We left Enugu to Badagry in search of my so call inheritance.
Badagry smelled like salt and smoke.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted corn, wet sand, and memories that refused to fade.
We arrived before noon just me and Chinedu, a small duffel bag, and the address scribbled on the back of my father's will. The ride from Enugu had been long and silent, but inside me, a storm raged.
The compound sat on the edge of a quiet street, just behind a crumbling colonial church. An old iron gate creaked open when I pushed it.
There it was.
A one storey house, roof rusted, paint peeling, but still standing like it had been waiting all this time.
Waiting for me.
We stepped inside.
Dust floated in the air like ghosts. The living room was bare just a broken armchair, a clock that had stopped at 3:17, and a photograph on the floor.
I bent down and picked it up.
My father.
Younger, smiling. With a woman I did not know.
And a baby in his arms.
"This is not your mum," Chinedu said, peering at the picture.
I shook my head. "No. She would have told me."
I flipped the photo. On the back, in faded ink:
"For the daughter I could not raise forgive me."
My throat tightened.
He had been hiding a second life.
Or maybe i had been the secret all along.
The bedroom was cleaner. A thin mattress. A wooden chest at the corner.
Chinedu opened it carefully.
Inside were bundles of old notebooks, a black Bible, and a sealed envelope addressed to Miss Tomiwa Adebayo.
With trembling hands, i opened it.
If you are reading this, i am gone and I am sorry.
I failed your mother, i failed you, i never stopped loving either of you, but fear made me a coward.
This house is yours. No papers, no noise. Just a place to start again.
You may hear things stories about me, about your birth, about what I did and did not do. Believe what you must but know this
I always watched over you from afar.
Forgive me.
M. Adebayo
Tears slipped down my cheeks.
Not loud sobs just silent grief, pouring out in rivulets.
Chinedu did not say anything. He just pulled me into his arms and let me cry.
Because sometimes, silence is the only comfort big enough for pain.
That evening, we sat on the back porch facing the sea.
The sky bled orange and pink, waves kissing the shore like they had a secret to tell.
"This place is beautiful," Chinedu said.
"It is."
"Are you going to stay?"
I looked out at the water, thinking of my mother in Lagos, of Ifeoma in Enugu, of the woman Mrs. Odu still searching for me.
"I don't know. But I want to know who that woman in the photo was."
"You think she is still alive?"
"I don't know that either."
Later that night, while cleaning the drawers, I found something strange a SIM card wrapped in a tissue paper, taped to the back of a drawer.
I held it up. "You think this still works?"
Chinedu frowned. "Let's find out."
We inserted it into his backup phone.
Two missed messages.
Just two.
The first was from three years ago.
"I found her the girl, she is alive."
The second was a voice note.
My fingers hovered over the play button.
Chinedu touched my hand. "You sure?"
I nodded.
I pressed play.
A man's voice, shaky and urgent:
"They are watching me. I don't know how long I have if she ever finds this tell her not to trust anyone near that woman not even the staff they will come for her once they know she is alive."
Silence.
End of message.
We sat in complete stillness.
"Someone knew you were alive long before all this," Chinedu whispered.
"And they kept it quiet."
I turned to him.
"I think I need to find out who that woman in the photo was and what Mrs. Odu is really hiding."
He nodded. "Then we follow the truth even if it burns."
And deep in my bones, i knew
This story was not over.
In fact, it was just beginning.