The Obsession of Pretty Silas

She arrives on a wet Tuesday, twenty minutes late, in a black coat pulled tight against the harmattan. The waiter recognises her before we do. Pretty Silas — the woman half of Abuja has an opinion about, and the other half pretends not to — sits down, orders a still water, and says, "Okay. Ask me anything."

For five years she has said nothing. No interviews, no posts, no reply to the tabloids that turned her name into a verb. What broke the silence, she says, was simpler than anyone guessed. "I got tired of other people telling the story."