Chapter 1
The Rainstorm
The rain started five minutes before the lecture ended.
Not the polite kind that announced itself with a few scattered drops.
This one arrived with ambition.
By the time students began filing out of the auditorium, the sky had already disappeared behind a wall of grey water.
A collective groan rolled through the building.
Outside, wind bent the trees along the walkways. Rain hammered roofs, gutters overflowed, and the drainage channels beside the road gave up all pretence of control.
Someone near the back muttered, “God forbid. Person go need canoe reach hostel.”
Laughter followed.
The lecturer continued speaking for another minute as though the weather had no authority over his timetable. Then he surrendered.
“Those of you waiting for the rain to stop, you’re on your own.”
More laughter.
Chairs scraped.
Bags zipped.
Footsteps multiplied.
The familiar end-of-class migration began.
Ada remained seated.
Around her, students gathered books, exchanged gossip, argued over assignments, and rushed toward the exits.
She waited.
Not because she was in a hurry.
Because hurrying usually belonged to people who could see puddles before stepping into them.
The crowd thinned.
Then thinned again.
The hall slowly emptied.
A voice approached.
“Madam celebrity.”
Ada smiled immediately.
“Tunde.”
“Who else?”
“You always announce yourself like somebody entering a campaign rally.”
“That is because greatness deserves introduction.”
Ada laughed.
Tunde considered it one of his life’s missions to make her laugh at least once per day.
He took that responsibility very seriously.
“Rain is serious outside,” he said.
“I can hear it.”
“No, you can’t hear this one. This one has graduated.”
“Has it?”
“It now has a master’s degree in wickedness.”
That earned another laugh.
“Are you heading back to the hostel?” he asked.
“Eventually.”
“Eventually sounds expensive.”
“It means I’m waiting.”
“Smart.”
A few seconds passed.
Then Tunde lowered his voice dramatically.
“You know there are at least three guys in this faculty who are secretly in love with you.”
Ada groaned.
“Here we go.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are never serious.”
“I am serious this time.”
“Tunde.”
“What?”
“Please find something useful to do.”
“I am doing something useful. I am providing social updates.”
“Nobody appointed you.”
“History will vindicate me.”
“Tunde.”
“Okay. Fine.”
She could hear the grin in his voice.
It was impossible not to.
Tunde’s expressions always leaked into his speech.
The rain intensified.
Even from inside the building, it sounded violent.
Tunde whistled softly.
“Yeah. Nobody is going anywhere soon.”
A door opened somewhere behind them.
A gust of wet air entered.
Students complained immediately.
The door shut again.
The complaints stopped.
Tunde checked his phone.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“My group members have finally decided to remember we have an assignment.”
“A miracle.”
“I know.”
He stood.
“I have to go.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll need more than luck.”
He started walking away.
Then paused.
“Oh.”
Ada turned slightly.
“What?”
“If anybody asks, I warned you.”
“About what?”
“The admirers.”
“Tunde.”
He laughed and escaped before she could respond.
The sound of his footsteps disappeared into the larger sounds of the building.
Ada shook her head.
Then smiled.
The silence that followed felt larger.
Not empty.
Just different.
The kind of silence that appears when a familiar voice leaves a room.
She adjusted the recorder in her bag.
Mass Communication had taught her many things.
One of them was that people often missed details because they were busy looking for important things.
Ada didn’t have that luxury.
Details were how she navigated the world.
The texture of footsteps.
The direction of voices.
The way a room carried sound.
The difference between confidence and performance.
Most people saw spaces.
Ada listened to them.
Outside, thunder rolled across the campus.
The rain wasn’t stopping.
She considered her options.
The auditorium would eventually be locked.
Waiting forever wasn’t practical.
There was a backstage changing area behind the main stage used during performances and events.
Warmer.
Quieter.
Safer.
If the rain decided to continue its war against humanity, she could wait there comfortably.
Ada stood.
Folded her cane.
Then unfolded it again.
A habit.
The small click grounded her.
She began walking.
The auditorium was almost empty now.
Her cane tapped softly ahead of her.
The echoes changed as she approached the side of the stage.
A few more steps.
Another doorway.
Then the backstage area.
The room greeted her with familiar stillness.
Dust.
Old wood.
Fabric.
Stored equipment.
The scent of forgotten performances.
She stepped inside and closed the door.
Not fully.
