“Ẹni tí ó bá fẹ́ dá igi ro, ó gbọ́dọ̀ bẹ̀rẹ̀ rẹ̀ ní kókó rẹ̀.”
He who would bring down a tree must begin at its roots.
Temilade woke before her alarm.
For several seconds, she stared at the ceiling, trying to remember why her chest felt heavy.
Then she remembered Yaba.
The old property.
Ademola Holdings.
Samuel Adebayo.
And Kunle Akinwale’s words.
Some things are better left in the past.
She reached for her phone.
Three missed calls.
One from Femi.
One from an unknown number.
And one from Bolanle.
She called Bolanle first.
The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Temilade?”
“Good morning, Aunty.”
“Good morning, my dear.”
There was a pause.
“You went to Yaba.”
It wasn’t a question.
Temilade sat up.
“How did you know?”
“Your mother told me.”
“My mother?”
“Your mother knows everything that concerns this family.”
Temilade frowned.
“I found something yesterday.”
Bolanle was silent.
“Something about the property,” Temilade continued.
“Something connected to 1995.”
Another silence.
“Aunty Bolanle?”
“Yes.”
“What happened in 1995?”
Bolanle exhaled slowly.
“Some things are better left alone.”
Temilade closed her eyes.
“That is exactly what Mr. Akinwale said.”
Bolanle said nothing.
“Aunty, what happened?”
“Not everything that is hidden is waiting to be found.”
“And not everything that is hidden should remain hidden.”
Bolanle’s breathing changed.
“Please, my dear.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I am not afraid.”
“You sound afraid.”
“I said I’m not.”
The sharpness in Bolanle’s voice surprised her.
Then it softened.
“Please, Temilade. Let the matter rest.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain.”
“Then tell me what you remember.”
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
Temilade stared at the screen.
Bolanle had not answered her question.
But she had confirmed something more important.
She remembered.
And she was afraid of what Temilade might uncover.
At the architecture studio, Temilade tried to concentrate.
A client was standing beside her desk, pointing at a set of drawings.
“I want one more floor.”
Temilade looked at the plans.
“That will affect the structural design.”
“Can the staircase be moved?”
“We can review it.”
“I don’t want a review. I want it changed.”
Temilade looked up.
“We’ll review the structural implications and get back to you.”
The man frowned.
“Architect, it’s just one staircase.”
Temilade smiled politely.
“People think buildings are furniture.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
After the client left, she leaned back in her chair.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Damilare.
Can you meet me this afternoon?
A second message followed.
I found something we should discuss in person.
Temilade stared at the screen.
She typed:
Where?
His reply came almost immediately.
My office.
3 p.m.
Damilare was waiting when she arrived.
Several papers were spread across his desk.
There was also a photograph.
He pushed it toward her.
Temilade picked it up.
Four adults stood outside the Yaba property.
The photograph was faded, but the faces were still visible.
She recognized Samuel Adebayo from the older photograph she had seen in the documents.
Beside him stood Tunde.
The third person was a woman.
“Mrs. Akinwale?”
Damilare nodded.
“And the fourth?”
“I don’t know.”
Temilade turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
December 1995.
Below it:
Before everything changed.
She looked at Damilare.
“Where did you get this?”
“From my father’s files.”
“Did he take the photograph?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked again at the handwriting.
“Is this his?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I know my father’s handwriting.”
Damilare sat back.
“That’s what makes this interesting.”
Temilade placed the photograph on the desk.
“What do you think it means?”
“I think my father knew more than he ever told me.”
“How much did your father know?”
“I don’t know.”
He paused.
“But I think he was working from fragments.”
“Fragments?”
“Different people had different pieces of the story.”
Temilade looked at the photograph again.
“And your father was trying to put them together?”
“Maybe.”
“What about the title history?”
Damilare opened another file.
“The transactions after 1995 aren’t clean.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are references to transactions whose supporting documents are missing.”
“Missing?”
“Or kept somewhere else.”
Temilade frowned.
“You think they were deliberately removed?”
“I don’t know.”
Damilare tapped the photograph.
“But never assume a missing document was lost.”
Temilade looked at him.
“Why?”
“My father taught me to read documents twice.”
“How?”
“First for what they say.”
He paused.
“Second for what they’re avoiding.”
Temilade said nothing.
Damilare’s phone rang.
He checked the screen.
