surprisingly short memory. But courts usually do not. Neither do donors nor children who never received schools. No, that was not strategy. That was surrender.
The second option…
Immediate apology…Complete transparency…Promise to repay everything…Accept responsibility…It was morally attractive but commercially catastrophic.
Every endorsement would disappear overnight.
Every sponsor would leave.
Every future opportunity would vanish.
There had to be something more, not easier but smarter. A knock interrupted my thoughts. Nneka.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“They’re waiting.”
I looked at the clock…Forty-three minutes, longer than I intended. Long enough for everyone to assume I either had a brilliant plan…or none at all.
I stood, straightened my jacket and picked up my notebook. I paused before opening the door…one more breath…just one. Interesting, it actually helped.
When I returned to the conference room, everyone looked at me immediately. Mr. Daniels…The legal adviser…Simi…Her manager…Two members of her media team.
Fear has an unmistakable expression and every face around that table wore it differently. I remained standing.
“I’ll begin with the uncomfortable part.”
Nobody objected. I looked directly at Simi.
“You knew.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I knew enough.”
I nodded.
“If you did not know everything, you still knew enough to ask questions.”
Silence. “When people trusted you with their money, they were trusting your name, not your management.”
A tear rolled down her face. I continued….“So regardless of who actually spent the money, your credibility became part of the transaction.”
She whispered,
“I know.”
“No.” I said quietly. “I don’t think you fully do.” Nobody moved and I leaned slightly forward. “There are no good options anymore, only truthful ones.”
“You can run.” Silence. “You have enough money to disappear.” Her manager looked up sharply. “You could relocate…Wait…And hope the internet finds another scandal. It eventually will.”
Nobody interrupted.
“But if you choose that…” I paused “…then every accusation becomes true forever.” The room felt heavier.
“Or…”
I continued. “…you can fight.”
She looked at me, really looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
I held her gaze. “It means deciding what you are actually willing to lose.”
Before I could continue…my phone buzzed. Instinctively, I glanced down…Adaora. My heart lurched, one message, just three words. **I am fine.**
Nothing else, no explanation and no context. Ridiculously inadequate but wonderfully sufficient. Without realizing it, I smiled. Relief is a peculiar emotion. It does not solve problems. Rather, it simply reminds you which ones still matter.
I locked my phone, placed it gently on the table and looked back at Simi.
“Now…” I said calmly. “Let’s talk about how we earn the public’s trust back.”
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
It turns out mindfulness is not the absence of panic. It is remembering that panic should never be promoted to Head of Strategy.