The Case of the Vanishing Briefcase

M Mehran

Okulmide was not the sort of detective who filled out paperwork quietly behind a desk. In Lagos, where the air hummed with traffic, markets, and secrets traded in alleyways, his reputation had grown: sharp eyes, sharper instincts, and a stubbornness that made criminals nervous.

One humid Thursday morning, he was called to Balogun Market, the beating heart of the city’s commerce. A crime had unfolded—not the usual pickpocketing or counterfeit goods, but something that carried real weight.

A businessman named Chuka Eze had reported a stolen briefcase. To most, that would seem ordinary. But this was no ordinary briefcase. Inside, Chuka swore, were documents worth millions—contracts that could seal or destroy a powerful construction deal with foreign investors.

Okulmide arrived at the scene, weaving through stalls of fabric and electronics. Chuka, sweating and frantic, gripped his arm.

“It was right beside me,” Chuka insisted. “I stepped away to take a call, two minutes only, and when I turned back—it was gone.”

“Two minutes is enough time for the market to swallow a man whole,” Okulmide muttered, scanning the crowd.

He began asking questions. Vendors shook their heads, some too busy bargaining to care. But an old woman selling oranges leaned closer and whispered, “I saw a boy, maybe twenty, moving fast with a black case. He ran toward the back streets.”

That was enough.

Okulmide followed the trail into the maze behind the market—narrow alleys where laundry lines hung low and children kicked footballs against cracked walls. He knew these backstreets well; they were where desperate hands turned to crime.

At the end of one alley, he found a man slouched against the wall, chewing on roasted corn. His eyes darted nervously when he saw Okulmide.

“Evening, Jide,” the detective said casually. “You’ve been busy?”

Jide laughed, too quickly. “Me? Busy with what?”

“With a briefcase.”

The corn husk fell from Jide’s hands. For a heartbeat, silence. Then he bolted.

Okulmide gave chase, his shoes slapping against the pavement. Jide was fast, leaping over puddles, pushing through doorways, but Okulmide was relentless. At the corner of an abandoned warehouse, he tackled him to the ground.

“Where’s the case?” Okulmide demanded.

“I—I don’t have it!” Jide stammered. “I passed it off!”

“To who?”

Jide hesitated, then spat out a name: “Rufus.”

That name made Okulmide’s jaw tighten. Rufus was no street thief. He was a fixer, a man who dealt in stolen goods for bigger players. If Rufus had the briefcase, then the documents were already on their way to competitors—or worse.

Dragging Jide to his feet, Okulmide marched him back to the station. But his mind was already ahead, plotting the next move.

That night, he went hunting.

The city’s nightclubs were Rufus’s territory—flashing lights, music heavy with bass, smoke curling through the air. Okulmide entered one such club, his plain shirt and stern expression making him stand out among the glitter and gold chains.

He found Rufus at a corner table, sipping expensive whisky. The briefcase sat on the floor beside him like a loyal dog.

“Evening, Rufus,” Okulmide said, sliding into the seat opposite.

Rufus smiled thinly. “Detective. I was wondering when you’d arrive. Drink?”

“No. Hand me the case.”

Rufus chuckled. “You think it’s that simple? These papers—contracts, bribes, dirty dealings—people would pay heavily for them. Why should I give them to you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll drag you out of here in front of everyone, and tomorrow your name will be on every front page in Lagos. And you know how enemies multiply when a man becomes exposed.”

Rufus swirled his glass, considering. His eyes flicked toward the dance floor, then back. At last, he leaned down, lifted the briefcase, and slid it across the table.

“Take it,” he said. “But know this—your Chuka is no angel. He’s building towers on land that isn’t his, land taken from families who have lived there for generations. Those papers prove it. Return them, and you become part of his crime.”

Okulmide froze. The weight of the briefcase in his hands suddenly felt heavier. He knew Rufus was manipulative, but he also knew corruption ran deep in the city’s bones.

Later, in the quiet of his office, he opened the case. Pages of contracts, maps, and payment records spilled out—documents that confirmed Rufus’s words. Chuka’s deal wasn’t just business. It was theft dressed as development.

The detective sat back, staring at the city lights outside his window. He had solved the theft, yes. But now he faced a deeper choice: return the case to Chuka and let injustice rise like glass towers, or expose the truth and risk angering powerful men.

In the end, Okulmide made his decision.

The next day, the Lagos Herald ran a front-page story: “Detective Uncovers Land Grab Scandal: Businessman’s Project Halted.” Chuka was arrested, investors withdrew, and the families of Windmere land—once faceless victims—were given a voice.

As for Rufus, he slipped into the shadows once again, watching. Criminals always returned. And Okulmide would be waiting.