ASHES OF TRUTH

Echoes of the Past

Morning arrives with the smell of frying oil from the street below and the rhythmic cries of hawkers selling bread and akara. Lagos has a way of sounding alive even when your own life feels paused.

I dress quietly so I don’t wake the children. The flat feels smaller today, the air thicker. Every creak reminds me of that sound I heard two nights ago—the click that could have been a shutter or my imagination.

I’m not sure which is worse.

I boil water for tea and stare at the reflection in the window: a woman who looks almost like me, only her eyes keep searching corners for what isn’t there.

The Sweep

By noon Sade arrives with a young technician from the cyber-unit, a slim man with wires hanging from his pocket like spilled spaghetti.

He greets me with a nervous smile and starts scanning the room with a handheld detector. The machine hums softly, like an insect thinking.

“Just routine,” Sade says, though her hand rests on her sidearm as if routine itself might strike.

The device beeps near the smoke alarm. The tech climbs on a chair, twists the cover off, and produces a round chip no larger than a coin.

“Micro-transmitter,” he mutters. “Battery life, maybe a week.”

A second sweep uncovers another inside the TV casing.

My stomach turns. I’d been watching the news there yesterday singing along with the children to a cartoon jingle.

Sade exchanges a look with the technician. “Same cheap data SIM. Bought yesterday at Ojuelegba market under a fake Identification card.”

I ask the question I already dread.

“Can you tell who set it up?”

“Maybe,” Sade says, “but it links back to an account created using Thomas’s old login format. Same string of numbers he used years ago when you two shared your router.”

The room feels suddenly airless.

He hasn’t just been near us; he’s been listening.

Digital Ghosts

After they leave, I open my laptop. A notification pops up: Cloud restore complete.

I never requested a restore.

Inside my photo folder, images I deleted years ago have returned our wedding in Yaba registry, Muna’s first birthday, me laughing in a kitchen long gone. Every file bears a new timestamp from this week.

At the bottom sits a single video titled “Still Us.”

My finger hovers, then clicks.

It’s harmless—snippets from our honeymoon in Ghana. I remember the heat, the sound of Thomas’s laughter behind the camera. But the metadata says the file was uploaded yesterday, from a café two streets away.

I close the lid, heart hammering. For a moment I consider smashing the laptop, but that would feel like erasing the last proof of what’s happening. And if I’ve learned anything as a journalist, it’s this: evidence hides best in plain sight.

Back at the Newsroom

Returning to work feels surreal. The newsroom hums with the same tired air-conditioner, the same clicking keyboards. Yet I feel every glance like a pin.

Kunle, my editor, greets me with forced warmth.

“You look better, Ada. Ready to write again?”

“Trying,” I say.

He slides a file across my desk. “A follow-up on the killings. Public still hungry for closure.”

“Closure,” I repeat. The word tastes metallic.

I spend the afternoon pretending to write, fingers moving, eyes on nothing. When I finally check my email, I notice something strange: every message I send to Sade appears in my “Sent” folder twice.

One copy is marked forwarded to an address I don’t recognize: I delete the forwarding rule and shut the laptop. Someone in this building helped plant it.

Suspicion

Evening shadows crawl across the office. I watch colleagues pack up Kemi from IT with her ever-present earbuds, Kunle pacing while texting someone he never names.

Every friendly smile now feels rehearsed.

Paranoia is a heavy coat; once you put it on, you forget how to take it off.

I leave early, clutching my bag like a secret.

The Second Note

Back at the flat the children are asleep, curled like commas in the half-light. I make tea I won’t drink and try to read the news.

Then I see it an envelope on the kitchen counter that wasn’t there this morning.

No address. Just my name.

Inside lies a small memory card and a folded paper.

Stop letting them write our story.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I call Sade; she promises to come in the morning. But curiosity wins before fear can argue.

I slot the card into my laptop.

A single audio file appears.

I click.

Static. Then his voice steady, low, heartbreakingly familiar.

“Ada, they’ll never understand us. You keep trying to paint me as a shadow, but we were always one light.”

The recording ends with the faint sound of waves. Tarkwa Bay again. Our beginning.

I sit frozen, hands trembling on the keyboard. For a moment I almost reply aloud.

The Late Call

Close to midnight, the screen flickers. A chat window opens by itself, the text line blinking like a pulse.

Unknown User:

Ada, why are you trying to erase us?

I stare, unable to move. Another message appears, slower.

I can hear you breathe.

Then a small sound file begins to download automatically.

When it opens, Thomas’s voice fills the room reading a note I once left for him years ago.

“Love is not the same as goodness. But it’s the only thing that keeps us trying.”

I close the laptop with a snap, heart slamming against my ribs.

Moments later Sade’s knock breaks the silence. She steps inside, sees my face, and understands enough without words.

“He’s still reaching you,” she says quietly. “He’s turning your memories into messages.”

The Cliff

Sade insists we relocate again, but something inside me resists.

Running feels like feeding him power.

I look out through the cracked blinds at the restless city lights the promise and corruption twined together in every street.

“This has to end,” I whisper. “Not with fear. With truth.”

Sade studies me for a long time, then nods. “Then we hunt him your way.”

After she leaves, I open a new document. The cursor blinks on the blank page like a heartbeat. I type a title:

ECHOES.

The screen’s reflection shows my face and, just for an instant, another shape behind me, faint as smoke, before the light flickers and it’s gone.