Chapter 6: The Orange-Roofed House

Like I said before, the two girls’ stories had one thing in common: almost every month, they would go to the park in town together on a weekend.

It was a detail that kept nagging at me. Children in these parts rarely left the village unless someone sent them.

We knew the park. It was open, beside the town square and a hill, a bit isolated.

The kind of place you’d expect to see lovers at dusk, or small boys playing football. Its silence during the day made it perfect for secrets.

At first, we didn’t see anything strange in the girls going there on weekends. But since we had no other clue, we had to check it.

We walked every inch of the park, scanning the dusty footpaths and peering behind the bushy hedges. Even the birds were quiet that afternoon.

The park was old and hardly used. Most of the trees were iroko—tall, wide, and common in the south. It was clear the local government didn’t spend money on maintenance.

Some iroko trees stood like tired giants, roots bursting through cracked paving. You could see where children once played draft with bottle caps, but the laughter was gone.

While looking around, we saw a suspicious house in the park’s southwest corner—a three-storey building with an orange roof. Sitting in that rough park, it looked somehow strange.

It was an odd sight, rising above the weeds and rusted swings. I wondered who built such a place in a dying park.

We knocked, but no answer. It seemed empty.

No sound, no movement. Just the creaking of iron doors in the wind, and the faint smell of musty cement.

But when we checked, we noticed the path and ground around the house had less dust than the rest of the park. Someone had cleaned there recently.

The shoe prints were fresh. Even Tunde raised his eyebrow. “This place dey get visitor, no be lie.”

To find out about the orange-roofed house, we went to the park’s management office.

A yellowing sign outside read ‘Town Park Office.’ Inside, the air smelled of old files and stale fufu.

The person in charge, Mr. Musa, was about fifty.

He wore a green kaftan, gold watch shining as he greeted us. A northern man, he spoke slow, careful English, eyes watching us closely.

He told us the house was meant for business—a hotel or restaurant. But after it was built, it didn’t meet new local rules that banned business in open parks. So, the building was sealed as illegal.

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “You know Naija government—today dem say yes, tomorrow dem say no.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “Has anyone been there recently? Or is it cleaned regularly?”

He laughed, but it was dry. “Oga, I no sabi anything about that house o. Dem just lock am, na government wahala.”

But his eyes darted away, and I felt a small chill run down my spine. Some secrets cannot be hidden for long.

Clearly, he was lying. But at that time, we had nothing, so we didn’t push it.

Tunde tapped my foot under the table, a silent warning to stay patient.

We made another request: “Then please let us check the CCTV footage.”

Mr. Musa hesitated, then nodded quickly. He didn’t want to say yes, but couldn’t say no either.

My plan was just to see if the three girls had come to the park last weekend.

Sometimes, you have to follow a child’s footsteps to find an adult’s secret.

But Mr. Musa started talking plenty: “Sorry, that building—inside and outside—has no camera at all. To be honest, the park hasn’t had money for maintenance for a long time. The CCTV is old, with only a few cameras at the main entrance and some other places—not even at the back gate…”

His words were smooth as groundnut paste, but Tunde wasn’t fooled. “Make we see what you get, no problem.”

Tunde Bello quickly explained, “We’re not talking about that house, just the main entrance and other places.”

Mr. Musa nodded again and again. “No wahala, I’ll take you to the control room.”

He led us through a narrow corridor, past two snoring security men, and unlocked a rusty door to the CCTV monitors.

Honestly, the park’s security was wahala. Such a big park, but only about ten cameras, and the footage was kept for just seven days. Normally, public places keep footage for at least one to three months.

I shook my head, thinking, “In Lagos, even the small barbershop get camera. This one na official blindness.”

But seven days was enough. We saw the three girls on the footage.

They appeared in the grainy video, arms linked, heads bent together. Ifunanya’s pink school bag swung at her side. I felt a lump in my throat.

Watching them on the screen, arms linked, entering the park happily, I felt sad. Ifunanya was already gone, and Amina and Blessing would not have peace again.

Their smiles haunted me. How could such small girls carry so much pain?

I also noticed something strange. Even though there were only about ten cameras, in all the footage, we only saw the three girls at the main entrance. After that, they didn’t appear again.

No shots of them in the swings, or at the kiosk, or leaving. It was as if the ground swallowed them whole.

Mr. Musa said it was because the park was big—they might have gone to a pavilion to do homework or played somewhere else, so it was normal not to see them again.

He sounded too eager to convince us. “Children like to hide, you know.”

Normal? Not really.

I made a mental note—children cannot vanish from ten cameras unless someone wants them to.

We asked for a copy of all the CCTV footage and left.

Tunde put the flash drive in his breast pocket, jaw set. “We go open this matter by fire by force.”

I was sure the orange-roofed house was suspicious. But I didn’t know the truth would be so terrible.

Sometimes, in this job, you learn that when things don’t add up, the answer is usually something nobody wants to see.