Temilade woke before her alarm.
For several seconds, she lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Then the previous evening returned to her.
Ademola Holdings.
1995.
Thirty years.
And the way Mama Sade had looked at that handwritten note.
Temilade reached for her phone.
A message from Femi was waiting.
You get home?
She typed:
Still alive.
That’s enough.
His reply came almost immediately.
You joke too much.
She smiled despite herself.
Then another message appeared.
Be careful.
Her smile faded.
She stared at the words.
Femi rarely told her to be careful.
At the architecture studio, Temilade tried to concentrate on the drawings in front of her.
She couldn’t.
Every time she looked at a line on the page, her mind returned to the same question.
Why had the name Ademola Holdings affected Mama Sade so deeply?
Her phone rang.
Damilare.
She answered.
“Hello.”
“I found something else in my father’s files.”
Temilade straightened.
“What?”
“I’d rather show you than explain it over the phone.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t meant to.”
“Where are you?”
“My office.”
“Send me the address.”
“I’ll send it now.”
A message arrived.
Then another.
Temilade looked at the second one.
Don’t discuss this with your family yet.
She frowned.
“Why?”
“I don’t know enough to accuse anyone of anything,” Damilare said.
“But some of the reactions yesterday were not ordinary.”
“You noticed that too.”
“I noticed your grandmother’s reaction when Ademola Holdings came up.”
“So did I.”
“That’s why I want to be careful.”
Temilade looked at the drawings on her desk.
“What exactly did you find?”
“A reference to a private agreement connected to the Yaba property.”
“Private agreement?”
“Something that doesn’t appear in the registered title documents.”
Her expression tightened.
“And my family is connected to it?”
“Your family name appears in the supporting records.”
“As owner?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Not as owner.”
“Then what?”
“I’m still tracing that part.”
Temilade was quiet for a moment.
“I’ll come after lunch.”
“All right.”
“And Damilare?”
“Yes?”
“If this has nothing to do with my family, tell me.”
“I will.”
“If it does, tell me that too.”
“I will.”
She ended the call.
For the rest of the morning, the drawings in front of her became increasingly difficult to concentrate on.
Damilare’s office was in an older commercial building on a quieter street.
It was modest.
A narrow corridor.
A few offices.
The smell of paper.
An air conditioner that seemed to be working harder than necessary.
Damilare was standing beside a wooden cabinet when Temilade arrived.
“You found the place.”
“I can read an address.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
She gave him a look.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“You came prepared to interrogate me.”
“I came prepared to see the evidence.”
“Fair enough.”
He opened the cabinet and removed a brown file.
Temilade noticed its age immediately.
The paper had darkened along the edges.
One corner had been folded and straightened again.
It was the kind of file that had spent years being handled carefully and stored badly.
Damilare placed it on the desk.
“This was among my father’s old files.”
“How old?”
“The file itself? Probably more than thirty years. The notes inside are his.”
He opened it.
“My father died in 2009. After his death, some of his older files were moved into storage. I didn’t know this one existed until the Yaba title review brought the property back into the picture.”
Temilade looked at him.
“So the current review is what led you here.”
“Exactly.”
That mattered.
Damilare wasn’t chasing a family mystery out of curiosity.
His professional work had brought the old property back into view, and his father’s records had opened another layer.
He spread several photocopied pages across the desk.
A company name appeared near the top of one page.
Ademola Holdings.
Temilade felt something tighten in her chest.
Damilare noticed.
“That’s the same reaction I had.”
She looked at him.
“You didn’t grow up hearing that name.”
“No.”
“So why did it bother you?”
“Because the name appears in more than one place.”
He moved another sheet towards her.
“This is a reference to an agreement dated 1995.”
She read it.
Then she looked at another document.
“This?”
“A financial schedule.”
She studied the figures.
Several payments had been made on different dates to different people.
“Who are they?”
“I know some of the names. I don’t yet know why they appear together.”
Temilade pointed to one entry.
“This name.”
Damilare nodded.
“That’s the one that concerns your family.”
She looked again.
It was a family name.
Not her own name, but one she recognized.
“What was the person’s role?”
“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”
“You said the records identify the person as a family representative.”
“That’s the wording.”
“Representative of what?”
“I don’t know yet. Possibly a trust arrangement. Possibly a private family agreement. I need the original documents before I can say.”
Temilade sat back.
“So my family did not own the Yaba property.”
“Not according to the registered title.”
“But somebody connected to my family was involved in an agreement concerning it.”
“That’s what the surviving records suggest.”
“Why?”
Damilare looked at the papers.
“That’s the question.”
He turned another page.
A handwritten note appeared in the margin.
Temilade read it.
Do not trust the silence.
She looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Damilare sighed.
“Not yet.”
“Better.”
He allowed himself a brief smile.
Then he became serious.
“My father was careful with files. He didn’t usually make personal notes unless something mattered.”
“Could it simply have been a reminder?”
“It could.”
“But you don’t think it was.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the note was written beside the reference to the private agreement.”
Temilade looked at the document again.
The handwriting suddenly seemed heavier than the ink on the page.
Damilare continued.
“The private agreement wasn’t part of the registered title documents. That means we need to find out who created it, who held it, and whether the original still exists.”
“And if it does?”
“We may understand why my father kept these papers separately.”
Temilade folded her arms.
“Where do we start?”
“Yaba.”
She looked at him.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
“Because I want to check a few things first.”
“What things?”
“Access. Current ownership records. Old survey references. And whether the property is still standing in the same form described in my father’s notes.”
“Fair enough.”
He closed the file.
“There is another reason I’m being careful.”
“What?”
“We don’t know who else is interested in those old records.”
Temilade’s expression changed.
“You think somebody is watching?”
“I think we don’t know enough to assume nobody is.”
She held his gaze.
That was different.
Damilare wasn’t trying to frighten her.
He was reminding her that they were working with incomplete information.
“Then let’s find out,” she said.
Damilare studied her.
“You want to come with me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the records concern my family.”
“That’s one reason.”
“It’s enough.”
“Is it?”
She gave him a small smile.
“You’ve been asking too many lawyer questions.”
“And you’ve been avoiding the architect’s answer.”
She laughed.
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then Damilare said, “All right. Come with me tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“But one condition.”
“What?”
“If I tell you to leave, you leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t yet know what we’re walking into.”
Temilade considered him.
“I’ll leave if your reason makes sense.”
Damilare nodded.
“Fair enough.”
She picked up her handbag.
At the door, she stopped.
“Damilare.”
“Yes?”
“That family name in your father’s file.”
“What about it?”
“Why would my family be connected to something that happened thirty years ago?”
He looked down at the file.
Then back at her.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Temilade nodded.
She walked out.
But as she entered the afternoon traffic, one sentence stayed with her.
Do not trust the silence.
Tomorrow, she was going to Yaba.
And for the first time, she was beginning to wonder whether the people around her were afraid of the past— or afraid of what she might find in it.