Lagos had never known silence, not even in mourning. Its chaos was a lullaby, its noise a hymn. But on this night, something deeper hummed beneath the noise, a kind of hush that crept between sirens and horns, weaving itself through streets heavy with secrets and soot. Something was coming. Or perhaps, it had already arrived.
Adesuwa stood at the edge of Obalende bridge, a cigarette balanced between her lips, unlit. The lighter trembled in her hand, not from cold but from the weight of what she had learned. The pages in her coat pocket, taken from Ajanaku's vault, whispered like spirits against her thigh.
She hadn't slept in two days.
Behind her, the city moved. Below, the cars bled lights into the lagoon's ink. Somewhere in the distance, a fire smoldered, no alarms, no help. Just smoke. Always smoke.
"Any reason you called me out here?" A familiar voice emerged behind her, rough like gravel, yet steady as iron.
Dapo.
She didn't turn. "Have you ever heard of Operation Clayfoot?"
A beat of silence.
Then, "Yeah. A rumor. One of those military ghosts that never made it into the papers."
She finally turned to him. His beard was thicker now, his eyes harder. Not the Dapo she met in Bariga. This one had seen too much.
"It's not a rumor," she said, pulling the pages from her pocket and handing them to him. "They buried it beneath years of noise. But it's real. And it's why The Circle has survived this long."
Dapo's eyes scanned the papers, the tremble in his hand betraying his usual calm. "This... this is a kill list."
She nodded. "A preemptive purge. Journalists. Activists. Even two pastors. All before the democratic handover in 2007. They silenced anyone who could trace the bloodline of corruption."
He looked up at her. "Why give this to me?"
"Because you're the only one I know who won't sell it or die for it."
The city growled behind them, engines rumbling like war drums. Somewhere, a glass shattered. Somewhere else, a man screamed.
Dapo folded the pages. "We need to move. If this is out... you're already marked."
She dropped the lighter, letting it fall into the water. "I've been marked since the day I picked up a pen."
In a compound in Dolphin Estate, Ireti Omolola adjusted the cuffs of her white linen blouse. Her face was bare, no makeup, no lies. Before her, The Circle sat in full.
Ajanaku was not among them.
"He's gone underground," said Chief Molade, his cane tapping against the tile like a metronome. "Rumors say he fled to Cotonou. Others say he never left Marina."
Ireti's eyes didn't blink. "He's in the city. Hiding in plain sight."
Senator Okonkwo laughed. "And you know this how?"
"Because rats don't swim. He's built too much in Lagos to leave it."
She pulled a remote from her blazer pocket and clicked. A projection flared to life against the wall: photographs, documents, and ledgers.
"This is our rot. Every transfer, every silent payout, every person buried without headlines. Ajanaku collected everything. And he stored it not in some offshore bank but in a crypt beneath his abandoned church in Makoko."
The room grew silent.
"If those documents get out," Molade whispered, "it's not just us. It's everyone from the palace to Abuja."
"Then we stop them," Ireti said. "Burn Makoko to the ground if you have to. No loose ends."
Okonkwo frowned. "And the journalist girl?"
"Adesuwa is not just a journalist anymore. She's a symbol. We kill her, we create a martyr. We erase her, we win."
Makoko was not a place for ghosts. But on this night, it welcomed them.
Dapo and Adesuwa moved through the stilts in silence, feet barely making a sound over the wooden planks. Children peered from boats, their eyes wide. Smoke still lingered from a fire two days before, not an accident, but a message.
"They burned this side last week," Dapo said.
Adesuwa nodded. "They were looking for the crypt."
They stopped in front of a dilapidated church that once bore the sign Ebenezer Sanctuary for the Redeemed. Now, only soot remained. Adesuwa stepped forward, pushing aside the charred door.
The air inside was heavy. Ash drifted like snow.
"Back room," she said, stepping around the pulpit. "There's a hatch beneath the choir stand."
Dapo followed, drawing his weapon. "You know this because?"
"Because I've been here before. My father was one of them."
Dapo froze.
She didn't look at him. "Not by choice. He didn't kill, but he cleaned up after those who did."
They found the hatch beneath warped planks. A single handle. Adesuwa gripped it, pulled.
Dust. Stone. A descent into memory.
They climbed down the ladder into the crypt, their torches cutting through the dark. And there, shelves of ledgers, photographs sealed in plastic, and cassette tapes labelled in red.
"This is it," Dapo whispered.
Adesuwa moved to the table and pulled open a ledger. "It goes back to 1983. Every political deal. Every assassination was covered up as suicide."
She paused, her finger trailing a name: Ayoola Adegbite.
"My mother," she said.
Dapo moved to her side. "What happened to her?"
"She asked questions."
Above them, footsteps.
A thud.
Then another.
Adesuwa's eyes met Dapo's. "They're here."
Dapo drew his pistol and handed her a blade. "Take the tape. The Ayoola one. We leave now."
They scrambled up the ladder as voices rang out: not soldiers, not police.
Mercenaries.
Three men entered the church with military precision. One of them, dark-skinned, stocky, with eyes like steel, held a machete in one hand and a pistol in the other.
"Spread out. Burn everything."
But Dapo and Adesuwa were already in the shadows.
They didn't run.
They fought.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't glorious.
But it was enough.
Two fell to Dapo's bullets. The last, Adesuwa, stabbed in the throat, rage burning in her eyes.
They left the church as flames licked its roof again.
But this time, the fire couldn't erase the truth; it had already escaped.
By morning, the city was alive again. But something in its rhythm had shifted.
Online, a tape circulated with the voice of a woman, scared but firm:
"This is Ayoola Adegbite. If you hear this, know I didn't go quietly. They kill those who ask why. But I will not be erased..."
The city listened. And remembered.
In a downtown café, Adesuwa watched the views climb. Dapo sat across from her, arm bandaged, eyes alert.
"This won't be enough," he said.
"No," she replied. "But it's a start."
Outside, the city roared.
But beneath the noise, the truth hummed.
The sound beneath the smoke.
And for once, it was louder than fear.