Ifeyinwa drove away from her family home, the glow of her mother's porch light shrinking to a pinprick in her rearview mirror. The air that had felt thick with the scent of jollof rice now smelled of gasoline and rain-slicked asphalt. Her mother's words echoed in her ears, a constant, low-frequency buzz that was far more insistent than the usual whispers of the city. They knew about the gift. They were going to ruin your father's business. You had to tell the lie.
The drive back to her flat in Lekki was a blur of neon signs and flashing headlights. The city was a living, breathing thing, and Ifeyinwa felt its energy coursing through her. It was no longer a beautiful canvas for her architectural designs; it was a complex web of stories, secrets, and lies. And for the first time, she was not just an observer. She was a participant. The echoes from the street were no longer just random ghosts. She began to sort them, to categorize them. The frustrated cry of a woman who had lost her livelihood. The silent despair of a man who had made a deal with a devil. She realized, with a jolt of both fear and clarity, that she was not just hearing the past. She was seeing the patterns.
She parked her car in the sterile, underground lot of her apartment building, the familiar silence of the concrete walls a welcome change from the city's chaotic symphony. Her apartment was a sanctuary, all clean lines and modern furniture, a deliberate rejection of the cluttered, lived-in chaos of her childhood home. But tonight, it felt like a hollow shell. She walked into her living room, her eyes falling on the empty space where the echoes usually hummed. But the silence didn't last long. She pulled out her laptop, the screen a sudden beacon in the dark room, and began to search.
Her first search query was simple: "Nnenna Eze." The results were a mix of social media profiles and old news articles. She scrolled past wedding announcements and birthday posts until she found it: a profile on a professional networking site. Nnenna was a senior journalist at a prominent online magazine, specializing in investigative pieces on urban development and land use. The irony was not lost on Ifeyinwa. While she built the city of the future, her aunt wrote about the forgotten secrets buried beneath its foundations.
Ifeyinwa clicked on Nnenna's profile, her heart thumping in her chest. The echoes from her family, from her mother's desperate pleas, grew louder. This woman, this relative she hadn't seen or spoken to in years, was the key. She was the one who had helped her mother. The one who had navigated the world of the Omololu family and had emerged to tell the story. Or, at least, to help her family survive it.
There was no phone number on the profile, just a professional email address. Ifeyinwa hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She didn't want to seem desperate, or unhinged. She wanted to present a calm, rational front, an architect with a professional inquiry. But this wasn't about business. This was about family. This was about a lie that had torn a piece of her life away and had now returned to haunt her.
She decided to write a brief, professional email. She would start with a simple greeting, mention her mother, and then, carefully, allude to the past without giving too much away. She wrote a draft, then deleted it. She wrote another, then deleted it too. She was an architect, a woman who dealt in facts and figures and concrete plans. This was a world of whispers and shadows, and she felt like a child trying to speak a language she had only just begun to learn.
Finally, she settled on a message that was a mix of formality and a hint of desperation she couldn't hide.
Dear Ms. Eze,
My name is Ifeyinwa Eze. I am Adaora's daughter. I hope you are well.
I am writing to you on a matter of some urgency. It relates to a family issue that took place several years ago, involving the Omololu family. I was told you may have some information that could help.
Please, if you have any time to spare, I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak with you. I can be reached at this email address, or at the number below.
Sincerely,Ifeyinwa Eze
She hit send and sat back in her chair, a sudden emptiness settling over her. She had cast her line, and now all she could do was wait. The silence in her apartment was heavy, filled with a new kind of echo: the sound of a woman waiting for the truth.
The next day, she went to the office, a hollow automaton going through the motions. The renderings for the Lekki project were sharp, as Femi had said, but they felt meaningless now. She looked at the meticulously designed buildings, at the smooth, clean lines, and all she could see were the cracks in the foundation, the secrets buried beneath the surface. The ghosts of the city were louder than ever, the whispers more urgent.
She didn't get a reply that day. Or the next. By the third day, a familiar dread began to creep into her heart. Had Nnenna ignored her? Had she changed her mind? The thought of her mother's warnings—Some truths are too heavy to carry—felt all too real.
On the fourth day, her phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. The name on the screen was simply "Nnenna." Ifeyinwa's heart leaped. She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she answered.
"Hello?"
"Ifeyinwa Eze?" a voice said on the other end. It was a clear, steady voice, with a hint of gravel to it, a voice that sounded like it had seen and heard a great deal. "This is Nnenna. Your email… it was a surprise. A pleasant one, after all this time."
"Yes, it's me," Ifeyinwa said, her voice a little shaky. "Thank you for replying. I didn't know if you would."
"Well, you are Adaora's daughter," Nnenna said, her voice softer now. "I couldn't ignore you. I'm a woman of the city, Ifeyinwa. And the city has a long memory. The whispers from the past… they're all here." The last phrase was a question and a statement at the same time, a silent acknowledgement of a secret they both shared.
"Yes," Ifeyinwa said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They are."
There was a moment of silence, a space filled with a shared understanding. "Listen," Nnenna said, her voice now back to its steady cadence. "I have to be careful. The Omololu family… they have long arms. My profession is a dangerous one. I can't talk over the phone. Not about this. I can meet you."
A wave of relief washed over Ifeyinwa, so strong it almost brought her to her knees. "When? Where?"
"Tomorrow morning. There is a small coffee shop in Lekki, on the waterfront. It's called The Lagoon's Brew. Do you know it?"
Ifeyinwa did. It was a small, unassuming place, nestled between a bustling market and a quiet residential area. The kind of place where people went to escape the city, not to talk about its secrets. It was a perfect spot.
"Yes, I know it," Ifeyinwa said. "I'll be there. Thank you, Nnenna. Thank you so much."
"Don't thank me yet, my dear," Nnenna said, a hint of something darker in her voice. "The truth… it is a heavy thing. And sometimes, it's a dangerous thing. Be careful what you wish for."
The line went dead. Ifeyinwa stood there, the phone in her hand, a new kind of echo buzzing in her mind. Not a ghost from the past, but a promise of a truth to come. She had taken the first step on a path she had no map for, a journey into the heart of a conspiracy that had been buried for years. The echoes were now her guide, and she was ready to follow them, no matter where they led. She felt a profound change within her, a shift from passive architect to active seeker. She was no longer just building a city. She was uncovering its soul. She was ready to face the truth and to finally silence the incessant, humming chorus of the echoes and replace it with a single, clear note of truth. She would not live a lie, not anymore.