THE PART SHE PLAYED
As she stood at the entrance of the building, Zina asked herself: What exactly brought me this far?
Love? Her passion for acting? Or the reminder of what they owed her?
But there were three things Zina knew for sure:
One — she was born for the stage.
Two — Dare’s smile still did things to her stomach.
And three — Obinna still hated her guts.
Ivory Reel Productions buzzed with laughter, camera clicks, and the clipped rhythm of ambition. It smelled like stories in the making.
She told herself she was just dropping by. A quick hello. A peek at how far they’d come.
Zina paused at the glass door' not to check her reflection, but to steady her breath. Inside, nothing had changed:
Black-and-white frames of film history. The electric tension of dreams. The scent of sweat, lights, and nerves.
They built it together; Dare, Obinna, and Kenna.
The three boys who once ruled her childhood like rowdy gods.
She was the odd one out back then, the girl they laughed at on the school bus.
But not anymore.
She’d found her voice. And now, she was here to use it.
Then she saw him; Dare.
His eyes lit up.
“Zina?”
Her throat tightened. “Just came to say hi.”
Obinna’s voice sliced through the moment.
“You said hi. Now leave.”
Zina didn’t flinch. “Relax. I’m not here to haunt your dreams.”
Obinna stepped forward, arms folded, jaw set. “You already did.”
Dare frowned. “Obinna...”
“It’s fine,” Zina said, brushing off the tension like lint.
But she didn’t leave.
Because when she caught Dare’s gaze again, something flickered.
Something soft. Familiar.
She didn’t just want to see the set. She wanted to belong. To make magic.
But most of all, she wanted him.
And little did she know, it was time to play her part.
Falling for Dare again wasn’t the plan.
But it happened.
A stolen glance during auditions. A brush of fingertips over a script. A kiss stolen beneath the heat of studio lights.
She fell, hard and deep.
“You’re distracting me,” Dare whispered, close enough to count her lashes.
“I haven’t even touched you,” she teased.
“That’s the problem.”
Their laughter crackled. Private. Dangerous. Loaded.
But across the hall, Obinna stood watching.
His silence louder than any camera flash.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he snapped.
“I work here now,” she replied evenly. “Or is that a problem?”
Obinna’s lip curled. “It’s always a problem when ghosts pretend to be alive.”
She stared. “You still blame me.”
His eyes flickered, and for a moment, it wasn’t hate. It was pain.
Then he walked away.
Zina got the role.
The lead. The biggest film Ivory Reel had ever produced. Not because she begged. Not because of Dare.
Because she earned it.
“Don’t give me the part,” she told him once. “Let me win it.”
He smiled. “You already have.”
She shone on set. Regal. Alive. The script fit her like skin.
Then Obinna barged into rehearsal.
“She’s not doing this,” he snapped.
Dare stood up. “Obinna!”
“No. Not this film. Not with her.”
Zina froze. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Obinna stared at her. Then quietly, almost broken:
“Because you remind me of her.”
The room went still.
“Don’t,” Dare said, voice tight.
But it was too late. The silence had spoken.
Zina didn’t ask who her was. She already knew.
Flashback.
Years ago, in secondary school, Zina had a best friend: Adaeze.
Beautiful. Brilliant. Broken.
The dreamer before Zina ever dared to dream.
One day, Adaeze confessed she liked Obinna.
Zina, in a moment of naive cruelty, told him behind her back.
He laughed. Told the boys. They mocked Adaeze.
She found out. She left school.
A week later, she was gone.
Suicide.
They all buried it. Too young. Too dumb. Too scared to claim the blame.
But Zina never forgot. Because deep down, she blamed herself.
And Obinna never forgave her. Because he blamed her too.
So when Zina returned, confident, talented, ready to shine in a world Adaeze never got to live in; it unraveled everything.
That night, Zina left the studio late.
The lot was empty, except for Obinna, standing under a flickering lamp.
“You think you can come back and rewrite the past?” he asked, staring into the dark.
“You need help,” she said.
He laughed bitterly. “You think you get to have everything, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The man. The job. The film. All of it.”
“I earned it.”
He stepped forward, eyes wild. “You don’t get to walk away again.”
Then he grabbed her arm; tight. Too tight.
“Let me go!”
Everything blurred. Obinna jolted. Gasped. Then fell.
Behind him, Dare stood frozen. Something sharp in his hand. Something red trailing after.
Zina stared. “What did you do?”
Dare looked at her, hollow. “You’re safe now.”
But she wasn’t.
Days passed. No news. No Dare.
Then came the knock.
“Zina Arinze?”
“Yes?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Obinna Nwoye.”
“No… I didn’t… He tried to... I didn’t…”
At the station, she waited.
Dare came. With Kenna.
That was odd, but she ignored it.
“Tell them,” she begged. “Please.”
Dare stayed silent. Kenna’s hand pressed on his shoulder.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Say something!” Zina cried.
Dare finally looked at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her heart cracked.
“What?”
“You’re mistaken.”
“You said you’d take care of it…”
“I am,” he whispered.
The courtroom was colder than prison.
Kenna testified first, smooth and calm.
“She was obsessed. She threatened him. She was jealous.”
Then Dare.
Silent. Controlled. Deadly.
Zina didn’t cry. Not even when the gavel fell.
“Guilty… with cause.”
She looked at Dare.
He looked back, sorry. But not sorry enough.
A year later,
In her cell, a guard called out: “You have a visitor.”
Zina stood… and froze.
“Kenna?”
He stood by the window, hands tucked in his pockets.
She blinked. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you want?”
The smirk vanished. His eyes sharpened.
“She trusted you. And you betrayed her.”
Zina’s breath caught. “What are you talking about?”
“My cousin. Adaeze. I never forgot. I never forgave. I was the quiet one for a reason.”
Her eyes widened. “You set this up?”
“Oh no, darling. You wanted a role. I simply gave you one. Remember? You once told me I’d need you someday. And you were right.”
And she remembered.
A month after Adaeze’s death, on the school bus.
She hadn’t cringed. They sat in silence.
He smirked. “You? To do what?”
She smiled. “To play a role. A role I was born for.”
And so she did.
“And Dare?” she asked, she had to know.
“Oh, he was part of the play too,” Kenna said smoothly. “He had two roles. But Lover Boy cared too much to let you die.”
“And Obinna?”
Kenna’s smirk deepened. “Obinna played the role he deserved. He paid the price for what he did to her. Don’t forget, she took her life because of him. His role was simple: a life for a life.”
He crossed his leg, calm and satisfied, like a director wrapping the final scene.
But she had to give him his due.
Kenna; he was the master planner.
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