The next morning, Banana Island was drenched in golden heat, the kind that stuck to your skin and made your thoughts slower, heavier. But inside the Bello mansion, the air was always cold, controlled, like everything her father touched. Elara sat across from Hajiya Sa'adatu in the sunroom, where the windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Her mother was slicing mangoes in perfect cubes, her gold bangles chiming softly with every movement.
"How long do you plan to stay?" she asked without looking up.
Elara shrugged. "Long enough."
Her mother's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You know your father has a schedule. He likes… order."
"Even in grief?" Elara replied quietly.
The knife paused midair.
"You never cried for her," Elara added.
Her mother's expression didn't change, but her hand trembled slightly as she placed a mango cube in a porcelain dish.
"Some grief is private," she said.
"And some is just buried."
Elara's first stop was Amara's room. It had been redecorated. Gone were the walls of sketches and poetry. Gone was the sunflower quilt, the Polaroids, the mess. The room was now a sterile guest suite. Gray curtains. Pale blue sheets. Nothing personal. But Elara remembered, as she walked to the closet and opened it slowly. Inside, buried beneath folded linens, was a shoe box,inside it was a flash drive, a broken silver necklace, and a key. Amara's key. She pocketed the drive, then slid the necklace into her palm. It was a tiny bird in a cage. A strange gift. A cruel metaphor. Her sister had worn it the day before she died. The drive was encrypted, but Elara wasn't helpless. She still had access to her old laptop, the one she kept hidden in the back of her old art supply cabinet. She plugged in the drive. The screen blinked. A folder appeared: "THE RECORD." Inside: dozens of audio files and voice memos ofAmara's voice.
"It's not just girls. It's men too. They come to him with debts, addictions, secrets… and he offers them a way out. And then? He makes them pay in shame. In silence. Some disappear. Some take their own lives. All of them… broken."
"They say it's success. That our name opens doors. But the doors are red, and there's blood beneath the carpets."
Elara sat back, heart pounding. She had suspected and now she had proof.
That night, she found Khalid alone in the media room, watching an old thriller on mute.
"You knew about this," she said.
He didn't pretend. "I saw the messages Amara left. On her burner phone. Before she died."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He swallowed. "Because I'm scared."
"You're not a child anymore."
"I'm seventeen, Elara. And he's our father. People disappear around him."
She sat beside him.
"I think Amara left us a trail. She was planning something before she… left."
He looked over, eyes wary. "You want to go after him?"
"I want to expose him. I want the world to see who he really is."
Khalid hesitated. "He controls everything. The police. The politicians. Even some journalists. If you try—"
"He didn't silence Amara," she cut in, "just twisted her into silencing herself."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Khalid nodded once.
"I'll help you."
The next day, Elara visited an old friend, Kayra.A journalist-turned-blogger who had nothing left to lose. They met at a small café in Surulere — far from the Belleau spotlight. Kayra had aged, but her eyes were still sharp, dangerous.
"Elara Bello," she said, sipping kunu like it was whiskey. "When I heard you were back, I thought, finally another scandal."
"I have a story," Elara said, sliding a flash drive across the table.
Kayra's eyebrows lifted. "This isn't a small story, is it?"
"It's the real one."
"And your father?"
Elara leaned forward. "He's built a reputation on silence. I'm done being quiet."
Kayra smiled.
"Good. But if we're doing this, no turning back."
"I never turned back," Elara said. "I just took the long way here."
By nightfall, the drive had been duplicated. The files uploaded to a secure server. Elara was beginning to feel it — the shift,the fear. The truth pressing against the family's perfect image like a crack in glass. But her father was already one step ahead. When she returned home, two men in black kaftans were sitting in the living room. Security, she was told.
"New measures," her father said. "We must protect what we've built."
He looked at her carefully. "Especially now that enemies are circling."
Elara smiled tightly. "Maybe the enemies were always inside."
His eyes didn't blink. "Daughter, don't make me choose between the truth and peace."
"You already did," she replied, and walked away.
That night, someone slipped a note under her door. No signature, no handwriting, just one sentence:
You're digging in a graveyard. Be careful what you unearth.