Mobola Johnson
The next morning, Lagos was already boiling — both in temperature and tension.
Zainab sat at the back of a keke heading towards Obalende, despite the warning in the note.
She didn’t have a choice.
Her aunt’s diary had mentioned only one name: Musa Abdullahi. The USB was encrypted, the black car had vanished again, and the note hadn’t said not to find him — just not to trust him.
She could manage that.
She wore her hair tucked under a baseball cap and dressed simply: jeans, sneakers, a plain black tee. She blended into the crowd — another commuter with secrets.
Obalende smelled like fried akara and tension. Bus conductors shouted like preachers. Zainab clutched her sling bag tighter.
The address was handwritten on the back of the diary paper: *“Musa Abdullahi, No. 14, Iga Street, Obalende.”
She asked a roadside tailor. He squinted, nodded towards a rusty gate beside a small mosque.
She knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
After a long pause, the gate creaked open.
Musa was older now — older than the photo. Thick grey beard, sun-darkened skin, suspicious eyes.
“Yes?”
“I’m Zainab Adebayo. Dupe’s niece.”
At the mention of the name, he stiffened.
“Follow me.”
He led her into a tiny room stacked with newspapers, files, old radios and more dust than memory. He didn’t offer her a seat.
“She’s dead,” Zainab said quietly.
“I know.”
He lit a cigarette. His hands trembled slightly.
“She told me if anything ever happened… I should find you.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Dupe had a big mouth.”
Then he went silent.
After a few minutes, he opened a drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope. He handed it to her without looking up.
“She made me promise. Never to speak of it. But if you showed up, give you this.”
Zainab opened the envelope slowly.
Inside was a photograph — another black-and-white. Her father. Her aunt. Musa. And…
A man in military uniform.
General Kolapo Sanni.
Zainab gasped. That name wasn’t just familiar — it was on the front page of newspapers recently. Former head of state. Dead ten years. Buried with honors.
Behind the photo: coordinates, a file name (“Babel-Alpha-12”), and a handwritten note:
*“The truth died with Sanni — or so they think.”
Zainab looked up. “What is Project Babel?”
Musa froze.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I already do.”
He stood. “Leave Lagos. Tonight. Before they find you.”
“I’m not leaving. What is Babel?”
“They’ll kill you.”
“I don’t care.”
Musa grabbed her shoulder, eyes fierce now. “You should care. Because if what’s on that USB gets out, you’ll be running from men more powerful than anyone you’ve ever imagined. Generals. Politicians. Businessmen. Your father died protecting it.”
Zainab’s head spun. “So, you do know what’s in it.”
Musa sighed and turned away.
“I knew your father. He wasn’t perfect. But he tried to fix what they started. Babel was their mess. A secret military experiment to monitor — and control — the Nigerian population. It failed. People died. They buried it.”
“And now?”
Musa looked at her, eyes tired. “Someone’s digging it up again.”
Suddenly, the room filled with the sound of screeching tyres.
Zainab darted to the window.
Three men jumped out of a black SUV. Armed.
“They’re here,” Musa said grimly. “Go through the back.”
Zainab hesitated.
Musa pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “A contact. In Ibadan. She knows more. Go!”
She ran. Through the back. Down a narrow alley.
Gunshots rang out behind her.
She didn’t look back.
Next Episode: Zainab finds herself hunted, betrayed, and forced to choose between fleeing or exposing the truth. But who is the mysterious woman in Ibadan — and why does she already know Zainab’s name?
Mobola Johnson is a creative writer and experienced storyteller.
Follow The Journal’s Story Time series on Tuesdays and Saturdays