“It’s Segun.”
He answered.
“Hello?”
He listened.
His expression changed.
“Are you sure?”
Another pause.
“Where did you find it?”
He listened again.
“All right. We’ll come.”
He ended the call.
Temilade watched him.
“What happened?”
“Segun found another reference to the Yaba transaction.”
“Where?”
“In some papers Mrs. Akinwale returned years ago to my father.”
“What kind of reference?”
“He didn’t say.”
Damilare picked up his keys.
“Let’s go.”
Segun’s office was small and crowded with files.
He pulled out a thin folder.
“I found these among some of the papers your father kept,” he said.
Damilare opened it.
Copies of payment instructions.
Correspondence.
Dates from December 1995.
Temilade leaned closer.
“What are we looking at?”
“A trail,” Segun said.
He handed Damilare another sheet.
“This is a statement Mrs. Akinwale made in 1996.”
Damilare read.
Temilade watched his eyes move across the page.
“What does it say?”
Damilare handed it to her.
Temilade read the statement.
One sentence caught her attention.
A second set of records was referred to during the meeting.
I did not see the originals.
She looked up.
“Second set of records?”
Segun nodded.
“She said she believed they were being kept separately.”
“By whom?”
“She didn’t know.”
“Did she explain why?”
“She wanted a record of what she remembered.”
Temilade looked back at the statement.
“What happened to her?”
Segun hesitated.
“She became afraid.”
“Of what?”
“She never said.”
Damilare looked at him.
“Did she leave anything else?”
Segun reached into the file and pulled out a handwritten note.
He placed it on the desk.
Temilade read it.
If they ask about the second file, say you never saw it.
She looked at Damilare.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don’t know,” Segun said.
“Was it in your father’s files?”
“Yes.”
“But not with the statement?”
“No.”
Temilade felt a chill.
“Then why was it there?”
Nobody answered.
They left the office just before sunset.
For several minutes, neither Temilade nor Damilare spoke.
“The second file,” Temilade finally said.
“Yes.”
“What do you think it contains?”
“Evidence.”
“Of the money?”
“Possibly.”
“Or?”
Damilare looked at her.
“Something important enough for somebody to warn a witness to deny seeing it.”
Temilade’s expression hardened.
“We need to find Mrs. Akinwale.”
“Yes.”
“Before whoever frightened her gets there first.”
Damilare nodded.
“You think someone is still watching?”
“I think somebody has been watching for a very long time.”
They reached the car.
Temilade stopped before opening the door.
“What about the photograph?”
“What about it?”
“Why did your father keep it?”
Damilare looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
“There you go again.”
He smiled faintly.
But neither of them found it funny.
Across Lagos, Kunle Akinwale sat alone in his office.
The building outside was quiet.
On his desk was a development model for the proposed Yaba project.
He studied it for a long moment.
Then he opened a drawer.
Inside was a small envelope.
He removed a photograph.
It showed the same property.
The same period.
The same four people.
But it was not the same photograph Damilare had found.
Kunle stared at the fourth man.
His father.
He looked away.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“How much do they know?”
He listened.
“About the second file?”
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
He listened again.
“Don’t do anything.”
His voice hardened.
“If they are looking for old records, let them look.”
He ended the call.
For several seconds, he remained still.
Then he looked again at the photograph.
His father had been there.
That much he knew.
What he did not know was how much his father had understood.
Or what he had chosen to keep from the family.
That night, Temilade was preparing dinner when her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came through.
“You went to Yaba yesterday.”
Temilade froze.
“Who is this?”
“You should stop asking questions about that property.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re opening.”
“Then tell me.”
Silence.
“You think those old papers are going to tell you the truth?”
“Who are you?”
The line went dead.
Temilade slowly lowered the phone.
The apartment suddenly felt smaller.
She looked toward the window.
Nothing.
Just the lights of Lagos beyond the glass.
She thought about Bolanle.
The photograph.
The second file.
The handwritten warning.
The four people who had stood together in 1995.
And the question that had begun everything.
What happened in 1995?
Now there was another question.
Who was afraid of what she might discover?
Why had they waited thirty-one years to warn her?
Somewhere in Lagos, somebody knew she was looking.
Somebody knew where she had been.
And somewhere between an old property, a missing file, and a photograph from 1995, the silence had begun to crack.
The web was no longer invisible.
It was beginning to show its shape.