Temilade woke before her alarm.
For several seconds, she remained still, staring at the ceiling while the pale morning light filtered through the curtains.
Then she remembered.
The church.
Mrs.
Akinwale.
The envelope.
She reached for her phone.
There was no new message from Damilare.
She checked the time.
6:17 a.m.
She got out of bed.
By eight o’clock, she was ready.
Damilare arrived a few minutes later.
Temilade locked her apartment behind her and walked towards the car.
“You slept?” he asked as she got in.
“Not properly.”
“Same here.”
He started the engine.
The journey from Lekki towards Yaba took longer than either of them wanted.
Morning traffic had already begun to thicken, and the road was a mixture of buses, private cars, motorcycles and impatient drivers searching for gaps that barely existed.
For a while, neither spoke.
Temilade watched Lagos move past the window.
People were already selling breakfast by the roadside.
A woman arranged boiled eggs beside a cooler.
A bus conductor leaned halfway out of a danfo, calling for passengers.
At one junction, a man balanced a tray of snacks on his head while weaving between stationary cars.
Eventually, Temilade broke the silence.
“You said Mrs. Akinwale went to a clinic first.”
“Yes.”
“What happened there?”
Damilare kept his eyes on the road.
“Segun traced part of the information through an old reference connected to Babatunde’s files. After the attack, she was taken to a clinic in Yaba. Someone there knew one of the church workers.”
“And that was how she ended up at the church?”
“Apparently.”
“Apparently?”
“We’re working with records that are almost twenty years old.”
Temilade looked at him.
“You always have an answer for everything.”
“No. I just know how much we don’t know.”
She smiled despite herself.
“That sounds more like a lawyer.”
“It probably is.”
They continued towards Yaba.
Temilade thought about what Bolanle had told her the previous night.
Whatever happened before you came to me, I loved you from the first day I held you.
The words had stayed with her.
So had everything Bolanle had refused to say.
Simi had been afraid.
Afraid of the people searching for the documents.
Afraid that, eventually, those people might come looking for the child.
Temilade had spent most of her life believing the story of her family was simple.
Now even the word family seemed to have hidden rooms inside it.
She turned towards Damilare.
“Do you think Mrs. Akinwale left that envelope because she knew someone would eventually come looking?”
“I think she left it because she believed someone might need it.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
“How so?”
“If she was protecting information, she may not have known who would eventually need it. She may only have known that it shouldn’t disappear.”
Temilade looked out of the window again.
Protect what remains.
The words seemed to follow them.
They reached the church shortly after nine.
It was a modest building set back from the road, with a small compound and a few ageing trees around it.
The morning service had not yet begun.
A handful of people moved around the compound, preparing for the day’s activities.
Damilare parked near the side wall.
A woman sweeping the front of the building looked up as they approached.
Damilare greeted her.
“Good morning, Ma.”
“Good morning.”
“We’re looking for someone who stayed here some years ago. Her name was Mrs. Akinwale.”
The woman’s sweeping slowed.
“Akinwale?”
“Yes.”
She studied them for a moment.
“Which Akinwale?”
“We’re not certain of her first name.”
The woman leaned on the broom.
“Wait.”
She looked towards the church building.
“I remember a woman by that name. Many years ago.”
“Do you remember when?” Temilade asked.
The woman shook her head.
“Not exactly. It was a long time.”
Damilare nodded.
“We understand.”
“She stayed here after something happened to her.”
“An attack?” he asked.
The woman’s expression changed.
“Yes.”
Temilade felt a quiet tension settle in her chest.
“She was frightened,” the woman continued.
“Very quiet. She didn’t want people asking questions.”
“Was she staying here permanently?”
“No. It was temporary.”
“Do you know where she came from?”
“The clinic, I think.”
Damilare and Temilade exchanged a glance.
That matched what Segun had found.
“Who arranged for her to come here?” Damilare asked.
The woman shrugged.
“I don’t remember that part. Someone from the clinic knew one of the church members.”
She pointed towards the building.
“You should speak with Pastor Adeyemi. He was here then.”
The woman returned to sweeping.
Damilare thanked her.
A few minutes later, an older man came out to meet them.
He wore a simple white shirt and dark trousers.
His hair was almost completely grey.
“This is Pastor Adeyemi,” the woman said.
“He was here when Mrs. Akinwale stayed with us.”
The pastor looked at Damilare, then at Temilade.
“You’re looking for her?”
“We’re trying to understand where she went after the attack in 2007.”
The pastor’s face tightened slightly.
“That was a long time ago.”
“We know.”
He looked towards the church building.
“I remember the woman.”
Temilade watched him.
“What do you remember?”
He thought for a moment.
“She was frightened. Not the kind of frightened person who makes noise. She was quiet. Always listening.”
“To what?”
He gave a faint shrug.
“Everything.”
Temilade exchanged a glance with Damilare.
The pastor continued.
“She would stop talking whenever someone entered the room. Sometimes she would sit outside until she was sure nobody was looking for her.”
“Did she tell you why she was afraid?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Or perhaps she did, and I have forgotten. Nineteen years can do that.”
Damilare nodded.
“Was she brought here directly from the clinic?”
“Yes. Someone from the clinic contacted us. They knew one of the church workers.”
“So she had no previous connection with the church?”
“Not that I know of.”
Temilade looked at the old man.
“Then why did she trust this place?”
The pastor smiled faintly.
“Sometimes you don’t need to know someone to give them shelter.”
The answer stayed with Temilade.
Damilare asked, “How long was she here?”
“A few weeks. Perhaps longer. She left before anyone expected her to.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
The pastor shook his head.
“She only said she had to leave.”
“Did she seem better by then?”
“No.”
He looked down.
“She seemed more determined.”
