The rain had started around midnight. By morning, Lagos felt washed and raw, like a city trying to forget. The streets shimmered with slick puddles, neon signs flickered weakly above shuttered kiosks, and thunder rumbled like something ancient waking from sleep. Elara sat by the window of the safe house, watching the water drip from the roof in lazy rivulets. Her fingers hovered over her phone, scrolling through news headlines that read like funeral verses:
"Bello Legacy Restored: A Father Reclaims His Place"
"New Initiative for National Ethics to Launch Under Ibrahim Bello"
"Was Elara Bello Misled by Rogue Journalists?"
She shut the phone off.
"He's rewriting the story in real time," she muttered.
Kayra, across the room, didn't look up. She was sifting through files on her ancient laptop, each keystroke sounding like a hammer on a coffin.
"He's not rewriting it," she said. "He's weaponizing it. There's a difference."
Elara stood and began pacing, each step tight with fury. "We need something bigger. Something undeniable. The thumb drive's gone, Tife is gone, Halima is missing—but there has to be something else."
Kayra didn't answer immediately. Then: "There is." Elara stopped. Kayra reached into her bag and pulled out a thick folder wrapped in faded leather. "Amara sent this to me months before she died. Said to keep it safe. I didn't even open it until last night."
Inside were hard copies of emails, bank statements, signed letters. And one name repeated over and over: Dr. Folarin Adeyemi.
"Who is he?"
"Used to be the family physician. Left the country suddenly after Amara died. These documents they suggest he was treating someone in the house for trauma, abuse. For months and then he vanished."
Elara grabbed the papers, flipping through with growing urgency. "This... this could break everything. If we find him—"
"Exactly."
They spent the next twenty-four hours tracing leads. Airline logs. Immigration slips. Kayra called in every favor she had. Finally, a whisper surfaced: Dr. Folarin was living in Johannesburg. Under a different name. They booked flights under aliases. Burned SIM cards. Wiped their devices. Elara wore a scarf tight over her head and dark glasses. Kayra carried the folder like it was radioactive. At the airport, they barely spoke. Fear buzzed under Elara's skin like static. As the plane lifted off, she stared out the window, whispered to the clouds:
"This is for you, Amara."
Johannesburg was colder. Greyer. It felt sterile, clinical. A city of locked doors. It took two more days to find him.
Dr. Folarin was living in a modest suburb, under the name "Frank Adeniyi." He opened the door in a sweater and glasses, his eyes hollowed by time and fear. He recognized Elara instantly.
"No," he said, voice brittle. "I left that life behind."
"Then help me destroy it," she replied.
They talked for hours. He confirmed everything; Amara had come to him bruised and frightened. She spoke of whispered threats, late-night visits, broken promises. She had begged him to document everything and he had. Hidden in a lockbox beneath his floorboards was a second set of files: therapy notes, medical photos, voice memos. He handed them over.
"If I give you these, I can never go back," he said.
"Neither can I," Elara whispered.
Back in Lagos, Kayra worked through the night, digitizing everything, backing it all up onto secure clouds and offline drives. Elara watched the screen fill with files. Her hands trembled. Her breath came sharp.
"This is it," she said. "This ends him."
Kayra nodded. "We release it tomorrow. I already booked a press slot with The Daily Truth. Prime hour. Wide reach. "Elara allowed herself, for the first time, to hope.
She didn't sleep that night. Just stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city, letting the storm in her veins still.
Morning came but Kayra didn't. Elara knocked once on her door. No answer. Twice. Nothing.
She opened it. The room was empty.
Laptop? gone, files? gone, clothes? gone. Only a single note on the bed.
"I tried. I'm sorry."
Panic split Elara's chest, She called every contact. Every safe house, nothing. Then her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
A video, she played it. Kayra bound, bloodied, silenced. And behind her? Her father smiling.
"I told you, daughter," he said, voice soft as a hymn. "Some stories must stay buried."
The video ended. Elara dropped the phone, fell to her knees. The files were gone. The evidence erased. Dr. Folarin? Vanished. By evening, the headlines read:
"Kayra MISSING: Authorities Investigate Blogger's Sudden Disappearance"
And beneath it:
"Ibrahim Bello Calls for Calm: 'Let Truth Be Our Guide'"
Elara returned to the safe house but it had been ransacked. Everything was gone even her name felt stolen. She collapsed on the floor, staring at the cracked ceiling. Footsteps behind her. She turned, slow. Khalid stood in the doorway. Pale. Breathless.
"We have to go," he said.
"Why?"
He held up a folded piece of paper. Her name, written in red.
"Because you're next."
They fled into the night. No plan. No allies. No hope. Just fear.
As they disappeared into the alleys of the city, rain falling like knives, Elara whispered:
"This isn't the end."
Khalid looked at her.
"Then what is it?"
She turned back once, toward the skyline of a city that had devoured her sister, her story, her soul.
Her eyes were fire
She said "It's the prologue."