Chapter Three: A Name She Couldn’t Ignore
Amara did not reply immediately.
She read Sade’s last message again.
But I know she didn’t leave voluntarily.
The sentence sat on her screen, waiting for a response.
Around her, Lagos continued its usual evening routine. Conductors called out destinations, cars struggled through traffic, and people moved along the roadside with the urgency of those trying to get home before the day ended.
Amara barely noticed any of it.
She typed a response.
Amara: How did you get my number?
She waited.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Finally, Sade replied.
Sade: Someone who works at your company gave it to me.
Amara stared at the message.
Someone from the office?
She looked back towards the building. The black car she had noticed earlier was gone.
Amara: Who?
Sade: I would rather not mention names over the phone.
Amara exhaled.
That was not particularly reassuring.
Amara: I don’t understand why you’re contacting me. I only came across some old documents. I don’t know anything about your sister.
Sade: I understand. I’m not asking you to investigate anything. I just want to know whether her name was there.
Amara hesitated.
She remembered the register. The two entries. The different amounts. The handwritten note beside Mariam’s name.
She also remembered Mr. Okafor asking whether she had removed anything from the folder.
Amara: Yes. I saw her name.
The reply did not come immediately this time.
When it did, it was only four words.
Sade: Thank you for confirming.
Amara waited for another message, but none came.
She locked her phone.
For the first time since discovering the register, she wondered whether she had already involved herself in something she did not understand.
—
The following morning, Amara arrived at work earlier than usual.
She had slept poorly. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered the unfamiliar email, the missing folder and Sade’s messages.
She placed her bag beneath her desk and switched on her computer.
Before opening her assigned files, she searched the internet for Mariam Yusuf and Oke-Ayo.
The results were disappointing.
There were several people with the same name, a few unrelated social media accounts and one old newspaper article whose headline caught her attention.
COMMUNITY PROTESTS OVER UNPAID COMPENSATION IN SOUTH-WESTERN TOWN
The article was dated nine years earlier.
Amara opened it.
The report was brief. Residents of Oke-Ayo had protested over what they described as unpaid compensation following a redevelopment project. Community representatives claimed that several households had been excluded from the payment process.
The company responsible for the project had denied the allegations, insisting that compensation had been processed according to approved records.
There was no mention of Mariam.
Amara scrolled to the bottom.
The report ended with a statement from a company spokesperson.
All outstanding concerns will be addressed through the appropriate channels.
She read the sentence twice.
It sounded familiar.
She searched for the company’s name, then compared it with the name printed on the cover of the old register.
They were connected.
Not directly, perhaps, but enough to make her uncomfortable.
She copied the article’s link and sent it to herself.
Then she closed the browser.
“You’re here early.”
Amara looked up.
It was Tobi, standing beside her desk with a bottle of water in one hand.
“Good morning.”
Tobi pulled out the chair beside her.
“Why do you look like someone who has been awake all night?”
“I slept.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Amara smiled faintly.
Tobi noticed the open document on her screen.
“Is that the Oke-Ayo thing again?”
Amara quickly minimised the browser.
Tobi raised an eyebrow.
“Ah. So it is.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why? Are we discussing classified information now?”
Amara gave her a warning look.
Tobi laughed quietly.
“Okay, okay. I’m listening.”
Amara told her about Sade.
Not everything, but enough.
Tobi’s expression changed when she heard that Mariam’s sister had contacted her.
“How did she even know you were the one handling the files?”
“That’s what I asked.”
“And what did she say?”
“Someone in the company gave her my number.”
Tobi leaned back.
“That’s interesting.”
“Interesting is not the word I would use.”
“Have you replied?”
“I told her I saw Mariam’s name.”
“And?”
“Nothing else.”
Tobi nodded slowly.
“Maybe you should leave it there.”
Amara looked at her.
“You think I should?”
“I think you should be careful. You work there. You don’t know what happened nine years ago, and you don’t know who is telling you the truth.”
Amara said nothing.
Tobi was not wrong.
But there was something about Sade’s message that she could not dismiss.
They told us to stop looking for her years ago.
Who were they?
And why had they wanted the family to stop searching?
—
At 10:43 a.m., Mr. Okafor sent a message asking Amara to come to his office.
She knocked twice before entering.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning. Sit down.”
He was reviewing a document on his computer. He continued reading for a few seconds before turning towards her.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you discussed the Oke-Ayo records with anyone?”
Amara felt her stomach tighten.
“Not really, sir.”
He looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“I mentioned the name to a friend. Nothing about the documents.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Someone outside the company.”
He nodded slowly.
“Amara, old records can be misleading. They contain incomplete information, disputed claims and matters that were settled years ago.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. I would advise you not to draw conclusions from documents you have not been authorised to interpret.”
She nodded.
He turned back to his computer.
“That will be all.”
Amara stood.
She had almost reached the door when he spoke again.
“One more thing.”
She turned.
“Did anyone contact you about the records?”
For a second, she considered telling him everything.
Then she remembered the email.
Do not ask anyone in this office about her.
“No, sir,” she replied.
Mr. Okafor held her gaze for a moment.
“All right.”
She left.
Her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
She had just lied to her employer.
And she was beginning to understand why.
—
At lunchtime, Amara received another message.
Sade: Would you be willing to meet me?
Amara stared at it.
She typed, deleted and typed again.
Amara: Why do you want to meet me?
Sade: Because there are things I cannot explain properly over messages.
Amara: I don’t think I can help you.
Sade: You may be the first person in years who has seen her name in an official document.
Amara stopped typing.
Another message followed.
Sade: I have been trying to find someone who worked on that project. Nobody wants to talk.
Amara looked towards the office entrance.
She thought about Mr. Okafor’s questions.
She thought about the stranger holding the folder.
And she thought about the two different amounts recorded against Mariam’s name.
Amara: Where?
Sade sent an address in Yaba.
It was a small café not far from the main road.
Sade: Tomorrow. 4 p.m. If you are comfortable with that.
Amara did not respond immediately.
She had no reason to trust Sade.
But she had even less reason to believe the company was telling her the whole story.
Finally, she typed:
Amara: I’ll come.
—
That evening, Amara sat on her bed with her laptop open.
She had returned to the old newspaper article and was reading it again.
This time, she noticed a name she had overlooked earlier.
The article quoted a community representative who had questioned the compensation figures.
His name was Adewale Yusuf.
Amara paused.
Yusuf.
She opened another tab and searched the name alongside Oke-Ayo.
A second article appeared.
It was shorter, published a few weeks after the first.
FORMER COMMUNITY REPRESENTATIVE QUESTIONS REDEVELOPMENT PAYMENT RECORDS
The report stated that Adewale Yusuf had accused the project committee of excluding several affected households from the compensation register.
The company denied the accusation.
There was no further information about him.
Amara leaned closer to the screen.
Could he be related to Mariam?
She opened the first article again and read the date.
Nine years.
Nine years since the protests.
Nine years since the payments were supposedly made.
Nine years since Mariam disappeared.
Her phone vibrated.
A new message.
It was from Sade.
Sade: One more thing. Please don’t mention my name to anyone at your office.
Amara stared at the screen.
She had already received a similar warning from an unknown sender.
Except this time, the warning came from the family of the missing woman.
She typed a question.
Amara: Why?
Sade’s response took almost five minutes.
Sade: Because the last person who tried to help us lost his job.
Amara read it again.
Then she put her phone down.
For the first time, she considered cancelling the meeting.
But she knew she probably wouldn’t.
Tomorrow, at four o’clock, she would meet Mariam Yusuf’s sister.
And she had a feeling that the answers waiting for her would raise more questions than they settled.
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