Jordan was already tracing the IP address from the anonymous comment.
Maya sat beside him, eyes locked on the screen as if staring hard enough would summon the truth faster. Her heart pounded with something between fear and fragile hope.
"If this is really someone who knew Femi," she whispered, "then he never gave up on being heard. Not even when I did."
Jordan paused, fingers freezing on the keyboard. "Got it."
The location bounced a few times—masking tools, basic VPN—but eventually, it pointed to a small town outside Ibadan.
"A teacher's quarters," Jordan said slowly. "It's registered under a retired woman named Iya Teniola. Ex-literature teacher, age seventy-four."
Maya blinked. "Teniola. That name… wait—Femi used to talk about a teacher who let him write letters during break. Said she was the only adult who believed he was smart enough to become a writer."
Jordan nodded. "That has to be her."
---
The next morning, they took a bus out of Lagos. It rained the whole way, as if the sky itself was remembering something too.
They arrived at a quiet compound with faded green walls and overgrown bougainvillea. A small wooden plaque read: "Those Who Keep Stories, Keep Souls."
Maya swallowed hard.
Teniola answered the door before they knocked—like she'd been expecting them.
She wore a brightly patterned wrapper and her silver hair was pulled into a neat bun. Her eyes softened the moment she saw Maya.
"I always knew you'd come."
Maya froze.
"You knew my brother," she whispered.
Teniola nodded. "Femi wrote me letters every week. In secret. After you were locked away, I kept them safe."
She led them into a small, book-filled parlor and handed Maya a weathered box.
Inside: over forty folded pages. Every single one in Femi's handwriting.
Maya couldn't breathe.
Her hands shook as she unfolded the first one.
> "Dear Ms. Teniola,
Maya is sad again today. Dad shouted. Step-mom locked the kitchen. I gave her half my biscuit. She said I was her hero.
I want to write a book someday about people who escape fire and become stars.
Love, Femi."
Tears slid down her face.
Jordan reached for her hand silently as Maya kept reading—letter after letter, memory after memory. Each one proof. Not of abuse alone, but of love. Of resistance.
Then she found the last one.
> "Dear Ms. T,
If anything happens to me, please tell Maya the truth. Tell her not to believe what they say.
The fire isn't an accident. I heard Step-mom on the phone last night.
I think they want us gone.
But Maya is strong. Stronger than me.
Love, Femi."
---
Maya stared at it for a long time.
"Why didn't you come forward?" she finally asked, voice raw.
"I tried," Teniola whispered. "But no one listened. Your father paid people off. My flat was broken into. Some letters stolen. I was threatened. I got scared."
Maya looked up. "And now?"
"I'm tired of being scared. And I want to help you finish what Femi started."
---
Later that night, Maya scanned all the letters and uploaded them to a secure drive Jordan had built. Then she added them to her blog.
This time, she didn't hide her name.
She posted as:
> Maya Adedeji – Survivor. Sister. Truth-Teller.
And below that:
> "He wasn't a victim. He was a writer.
He wasn't just a brother. He was my first light.
And now—he will be heard."
The post exploded.
News blogs picked it up.
Influencers. Activists. Lawyers.
People began using the hashtag:
#JusticeForFemi
And then the unexpected happened.
An email.
From a reporter at The Guardian Nigeria.
---
Subject: URGENT – Request for Interview
Dear Maya,
I've followed your blog for a while. We've been digging into your father's foundation and what we've found may align with your claims.
If you're willing to speak on record, I think your story could blow the top off more than just one case.
I understand the danger. But I also believe: if we don't tell the truth now, they'll rewrite it for us again.
I'm here. Let me know.
– Zara Akande
Investigative Reporter, The Guardian
---
Maya stared at the email, heartbeat pounding.
This was it.
Not just justice for Femi—this was her chance to pull down the entire empire that covered up everything.
She turned to Jordan.
"They're going to come harder now."
He didn't flinch. "Then let them. Because now you're not just fighting for him."
He placed a hand over her heart.
"You're fighting for you."