Temilade noticed the difference.
“Determined to do what?”
The pastor’s eyes met hers.
“I couldn’t say.”
A brief silence followed.
Then he added:
“She left something with us.”
Damilare’s attention sharpened.
“Something personal?”
“A small envelope.”
Temilade felt her stomach tighten.
“Where is it now?”
The pastor looked towards the church.
“We kept it.”
“After all these years?”
“She asked us to.”
Damilare did not reach for his notebook.
Instead, he asked quietly, “What did she say about it?”
The pastor’s expression became thoughtful.
“She told us not to hand it over simply because someone came claiming to know her.”
“Was there a particular person she expected?”
“I don’t remember her naming anyone.”
He paused.
“She said that if someone came, we should know who had sent them.”
Damilare looked at Temilade.
That was enough to tell him the envelope had not been left casually.
“Did anyone come?”
The pastor nodded.
“Not long after she left.”
Temilade leaned forward slightly.
“Tell us about him.”
“A man. I don’t remember his name.”
“What did he say?”
“That he had been sent to collect something belonging to her.”
“And you refused?”
“I kept the promise she had asked me to make.”
The pastor’s voice remained calm.
“What happened after that?”
“He left.”
“Did he return?”
“Not while I was here.”
Damilare absorbed the answer.
Then he asked, “Has anyone else asked about the envelope?”
The pastor looked at him.
“No.”
His eyes moved to Temilade.
“Until today.”
They followed him inside.
The church was quiet.
Sunlight came through the windows in narrow strips, falling across rows of wooden chairs.
A standing fan turned slowly in one corner.
The pastor led them through a side passage to a small room behind the main hall.
He unlocked the door.
The storeroom smelled of dust, old paper, and furniture polish.
Boxes were stacked against the walls.
He moved several aside before reaching a metal cabinet.
From the bottom drawer, he removed a small cardboard box.
He placed it on the table.
“This was kept separately.”
Temilade looked at the box.
The pastor opened it.
Inside was a sealed manila envelope.
Temilade’s stomach tightened.
It was smaller and thinner than the brown envelope she had seen in the old photograph.
Damilare noticed her expression.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
She looked at the envelope again.
“Just… I wasn’t expecting it to still exist.”
“Neither was I,” the pastor said.
Damilare looked at him.
“You knew it was still here?”
“I knew we had kept it. I wasn’t certain anyone would remember where.”
He carefully lifted the envelope.
There was no name on the front. The source of this chapter is g.com.
No address.
Only three handwritten words:
PROTECT WHAT REMAINS.
Temilade stared at them.
Damilare did too.
Neither spoke.
The words were identical to the instruction found among Babatunde Akande’s records.
But identical words did not automatically mean identical handwriting or identical documents.
Damilare took out his phone.
“I’m going to photograph it.”
The pastor nodded.
He photographed both sides of the envelope.
Temilade watched.
“Shouldn’t we open it?”
“Not here.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know what Mrs. Akinwale intended to protect or who she intended to receive it from.”
“But she’s been gone for nineteen years.”
“That doesn’t tell us what she wanted.”
Temilade frowned.
“You really don’t like opening things.”
“Not when I don’t know who sealed them.”
The pastor gave a small smile.
“Your father was the same.”
Damilare looked up.
“You knew my father?”
The pastor nodded.
“Babatunde Akande came here once.”
Damilare went still.
“Why?”
The pastor thought.
“He asked about old records.”
“What kind of records?”
“I can’t remember.”
“When was this?”
“I can’t place the year exactly. Sometime after Mrs. Akinwale left.”
Damilare’s eyes moved to the envelope.
“Did he ask about her?”
The pastor shook his head.
“Not by name.”
That answer unsettled Damilare more than a direct yes would have.
“What did he want?”
The pastor sighed.
“I wish I could remember.”
Temilade touched Damilare’s arm lightly.
“Let’s not push him.”
Damilare nodded.
The pastor closed the box.
“We can leave it here?”
“Yes,” Damilare said.
“For now.”
The pastor seemed relieved.
They thanked him and walked outside.
The morning sun had grown stronger.
Traffic noise drifted from the main road.
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Temilade said, “Your father came here.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know.”
“No.”
She looked back at the church.
“That means this place was connected to more than Mrs. Akinwale’s recovery.”
Damilare considered that.
“Maybe.”
“You really like that word.”
He gave a tired smile.
“It’s still the honest one.”
They walked towards the car.
Damilare’s phone rang before he reached the door.
He looked at the screen.
“Segun.”
He answered.
“Hello?”
Segun’s voice was low.
“I found another reference.”
Damilare stopped.
“Connected to what?”
“The second file.”
Temilade looked at him.
Damilare moved a few steps away from the car.
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet. But the reference is real. It appears in another set of records.”
“Whose records?”
There was a pause.
“I’ll explain when I see you.”
Damilare glanced at Temilade.
“When?”
“As soon as you can.”
The call ended.
Damilare slipped the phone into his pocket.
Temilade waited.
“The second file?”
He nodded.
“What did he find?”
“Another reference to it.”
“Do we know where the file is?”
“Not yet.”
She looked towards the church.
They had come searching for Mrs.
Akinwale.
They had found an envelope she had deliberately protected for nineteen years.
Now another reference had surfaced.
The pieces were no longer sitting separately.
They were beginning to touch.
Damilare opened the car door.
Temilade paused before getting in.
“Do you think we’re getting closer?”
He looked at her.
“I think we’re getting closer to something.”
“That’s another lawyer’s answer.”
This time his smile was genuine.
“Probably.”
She got into the car.
As Damilare started the engine, Temilade looked once more at the church behind them.
The hardest part, she thought, might not be finding the truth.
It might be deciding what to do with it when they finally did.