ASHES OF TRUTH

ASHES OF TRUTH

When I wake, the world hums with static.

Light slants through broken blinds, cutting across the floor in sharp, uneven bars. For a moment I don’t know where I am. Then the smell of burnt plastic and dust reminds me the Surulere office, the servers, the power surge.

The hum of the computers is gone. Only silence remains, thick and hollow.

Sade kneels a few feet away, her face lit by the glow of a flashlight. Officers sweep through the room, bagging hard drives, taking photos. She looks at me with a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re lucky,” she says softly. “When the system overloaded, the circuit tripped instead of catching fire.”

I push myself up slowly, my head throbbing. “Where’s Thomas?”

Her eyes flick toward the door. “Gone. He wiped everything before we got in. Every trace, every connection.”

I scan the room monitors cracked, cables torn, the corkboard stripped bare. Only one thing remains on the desk: a folded piece of paper.

Sade hands it to me. On it, scrawled in his familiar handwriting:

You chose the world.

My heart sinks. Not anger, not sorrow something quieter, emptier. The kind of ache that feels like breathing in after crying too long.

The Fallout

By morning, the story is everywhere.

Journalist entangled in tech-sabotage scandal.

Wife of wanted hacker under investigation.

The headlines twist truth into performance, as headlines always do.

At the station, Sade’s superior reads from a report. “Without forensic evidence, we can’t tie him to any physical crimes. We have cyber fraud, data breaches, conspiracy nothing more.”

He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “Your cooperation is noted, Mrs. Thomas. But for transparency’s sake, the press will have to be briefed.”

“Of course,” I say, though my voice feels borrowed.

That evening, Kunle calls from the newsroom. “Management’s decided to suspend you, Ada. Temporarily. Until your name clears.”

I almost laugh. “That could take forever.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry. You know how it is.”

I do. The system protects itself first. Always.

The Noise of the City

Days blur.

Lagos doesn’t stop moving because one woman’s life collapses. The danfos still shout, generators still groan, markets still sing of hunger and hustle.

Online, the noise grows louder. Hashtags bloom like weeds #JusticeForThomas, #AdaTheTraitor, #TheAlgorithmLives. People choose sides without knowing the story, the way people always do.

Some call me brave.

Most call me blind.

At night I scroll through the chaos until my eyes ache. Each comment feels like another stranger writing my life for me. The city feeds on stories; I’ve just become its newest meal.

Home

The children anchor me to the here and now. Their laughter, unbroken by doubt, fills the apartment with warmth I no longer feel I deserve.

“Is Daddy coming home?” Tobi asks one evening, his small hand gripping mine.

I pause. “He’s… everywhere,” I finally say. “In the air, in the wires, in the stories we’ll tell.”

He frowns, not understanding, then nods anyway. “Then he can still hear us.”

His faith, pure and untangled, slices straight through me.

The Flash Drive

Two weeks later, Sade shows up unannounced. She looks different softer somehow, weary in a way that speaks of unfinished business.

“We found this,” she says, handing me a small burnt flash drive sealed in evidence tape. “Recovered from the debris. We can’t decrypt it. Thought maybe he left it for you.”

I stare at it, the plastic warped but intact.

“Are you sure I should?”

She cuts in gently. “Whatever’s on it belongs to you. Just… be careful what you find.”

That night, after the children sleep, I plug it into my laptop.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then a single file appears

I open it.

Ada,

If you’re reading this, I failed to disappear completely. That means I wanted you to find me.

You once said truth has teeth. But teeth aren’t for smiling — they’re for breaking things open.

Maybe that’s what love is too. Breaking, not building.

Truth burns, but love smolders.

Don’t let the ashes go cold.

The file ends there. No signature. No code to trace. Just words — his final language.

Ashes

For days I can’t write. The blank page feels heavier than before.

But slowly, something shifts.

I start typing again, not for any editor, not for any reader. Just for myself.

Ashes of Truth A Journal by Ada Thomas

This is not an article. It’s a confession. A love story written in smoke and silence. He wanted to fix the system; I wanted to expose it. We both forgot that we were part of it.

I write until dawn. The city wakes around me, engines coughing to life, radios blaring gospel and gossip. Somewhere out there, Thomas might still be watching. Maybe not. Either way, I need to reclaim my story before someone else does.

The Cliff

When I finish the final line, I sit back, exhausted but lighter.

Then my laptop screen flickers. Once. Twice.

A small window opens. The same minimalist code as before.

Only one sentence:

Ada, stories never end.

The cursor blinks patient, rhythmic, alive.

Outside, Lagos roars to life again.

Inside, I whisper, “Neither do we