Mobola Johnson
The rain started just as Zainab locked the front door.
She hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t even taken off her shoes. Her heart was still racing from the message.
“Welcome back. You shouldn’t have come.”
She turned off the lights, peeked through the curtain. The black Toyota was gone.
Lagos hadn’t changed — fast, noisy, and nosy. But this wasn’t just Lagos wahala. Someone had been waiting. Watching.
She placed the USB stick and envelope aside and picked up the old diary. It was leather-bound, worn at the corners. A faint scent of lavender clung to the pages.
“April 12, 2009
He came again today. I told him to leave you alone. He laughed. ‘She’s not ready,’ he said. I don’t trust him. Tayo doesn’t know everything, and that’s the only reason he’s still breathing.”
Zainab sat up straight.
Tayo?
She flipped ahead.
“May 3, 2009
If anything happens to me, tell her to find Musa. He knows what her father left behind. But tell her not to go alone.”
What did my father leave behind?
She remembered him only faintly — the quiet man who used to hum to himself and call her “Zee baby.” He died suddenly when she was 8 — heart attack, they said.
But why would her aunt be writing about him 17 years after his death?
She turned to the back cover. A slip of paper fell out.
A name and number: “Musa Abdullahi – Obalende.”
She grabbed her phone.
No reception.
Of course.
The rain had knocked out the network, or maybe the house just had dead zones. She’d try later.
Then she opened the brown envelope.
Inside was a photo — black and white. Her father… standing beside a younger version of Aunt Dupe… and a third man. Tall, sharp eyes, full beard. On the back of the photo: “They thought we buried it. But not all secrets stay buried.”
Zainab’s chest tightened.
What was “it”?
She powered on her laptop and slotted in the USB stick. A folder opened: “PROJECT BABEL.”
Encrypted files.
She needed a tech person.
She needed answers.
The lights flickered. A knock came at the gate.
Three short raps. Pause. Two more.
She froze.
Nobody knew she was here. Nobody except…
She stepped out slowly, grabbing the pepper spray she carried in her bag. Her aunt’s compound was fenced, but the security light was dead.
She reached the gate and peeked through the hole.
It was a boy. Maybe 14.
Soaked to the bone, holding something in his hand.
She opened the gate slightly.
“Who are you?”
He handed her a piece of paper and turned without a word, running off into the darkness.
She opened the note. A single sentence, typed in red ink:
“Musa is not safe. Do not trust anyone in Obalende.”
Her chest thumped. She turned to lock the gate.
Across the street, the black Toyota was back.
Engine running. Headlights off.
Next Episode: Who is Musa? What is Project Babel? And how deep does this secret go — beyond betrayal, into family, government, or worse?
Mobola Johnson is a creative writer and experienced storyteller