By half past seven on Monday morning, Lagos had already decided that nobody was going anywhere in a hurry.
Temilade eased her car forward along the Lekki-Epe Expressway, watching a river of brake lights stretch into the distance.
Her phone vibrated.
Femi.
She answered through the hands-free system.
“You’ve started work?”
“I’ve been on the road for almost an hour.”
“Come home early today.”
Temilade frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Mama said so.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No.”
“Femi.”
“Somebody is coming.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why am I coming home?”
“Because Mama said you should.”
Temilade sighed.
“Fine.”
The call ended.
A few seconds later, another message appeared.
Not a wedding.
Temilade smiled.
Then another.
Lawyer.
Her smile disappeared.
A lawyer?
By late afternoon, Temilade was at her architecture studio in Victoria Island.
She was reviewing drawings for a residential project when her client pointed at the plans.
“One more floor.”
Temilade looked at him.
“That isn’t a minor adjustment.”
“Can it be done?”
“Possibly. But we need to assess the existing structure first.”
Her phone vibrated.
Femi: Mama said now.
Temilade stared at the message for a moment.
Then she gathered her things.
“I have to go.”
The family compound was already quiet when she arrived.
Aunty Bisi greeted her at the door.
“Come and greet your elders first.”
Temilade smiled.
“Good evening, Aunty.”
Inside, Mama Sade sat near the window.
Opposite her was a man Temilade had never seen before.
He stood when she entered.
“Damilare Akande.”
“Temilade.”
They shook hands.
Femi appeared behind her.
“See? I told you she’s difficult.”
Temilade turned.
“You told me nothing.”
Damilare smiled.
Mama Sade gave them a warning look.
“Sit down.”
They did.
Damilare placed a brown leather folder on the table.
“I’m handling a title review involving an old property in Yaba.”
Temilade listened.
“The current party connected to the property is Chainsworth Holdings. They’re looking at redevelopment and need the title regularized before moving forward.”
He opened the folder.
“The problem is that the records don’t line up.”
“How?”
“There is a gap.”
“How long?”
“Thirty years.”
The room seemed to change.
Damilare continued.
“The earliest company record we could establish with reasonable certainty dates to 1995. The company named in those papers is Ademola Holdings.”
Mama Sade’s fingers stopped moving.
Temilade noticed.
So did Damilare.
“Have you heard the name before?” he asked.
Mama Sade did not answer immediately.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the old title records.”
“Originals?”
“Some copies. Some certified extracts. And some private legal papers.”
“Whose?”
“My father’s.”
Temilade looked at him.
“Your father was involved?”
“Yes. Babatunde Akande.”
Damilare removed another document.
“My father handled part of the legal documentation connected with the property in 1995. His old files were moved into storage after his death.”
Temilade looked at the papers.
“Why is my family involved?”
“That is what I’m trying to establish.”
He paused.
“The family name appears in supporting records as a representative. Not as the registered owner.”
Temilade frowned.
“A representative of whom?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Femi raised a hand.
“I wasn’t born.”
Temilade looked at him.
“Very useful.”
“I’m contributing.”
Damilare almost smiled.
Temilade turned back to him.
“Who would remember the property?”
Damilare looked toward Mama Sade.
“That is what I was hoping to find out.”
Mama Sade sighed.
“There are names that belong to one generation and burdens that are passed to another.”
Femi muttered, “Here we go.”
Temilade elbowed him.
Mama Sade continued.
“History does not disappear because people stop talking about it.”
Damilare’s expression tightened.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Temilade studied him.
“You seem to know more than you’re saying.”
“So do you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I just met you.”
“I know.”
“Then how do I seem to know anything?”
“You looked at the document and recognized the name.”
Temilade glanced down at the papers.
“Our family name is not exactly unfamiliar.”
“No.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Damilare paused.
“I don’t know yet.”
The answer was honest.
Temilade appreciated that.
At least he wasn’t pretending to know more than he did.
Damilare gathered the papers into a neat stack.
“There is one more thing.”
He pulled out a photocopy of an old handwritten note.
Temilade read it.
Her stomach tightened.
It wasn’t her name.
But something about the handwriting felt deliberate, as though whoever had written it expected someone to find it decades later.
She looked up.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why bring it here?”
“Because the note refers to someone connected with your family.”
Mama Sade reached for the paper.
Damilare hesitated for only a second before handing it to her.
She read it.
Her face changed.
Temilade watched carefully.
“Mama?”
Mama Sade folded the paper once.
“Where did you get this?”
“My father’s file.”
“Did anybody else see it?”
“My associate.”
“Who?”
“Segun Ajayi.”
Mama Sade looked at him sharply.
“Ajayi?”
“Yes.”
She was silent.
Then she returned the paper.
“You should leave this matter alone.”
Temilade stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because some matters become more dangerous when they are reopened.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Mama Sade looked directly at her.
“It is the only answer I can give you tonight.”
Silence settled over the room.
Then Temilade noticed something outside.
Across the road, partly hidden beneath the shadow of a tree, a dark SUV was parked.
The windows were tinted.
She couldn’t see the driver.
“Temilade?”
She turned.
Damilare was watching her.
“There’s a car.”
He glanced towards the window.
By the time he looked, the SUV had begun moving.
It passed slowly before disappearing around the corner.
Neither of them spoke.
Mama Sade lowered her eyes.
Then she said quietly:
“Ọ̀rọ̀ tí a bá fi pamọ́, kì í kú.”
Temilade looked at her.
“A matter that is hidden does not die.”
Mama Sade nodded.
“And sometimes, when it is disturbed, it remembers the people who tried to bury it.”
Damilare closed the folder.
“I’ll come back.”
Mama Sade looked at him.
“Come back only when you know what you are looking for.”
He nodded.
“I will.”
Damilare walked towards the door.
Temilade followed him.
At the entrance, he stopped.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I didn’t come here expecting any of this.”
“Neither did I.”
He gave her a brief smile.
“Then we’re both unfortunate.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Goodnight, Damilare.”
“Goodnight.”
He walked through the gate.
Temilade watched until his car disappeared.
When she returned to the sitting room, Mama Sade was still staring at the closed folder.
“Mama.”
No answer.
“Mama, what happened in 1995?”
Mama Sade looked up.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then the old woman said quietly:
“Go and rest.”
Temilade didn’t move.
“Mama.”
“Temilade.”
Something in the tone stopped her.
Not anger.
A warning.
She finally turned away.
But the question remained.
What had happened in 1995?
And why did Mama Sade look as though she had been waiting thirty years for someone to ask?