Just enough.
The darkness meant nothing to her.
The quiet meant everything.
For a while, she simply listened.
Rain.
Thunder.
Wind.
A building enduring weather.
It was strangely comforting.
Her grandmother used to say storms had personalities.
Ada never believed that.
But she sometimes understood why people did.
Some storms felt impatient.
Others felt angry.
This one sounded determined.
Minutes passed.
Maybe fifteen.
Maybe twenty.
Time behaved differently when measured by sound.
Then the backstage door opened.
Ada froze.
Not out of fear.
Out of attention.
Three people entered.
Men.
Adults.
Not students.
The difference was immediate.
Their movements carried age.
Confidence.
Ownership.
People who expected spaces to belong to them.
The door closed.
One of them sighed.
“Rain no get respect.”
Another chuckled.
“Na why we come here.”
Footsteps.
Movement.
Someone dragging a chair slightly.
Ada remained where she was.
Behind stacked plywood panels used during stage productions.
Completely hidden.
The men had no reason to think anybody else was there.
A few seconds passed.
Then one of them spoke.
“You don settle am?”
A pause.
“Almost.”
“Almost no be answer.”
“I say almost.”
The tone sharpened.
Not an argument.
A warning.
The kind exchanged between people familiar with one another.
Another voice entered.
Calmer.
Older.
“Leave am.”
Silence followed.
Rain hammered the roof.
One of the men clicked his tongue.
“After crowd gather finish, e go easy.”
Nobody replied immediately.
Then:
“E still get mouth too much.”
A short laugh.
Not amusement.
Dismissal.
Another pause.
Someone shifted their weight.
Wood creaked softly.
Then:
“Just make sure say everybody understand wetin dem suppose do.”
“Dem understand.”
“You sure?”
“Dem understand.”
The answer arrived too quickly.
Like it had been rehearsed.
Ada listened carefully.
Something felt wrong.
Not criminal.
Not yet.
Just wrong.
Like overhearing people discuss a game without ever saying the rules.
The conversation continued.
Pieces.
Fragments.
Half-thoughts.
Instructions disguised as casual remarks.
Nothing direct.
Nothing useful.
Yet every sentence seemed connected to something larger.
One voice became irritated.
“Person wey dey make noise too much go eventually hear silence.”
A brief chuckle followed.
Then nobody laughed again.
The silence afterward felt heavier than the joke.
Ada frowned slightly.
Rain filled the gaps.
Thunder followed.
One of the men stood.
His footsteps approached her side of the room.
Not close enough to see her.
Close enough for something else.
A scent.
Strong.
Unpleasant.
Sharp.
Artificial.
Ada immediately recognized it.
Her nose wrinkled.
Bula.
The cheap perfume.
Months ago she had bought a small bottle because she liked the packaging.
The scent itself had lasted exactly one day before she threw it away.
Too harsh.
Too sweet.
Too determined.
The smell wrapped itself around the room now.
Unmistakable.
The man moved away.
The scent lingered.
The conversation continued for a few more minutes.
Then chairs shifted.
Footsteps repositioned.
Someone checked the time.
Another cursed the rain.
The oldest voice spoke one last time.
“Make sure say nobody go know where e start.”
Silence.
Then:
“Na the important thing be that.”
The door opened.
Rain surged into the room.
The men left.
The door shut behind them.
And just like that, they were gone.
Ada remained still.
Listening.
Waiting.
Their footsteps faded.
The storm reclaimed the building.
For several minutes, she didn’t move.
Not because she was frightened.
Because she was thinking.
The conversation sat strangely in her mind.
Like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Eventually, she stood.
Adjusted her bag.
Picked up her cane.
The rain had weakened slightly.
Not enough to stop.
Enough to challenge.
She opened the backstage door and stepped out.
The corridor was empty.
The campus beyond it roared with water and wind.
Ada started toward her hostel.
Halfway down the corridor, she stopped.
Not for long.
Just long enough for one sentence to return.
The oldest voice.
Calm.
Certain.
Almost amused.
“After crowd gather finish...”
The words lingered.
Then another.
“Nobody go know where e start.”
Ada shook her head.
Whatever those men had been discussing, it was none of her business.
Just strangers talking during a rainstorm.
Nothing more.
Outside, thunder rolled across the university once again.
And somewhere beyond the rain,
a crowd was already beginning to gather.
