The air in Casablanca was heavier than Istanbul—scented with salt, diesel, and cardamom. Imani stepped out of the terminal, the Moroccan sun casting a honey-colored glow over the city. Her abaya flowed like ink in motion, layered with a denim jacket she had bought impulsively at the airport. Around her, taxi drivers called out destinations like auctioneers, their voices blending with honking horns and children's laughter.
Zara adjusted her sunglasses and tugged her lilac scarf tighter around her head. "Okay. First things first—tea or sleep?"
"Sleep's a scam," Imani replied, shifting her suitcase. "Tea. Strong. With mint."
They found a small café down the street from their riad—wrought iron chairs, mosaic tables, and a view of the Atlantic crashing against pale, broken walls. The waiter, a young man with a lopsided smile and a worn brown apron, brought over a silver pot and two glasses.
"Shukran," Imani said with a warm nod.
Zara raised her brows as they poured. "So. Morocco. You think your dad's really here?"
Imani looked out at the sea, her expression unreadable. "The photo was taken here. That much is certain."
"Is this going to be one of those 'we find him but he pretends not to know us' situations?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's afraid. Maybe he doesn't even know we're looking."
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping. The tea was hot and sweet, the fresh mint hitting the back of the throat like a balm.
Zara tapped her nails on the table. "Do you remember that summer in Lagos when your dad made us practice mock diagnosis rounds using Barbie dolls?"
Imani chuckled. "He was relentless. 'Barbie has a rash, Imani. Diagnose and treat in under five minutes.'"
"He cared so much. Always did."
Imani's smile faded. "Which is why this doesn't make sense."
---
The next morning, they met a contact—Hafsa. She was in her late 40s, wore rimless glasses and hijab tied in a signature Rabat loop, and worked as a pediatrician by day and whistleblower by night. They met at a garden café near the Hassan II Mosque.
Hafsa sipped her spiced coffee, lips pursed. "Your father was last seen leaving the mosque. A man with a limp, older, always kept his face down. But he left a note with an old imam I know. Mentioned your name."
Imani's heart skipped. "What did it say?"
"He was scared. Said he had uncovered something he shouldn't have. That he would return 'when the shadows no longer dance.'"
Zara frowned. "That sounds like code."
"It is," Hafsa confirmed. "He used that phrase before—when he was under surveillance in Nigeria."
"Do you know where he could be now?" Imani asked, voice thin.
Hafsa nodded slowly. "There's a healing clinic outside the city. Small, discreet. I think he's hiding there."
Imani stood, breath quickening. "Can you take us?"
"Tomorrow morning. It's a long drive."
Zara exhaled. "That gives us a night to plan. And eat. Preferably tagine."
Imani laughed, her chest loosening slightly. "Let's go be tourists. For tonight."
---
They spent the evening wandering the Old Medina. The souks bustled with movement—leather bags, ceramic bowls, saffron, almonds, knock-off perfumes, and voices haggling like seasoned diplomats. Zara bought a pair of handmade slippers, while Imani fixated on a brass locket engraved with Quranic verses.
They stopped at a street stall for dinner. The vendor—a grandmotherly woman with silver hair peeking from her scarf—served steaming chicken tagine with apricots and almonds, fluffy couscous, and spicy harira soup.
"This is divine," Zara said, wiping her fingers. "If we die tomorrow, at least we were full."
Imani, lips oil-glossed, smiled faintly. "If I die tomorrow, I hope someone opens my notes app and exposes every fake friend I ever saved there."
Zara howled with laughter. "Savage."
They returned to their riad under starlight, their laughter trailing behind like perfume. For a moment, the world outside the plot, the lies, the disappearances—ceased to exist.
---
The next morning, they left at dawn. The sun was rising slow and orange over the horizon. Hafsa drove a rusted SUV through winding roads lined with olive groves and adobe homes.
The silence in the car was thoughtful, pensive. Zara hummed quietly to a podcast, Imani scrolled through encrypted messages from Omar.
"He's found something," she murmured suddenly.
Zara looked up. "Omar?"
"He says there are transfers made from Kora Foundation accounts… to offshore wallets linked to someone named Idris Harun."
Zara's brows shot up. "Your Idris?"
"I don't know anymore."
---
By midday, they reached the clinic—a beige compound behind a wrought-iron gate, shielded by high date palms. Hafsa led them in.
The nurse at the desk looked up. "Salaam, can I help you?"
"We're here to see Dr. Nurain."
The nurse's eyes flickered. "Room 3."
Imani's heart galloped in her chest. She walked down the corridor—cool, white, lined with potted aloe and Qur'anic calligraphy.
She paused at Room 3. Her hand hovered over the door.
Then, slowly, she pushed it open.
He was there.
Older. Thinner. His beard had grown whiter, but his posture remained proud. He sat on a prayer mat, facing the window, his Qur'an open before him.
He turned.
His eyes widened.
"Imani."
Her throat closed.
"Baba."
He stood shakily.
They met halfway.
And then she was in his arms.
She wept. He did too.
"I thought you were dead," she choked.
"I had to disappear," he whispered. "To protect you. From her."
Imani pulled back, brows furrowed. "Mama?"
He nodded. "She's not who you think she is."
"She runs Kora."
"She is Kora. It was her all along. I helped build the structure, but she weaponized it. Silenced whistleblowers. Stole from grants. And when I threatened to go public…"
"She made you vanish."
He nodded.
Zara stood in the doorway, tears on her cheeks.
"We're going to take her down," Imani said.
He looked at her, proud and afraid. "They'll come for you now."
Imani stepped back, her eyes like steel. "Then let them."
---
That night, they stayed in the clinic. Imani sat beside her father, feeding him spicy lentil soup and warm khobz bread.
He smiled weakly. "I still dream of our old house. Your laughter."
"I still dream of your rules," she said, smiling. "You never let me skip suhoor during Ramadan."
"It was my way of keeping you strong."
She squeezed his hand.
"Baba," she said gently. "Why didn't you tell me the truth sooner?"
He looked out the window, his voice faint.
"Because I wasn't ready to admit that the woman I loved was capable of this."
---
Back in Istanbul, Omar sat in the darkened café across from a familiar figure.
Idris.
His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles white on the table.
"Why did you do it?" Omar asked.
Idris whispered, "Because I loved her. And I thought I could protect her by betraying her."
"Your name is on the transfer logs. You were in on it."
"I was. But I'm not anymore. And I can prove it."
Omar leaned back. "Start talking."
---