The name the old mechanic had given her was a lifeline, a new beginning after so many dead ends. It was a common name, one that would make her search nearly impossible if she had to sift through the city's millions. But with the bar as a starting point, she had a chance. The sun was a weary orange ball hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows as Ifeyinwa drove toward the location the mechanic had given her. It was in a part of Lagos she rarely visited, an area where the new, polished facades of the city gave way to the gritty, unvarnished reality of its underbelly.
The bar was tucked away on a side street, a small, unassuming place with a faded sign that read "The Local." The music from within was a thumping, bass-heavy beat that vibrated through the pavement. The air was thick with the smells of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and something vaguely metallic. It was a place where people came to forget, not to remember. But Ifeyinwa knew that in a city with a memory as long as Lagos, even places of forgetting had ghosts.
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The music was louder inside, a wall of sound that hit her in the face. The interior was dim, lit only by a few flickering fluorescent lights and the pale glow of a television screen in the corner. The place was packed with a mix of young men and old men, their faces a blur of laughter, frustration, and quiet desperation. The echoes here were different. They weren't the gentle whispers of history she was used to. They were raw, loud, and filled with a cacophony of voices. A man was shouting at a television screen, a woman was crying in a corner, and a group of young men were arguing over a game of cards. The noise was overwhelming.
Ifeyinwa stood for a moment, her mind reeling, her senses overwhelmed. She was an architect of order, of clean lines and deliberate spaces. This place was a chaotic masterpiece of human emotion, and she felt completely out of her element. She walked to the bar, her body a beacon of polished discomfort in a sea of raw humanity. The bartender, a burly man with a face like a weathered map, looked at her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "What can I get you?" he said, his voice a low growl.
"I'm looking for someone," Ifeyinwa said, her voice barely a whisper in the din. "A man. He goes by the name of 'Segun.'" She had decided to use the name the old mechanic had given her, a common name, a name that would not draw too much attention. The bartender's eyes narrowed. "Many Seguns in this city, my dear," he said, the same words the old mechanic had used. "We don't keep track of who comes and goes."
Ifeyinwa knew this was a test. She had to show him she was not a threat, that she was one of them, a person who had been wronged by the city's power brokers. "He used to work for a construction company," she said, her voice gaining a new kind of confidence. "Omololu Construction. He has a tattoo on his arm, the Apoo symbol." The mention of the symbol, a thing so personal and private, was a calculated risk. It showed the bartender that she was not just an outsider with a casual question. She was someone who knew things. The bartender's face shifted, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He poured her a glass of water, a silent truce. "He comes and goes," he said, his voice a low growl. "He sits in the back. But he doesn't talk to strangers."
Ifeyinwa thanked him and walked toward the back of the bar, the echoes growing louder with every step. She saw a man sitting alone at a small, round table in the darkest corner of the bar. He was hunched over a half-empty glass, his shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat. She couldn't see his face, but she knew it was him. She could feel his fear, a cold knot of dread that was a new kind of echo she had never felt before.
She sat down opposite him, the wooden chair scraping against the concrete floor. He didn't look up. "Dayo," she said, her voice soft. His head shot up, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. "Who are you?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "How do you know my name?" His eyes were like a startled deer, darting around the room, as if looking for a way out.
"My name is Ifeyinwa," she said, her voice steady. "I'm a victim of the Omololus. My family too." The word victim seemed to have a powerful effect on him. His tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, and his eyes, which had been so guarded, now held a flicker of curiosity. "They told me my family would disappear," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "They showed me a photograph of my wife and my son. They told me I could save them if I did what they wanted."
Ifeyinwa nodded, her heart aching for this broken man. "I know," she said. "I can hear it. I can hear your fear, your pain. It's an echo." He looked at her, his eyes filled with disbelief. "An echo?" he whispered. "Yes," she said. "The echoes of the city. The voices of the past. The truth. I can hear it." She told him about Nonso, about the lie her mother had told, about the conspiracy that had taken his family's peace and her family's name. She spoke for a long time, weaving a tapestry of her family's pain and his own.
When she was finished, Dayo sat in silence, tears streaming down his face. "I've been a ghost," he said, his voice a low sob. "I've been running from myself. They took my name. They took my life." Ifeyinwa reached across the table and placed her hand on his. "You're not a ghost, Dayo," she said, her voice soft and firm. "You're a witness. And a witness has a voice." He looked at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes. For the first time in five years, he had been seen. For the first time in five years, he had a voice.