The cassette stayed on Damilare’s desk long after everyone else had left.
Temilade had gone home with the image of it still in her mind.
A small black object.
Ordinary.
Almost insignificant.
Yet somewhere in the documentary trail, it had been important enough for someone to record its existence, transfer it for safekeeping, and leave an instruction that it should not be played until the original file was found.
She had seen the words several times.
Cassette — S.A.
Do not play until the original file is found.
They had no proof that S.A.
meant Samuel Adebayo.
They had no proof that the cassette contained Samuel’s voice.
They did not even know where the cassette was now.
But there was something else that kept returning to her.
Simi.
Not the meeting itself.
That had already happened.
It was what Simi had said.
Samuel had known about her.
He had known Temilade existed.
And he had made choices about what could be written down and what could not.
Temilade sat at her dining table, her notebook open in front of her.
She turned to the page where she had recorded Simi’s testimony.
For several minutes, she simply stared at it.
Then she wrote:
Simi said Samuel was afraid.
She stopped.
Crossed out afraid.
Replaced it with:
Simi said Samuel believed something was wrong.
Her pen stopped again.
That sentence had stayed with her since the meeting.
At the time, she had understood it as part of the story Simi had carried for years.
Now the cassette gave those words a different weight.
If Samuel had really believed writing was unsafe, then a recording would have made sense.
Not proof.
But sense.
Temilade closed the notebook.
Her phone rang.
Damilare.
She answered.
“Hello.”
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
“I knew you would be.”
Temilade looked at the notebook.
“I keep thinking about the cassette.”
“So do I.”
“Did Segun find anything else?”
“He’s still checking the inventory.”
“And?”
“There’s something I want you to hear.”
Temilade sat upright.
“The cassette?”
“No.”
She waited.
“Something Simi said.”
Temilade was silent.
Damilare continued.
“Before we found the cassette, what did she tell you about Samuel’s recording?”
Temilade thought for a moment.
“She said he made one.”
“Anything else?”
“He believed writing wasn’t enough.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you where the recording was?”
Temilade frowned.
“No.”
“Did she say who recorded it?”
Temilade frowned.
“Samuel.”
Damilare paused.
“Did she actually say Samuel recorded it?”
Temilade opened her notebook.
She read the words she had written during the meeting.
After a moment, she answered.
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Temilade ran her finger down the page.
“She said Samuel had an old cassette recorder. She said he made a recording because he believed that if something happened to him, the record had to remain.”
There was silence on the line.
“That’s important,” Damilare said.
“Why?”
“Because now we have two separate things.”
“The testimony and the cassette.”
“Exactly.”
Temilade understood.
Simi’s statement was evidence of what she remembered.
The archive notation was documentary evidence that an audio item existed and had been moved.
But they still had to establish whether the two things were connected.
“You’re saying we shouldn’t assume the cassette is Samuel’s recording.”
“Not yet.”
Temilade nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.
“Fair.”
“I’ve asked Segun to trace every reference connected to the audio notation.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The instruction.”
Temilade’s eyes moved to her notebook.
Do not play until the original file is found.
“Yes.”
“That instruction may be more important than the cassette itself.”
“Because someone wrote it.”
“Exactly.”
Temilade thought about that.
“Whoever wrote it knew enough about the material to make a decision about when it should be played.”
“That’s one possibility.”
She caught herself.
“You don’t want me to say knew what they were dealing with.”
“I don’t want either of us to say more than the record supports.”
Temilade smiled faintly.
“You’re becoming irritatingly careful.”
“That’s the job.”
The call ended.
Temilade remained seated.
She looked at the page again.
For years, the story had seemed to begin with Samuel’s disappearance.
Now she was beginning to understand that the disappearance might only have been the point at which the story became invisible.
The records continued.
The people continued.
The decisions continued.
And somewhere among them, there might still be a voice.
The next morning, Temilade arrived at the office early.
Segun was already there.
A stack of documents covered the conference table.
“You’ve been here long?”
“Long enough.”
He pushed one document toward her.
“I found another reference.”
Temilade read it.
Audio material transferred with related records.
She looked up.
“The same notation?”
“The same reference family.”
“Does it identify the audio?”
“No.”
“Does it identify the destination?”
