ABUJA BADDIES
Chapter 4 — The POLO Game
The sun over Abuja did not play gently.
It shone like spotlight lighting — dramatic, exposing, unforgiving.
The polo field on the outskirts of the city was lined with white marquees, champagne bars, and black SUVs parked in neat, intimidating rows. Horses stamped against the trimmed grass. Wealth moved quietly between linen suits and oversized sunglasses.
This was not a public event.
This was power meeting power.
And today, everyone had come to see who was aligning with who.
Zara arrived last.
Not because she was late.
Because she understood timing.
Her white tailored jumpsuit flowed perfectly against her skin. Minimal jewelry. Diamond studs. Dark glasses. Effortless.
When she stepped out of her Range Rover, conversations shifted slightly.
Old money had entered the field.
Teni followed minutes later in a pastel two-piece set and dramatic hat, camera crew in discreet formation behind her.
"Soft life content," she whispered to her assistant. "Make sure the angles scream generational wealth."
Amara came alone, in structured beige and sharp heels. No fuss. No theatrics. Just presence.
Laila arrived quietly, escorted by security linked to her father's office. Her elegance was controlled, measured.
Four women.
Four different storms brewing.
On the field, Malik Suleiman mounted his horse.
Dark green jersey. Sleeves rolled slightly. Controlled posture.
He didn't look toward the entrance.
But he knew Zara had arrived.
He could feel shifts like that.
The match began.
Horses thundered across the field. Mallets swung. Spectators clapped politely.
But the real game wasn't on the grass.
It was in the glances.
The nods.
The alliances forming under shaded tents.
Midway through the match, Amara's phone buzzed again.
She stepped away from the others, heels sinking slightly into the grass as she answered.
Her lawyer didn't waste time.
"They've frozen two of your major accounts."
Her stomach dropped.
"That's impossible."
"It's political pressure. They're making an example."
Her eyes lifted slowly.
Across the field, Malik was in motion, commanding attention.
Strategic alliances.
Federal pressure.
Timing.
Her mind began connecting dots.
Meanwhile, under the champagne tent, Laila's blood ran cold.
Standing beside one of her father's closest political rivals was a familiar face.
Farooq Suleiman.
Malik's uncle.
He was laughing with a governor who had publicly criticized her father last month.
This wasn't social.
This was positioning.
She stepped back slowly, calculating.
If the Suleiman family was aligning with her father's opponents, then Malik's interest in Zara was not romantic.
It was tactical.
Teni, on the other hand, was smiling for photos when her assistant rushed toward her, pale.
"Your landlord just posted."
"What?"
Teni grabbed the phone.
There it was.
A screenshot of a legal notice.
Overdue rent.
Tagged anonymously.
The caption read:
"Soft life but unpaid bills?"
Her heart pounded.
In Abuja, image was oxygen.
And someone had just cut her supply.
She forced a smile for the cameras.
"We'll handle it," she whispered through clenched teeth.
But inside?
Rage.
The final chukka ended with applause.
Malik dismounted smoothly and handed the reins to his groom.
Then he walked straight toward Zara.
No hesitation.
No detour.
Conversations hushed subtly as he approached her under the tent.
"You came," he said simply.
"I observe," Zara replied coolly.
His eyes flicked briefly to her friends standing nearby.
"Your circle is under pressure."
Her gaze sharpened.
"What does that mean?"
He lowered his voice.
"Amara's accounts. Teni's landlord. Political whispers in Asokoro."
Her spine straightened.
"You're well informed."
"I'm well connected."
There it was.
Not a confession.
A declaration.
"Are you responsible?" she asked calmly.
He studied her for a long second.
"I don't create storms," he said. "I take advantage of weather."
Her jaw tightened.
So he wasn't denying involvement.
He was admitting strategy.
"You think we're vulnerable," she said.
"I think Abuja is shifting," he replied softly. "And only those who adapt survive."
A beat of silence passed between them.
Electric.
Dangerous.
"Be careful, Malik," she said finally. "You're underestimating us."
His lips curved faintly.
"I'm counting on you not to disappoint me."
Then he stepped back.
Power never lingered too long.
As the sun began to lower, the four women regrouped near Zara's car.
Amara looked composed — too composed.
Teni's eyes were sharp with fury.
Laila's mind was clearly racing.
Zara removed her sunglasses slowly.
"This isn't random," she said.
"No," Amara agreed quietly. "It's coordinated."
Laila exhaled slowly. "The Suleimans are moving politically."
Teni crossed her arms. "So what do we do?"
Zara's expression hardened.
For the first time, the softness left her entirely.
"We stop reacting," she said.
"We move first."
Across the field, Malik watched their car pull away.
He admired resilience.
But he had just made one mistake.
He assumed they would scatter.
Instead…
He had just united them.
End of Chapter 4