By the time Bayo and Tope reached Mushin that afternoon, the heat had settled heavily over the streets.
They checked the address Kunle had given them first.
The building was older than Bayo expected, squeezed between newer structures that had gradually swallowed whatever space the original property once had.
A provision seller outside pointed them toward a small café a short distance away.
“Sani dey go there sometimes,” the man said.
“Afternoon mostly.”
They thanked him and walked across.
The café was small, noisy, and crowded enough to make private conversation difficult.
A television mounted above the counter played a football programme while plates and cups moved constantly between tables.
Sani was already there.
He looked about forty-six, lean and weathered, with the cautious expression of someone who had spent years learning that information could sometimes become a problem.
Kunle had warned them he might not want to talk.
Bayo kept his introduction simple.
“We’re not looking for trouble,” he said.
“We just want to understand some old transport records.”
Sani studied him.
“Which records?”
“Old Lagos North movements.
Some routes.
Some vehicles.”
Sani looked at Tope, then back at Bayo.
“You people are from the government?”
“No.”
“Company?”
“I’m a contractor.”
Sani leaned back.
“Contractor asking about old transport?”
Bayo gave a small nod.
“Some of the paperwork doesn’t match what people remember happening.”
Sani was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Paperwork and road are two different things sometimes.”
Tope opened her notebook.
“That is exactly why we’re here.”
Sani looked at the notebook but did not object.
He had worked around transportation for more than fifteen years.
He started when he was about thirty, mostly driving and moving industrial loads between different locations around Lagos.
“I drove those routes,” he said.
Bayo looked up.
“Which routes?”
“Apapa to the waterfront.
Then Elegushi.
Then Ikorodu.”
He paused.
“Sometimes the order changed.”
“Did you drive all three yourself?”
“Yes.”
That answered one question clearly.
Sani described the old movements without trying to make them sound more important than they were.
Trucks were collected from Apapa, moved toward the waterfront, sometimes stopped at another location, and eventually taken toward Ikorodu.
At Ikorodu, drivers could wait one or two days.
“Wait for what?” Tope asked.
“Release.”
“Who released the vehicle?”
Sani shook his head.
“Not always the same person.”
Bayo let the answer sit.
“What about Adeyemi?”
Sani’s expression changed slightly.
“Adeyemi?”
“Yes.
A.
Adeyemi.”
“I remember him around the movement side.”
“What did he do?”
“Gave instructions sometimes.
Checked things.
Followed up on movement.”
“Was he with Crestline?”
Sani shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Government?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Did he personally release the vehicles?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Sani hesitated.
“There was another man.”
Bayo looked at him.
“What, man?”
“What office?”
“I don’t know.”
Sani rubbed his thumb against the edge of the table.
“He checked the papers.
Vehicle number.
Delivery papers.
Route papers.
Everything.”
Tope looked at Bayo.
“The brown-folder man?”
Sani’s eyes moved to her.
“You know about him?”
“Someone mentioned a man who carried a brown folder.”
Sani nodded slowly.
“Yes.
He carried one.”
“Was it always the same man?”
“As far as I remember.”
“What did he do?”
“He checked everything.
Sometimes gave instructions.”
“Did he work for Crestline?”
“I don’t know.”
“Harbourline?”
Another shake of the head.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know who employed him?”
“No.”
Bayo leaned back.
He had learned enough over the years to recognise the difference between uncertainty and avoidance.
Sani appeared genuinely unwilling to claim what he did not know.
“What happened at Ikorodu?” Bayo asked.
“We waited.”
“For how long?”
“Sometimes one day.
Sometimes two.”
“Why?”
“Papers.”
“What was wrong with them?”
“Sometimes incomplete.
Sometimes somebody had to confirm something.”
“Who?”
Sani shrugged.
“Different people.”
Tope asked, “And after Ikorodu?”
Sani looked toward the television.
“Marina.”
Bayo’s attention sharpened.
“You went to Marina?”
“Once.
Maybe twice.”
“What happened there?”
“One time, we were told to go there after Ikorodu.”
“Who told you?”
“The brown-folder man”.
“The same man?”
Sani nodded.
“He was there before.
He checked the vehicle and checked the papers.”
“Did you see anything being unloaded?”
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you what the final destination was?”
“No.”
“What were you told to do?”
“Leave.”
“Leave for where?”
Sani looked at him.
“That was the problem.”
Bayo waited.
Sani continued.
“Sometimes the instructions changed.
Company names changed.
Destinations changed.
The person giving the instruction changed.”
Tope wrote quickly.
“And the paperwork?”
Sani gave a tired smile.
“Sometimes the company on the paper wasn’t the company that hired the truck.”
Bayo looked at him carefully.
“Do you remember which companies?”
“Crestline.”
“Which Crestline?” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Sani shook his head.
“There were different names.
I don’t remember the full names.”
Bayo nodded.
“That is fine.”
Sani looked relieved.
“We don’t want you to guess.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The television commentator shouted about a missed chance on the football programme.
Sani’s phone vibrated on the table.
He looked at the screen.
“Sorry.”
He stood.
“I have to go.”
Bayo didn’t stop him.
“Thank you for talking to us.”
Sani nodded once and walked out.
Tope watched him through the glass as he disappeared into the street.
“He knows more,” she said.
“Probably.”
“Do you think he’ll tell us?”
“I don’t know.”
They left the café a few minutes later.
Outside, Mushin moved around them as if their conversation had never happened.
People crossed the road between vehicles.
A danfo conductor called for passengers.
A woman balanced a tray of goods against the noise of traffic.
Bayo stood beside the car.
“He confirmed Marina,” Tope said.
“He confirmed that he went there.”
“And the brown-folder man was real.”
“Yes.”
“But we still don’t know who he worked for.”
Bayo nodded.
“That matters.”
They got into the car.
As Tope started the engine, Bayo’s phone vibrated.
A message from the bank.
ADDITIONAL DOCUMENTATION REQUIRED — HISTORICAL PAYMENT REFERENCE.
He read it twice.
Tope glanced across.
“What is it?”
“The bank.”
He showed her the screen.
“They want the original payment instruction and supporting documents connected to the old reference.”
“Do we have them?”
“No.”
“The archive might.”
“Maybe.”
Bayo looked through the windscreen.
He did not connect the bank request to Sani’s testimony.
It could still be an ordinary compliance review.
But the timing made it another problem that needed attention.
His phone vibrated again.
This time, it was a message from Kunle.
Bayo opened it.
SANI CALLED ME AFTER YOU LEFT.
A second message arrived.
HE SAYS HE REMEMBERS ANOTHER NAME.
Bayo stared at the screen.
Tope noticed his expression.
“What name?”
“He didn’t say.”
She waited.
“Kunle says Sani remembers another name.”
“Did he give it to him?”
“Not yet.”
Bayo put the phone down.
Maybe Sani had remembered something.
Maybe he had simply remembered another detail and wasn’t ready to say it.
Either way, there was no point guessing.
He looked at the road ahead.
The investigation had begun with documents.
Then it had moved to vehicles.
Now the people who had actually moved those vehicles were beginning to speak.
And each voice seemed to open another door.
Bayo did not know what the new name meant yet.
But he knew one thing.
Soon, they would have to find out.