The Wrong Number, The Right Trouble

Adaeze Nwosu had one rule in life — never pick up calls from unknown numbers.

She broke that rule on a Tuesday.

To be fair, it was not entirely her fault.

The rain had started without warning somewhere between Ozumba Mbadiwe and Ligali Ayorinde, the kind of Lagos rain that falls like God personally has a quarrel with the city. She was already soaked from the bus stop to the pharmacy, her umbrella had betrayed her somewhere near the junction, and her phone screen was so wet that when it rang, she swiped right without thinking.

"Hello?" she said, pressing it against her ear.

"Where is the document?" a deep voice said. No greeting. No sorry wrong number. Just — where is the document.

Adaeze blinked. "Sorry?"

"The acquisition file. Benson said he sent it to this number. Where is it?"

She pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it. Unknown number. Not a single contact she recognised. She put it back. "Oga, I think you have the wrong—"

"I don't have time for this." The voice was tight, clipped, the kind of voice that was used to giving instructions and having them followed immediately. "Benson. Tell him to resend it now. The board meeting is in forty minutes."

"Sir." Adaeze took a breath. "With respect. I am not Benson. I am not anybody's PA. I am a twenty-six year old woman standing inside a pharmacy in Lekki Phase 1 trying to buy Panadol in the rain. You have the wrong number."

Silence.

Then — "This is not 0803-415-7762?"

She checked. "This is 0803-415-7726."

More silence. Longer this time.

Then something that sounded almost — almost — like a man who never embarrassed himself being slightly embarrassed.

"I see," he said finally.

"Yes," Adaeze agreed.

"My apologies." And he ended the call.

She stood there for a moment, phone still in her hand, rain drumming against the pharmacy roof.

Then she laughed. A short, surprised laugh, the kind that comes out before you can stop it.

She forgot about the call by the next morning.

She had bigger things to worry about — like the fact that her one-year contract at Pinnacle Media was ending in three weeks and her editor, Mrs. Chukwu, had been giving her the kind of smiles that meant either a renewal or a very polite termination.

Adaeze had been writing content for their lifestyle section for twelve months and she was good at it. She knew she was good at it. But good did not always mean kept, especially not in Lagos.

She was at her desk at 8:47am, earlier than almost everyone, when the office doors opened and the CEO walked in.

She had seen Emeka Obi exactly twice since she joined the company — once at the all-staff meeting in January where he spoke for six minutes and answered no questions, and once in the elevator where he stared at his phone the entire ride and did not acknowledge her existence.

He was that kind of man. Tall. Expensive shoes. The particular silence around him that money and authority create.

He walked past the content team without looking up.

Adaeze looked back at her screen.

Then his footsteps stopped.

She felt it before she heard it — that specific change in the air when someone is looking at you.

She turned.

Emeka Obi was standing three desks away, looking at her with an expression she could not immediately read. Not rude. Not warm. Just — considering.

"You," he said.

Adaeze pointed at herself. "Me?"

"The pharmacy. Last night." Something shifted in his face. "You work here."

It took her two full seconds. Then it landed.

The wrong number. The rain. The board meeting.

Of all the companies in Lagos Island. Of all the CEOs in all the offices.

"Yes," she said carefully. "I work here."

He nodded once, like he was filing the information away somewhere. Then he continued walking to his office without another word.

Adaeze turned back to her screen.

Her contract renewal meeting was scheduled for Friday.

Something told her the next three weeks were going to be very complicated.