“No.”
“Then what have we gained?”
Segun leaned back.
“Confirmation that the reference appears more than once.”
Temilade considered that.
That was not much.
But it was something.
“Show me.”
He opened the earlier movement register.
“There.”
Then another page.
“And here.”
The wording was not identical in every place, but the reference numbers were connected.
Temilade followed the sequence.
Movement.
Review.
Return.
Transfer.
Then silence.
She looked at Segun.
“Who handled the material?”
“The records don’t say.”
“Who reviewed it?”
“Not identified.”
“Who received it?”
“Not recorded.”
“Who retained the copy?”
Segun shook his head.
“Not recorded.”
Temilade exhaled slowly.
It was becoming a familiar pattern.
The record acknowledged the movement.
Then stopped just before the person who could explain it appeared.
Damilare entered.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He looked at the documents.
“Anything?”
Segun pointed to the cross-reference.
“We have another occurrence.”
Damilare read it.
“Same destination problem?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Then the next question isn’t what happened to the cassette.”
Temilade looked at him.
“What is it?”
“Where the related records went.”
She understood.
The cassette might be one part of a larger movement.
If the audio material travelled with related records, then tracing those records might reveal more about the documentary trail.
“Possibly.”
“Yaba?”
“That’s what the reference suggests.”
Temilade looked down at the papers.
The Yaba matter had begun to feel less like an old case and more like a room with several locked doors.
They had opened one.
Behind it was another.
Damilare gathered the documents.
“We need to be careful with the sequence.”
Temilade nodded.
“First establish the movement.”
“Then the destination.”
“Then whoever received it.”
“Exactly.”
“And only then do we decide what the cassette means.”
Damilare looked at her.
“You’re learning.”
“I’ve had a difficult teacher.”
Segun laughed quietly.
Damilare shook his head.
“Let’s continue tracing the archive references.”
That afternoon, Temilade returned to the notebook.
She wrote a new heading.
THE RECORDING
Underneath, she divided the page.
WHAT WE KNOW
Simi said Samuel made a recording.
She remembered an old cassette recorder.
She said Samuel believed writing was not enough.
An archive inventory contains an entry for Cassette — S.A.
A later notation records that audio material was transferred with related records.
The movement records contain references to review and return, but do not identify the people involved.
WHAT WE DON’T KNOW
Whether S.A.
means Samuel Adebayo.
Whether the cassette is the recording Simi remembered.
Whether the cassette still exists.
Where the audio material was transferred.
Who transferred it.
Who wrote the instruction about not playing it.
Whether the recording was connected to the second file.
Who knew about the recording.
Temilade looked at the list.
For the first time, the uncertainty did not feel like failure.
It felt like discipline.
She had spent too much time wanting the pieces to fit.
Now she needed to let the evidence decide where they belonged.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Damilare.
We have enough references to continue the documentary trace.
She read it twice.
Then another message arrived.
Let’s map the movement before we go any further.
Temilade stared at the screen.
No dramatic revelation.
No missing name.
No sudden answer.
Just another instruction to follow the record.
She called him.
“What do you want to check next?”
“The movement records around the Yaba material.”
“Because of the audio reference?”
“Because the audio material appears to have travelled with related records.”
“And if we trace those?”
“We may learn where the material went.”
“May?”
“May.”
Temilade smiled faintly.
“You really don’t like certainty.”
“I like earned certainty.”
She looked down at her notebook.
“All right.”
The call ended.
Temilade sat quietly for a while.
The recording had changed something.
Not because they had heard it.
They hadn’t.
Not because they knew where it was.
They didn’t.
But because, for the first time, Simi’s memory and the documentary trail had touched the same question without necessarily proving the same answer.
That distinction mattered.
She opened her notebook again.
At the bottom of the page, she wrote:
A voice may survive without a name.
But until the record is verified, it remains a possibility—not an answer.
She closed the notebook.
The next step was to trace the movement of the records.
But before they could find out where the material had gone, she knew there was something else she would have to confront.
Not the cassette.
Not the archive.
Not the missing file.
The possibility that the past had left behind more than documents.
It might have left behind a voice.
And if that voice still existed, sooner or later, they would have to decide whether they were ready to hear it.