Chapter 7: Secrets and Confessions

After coming back, we officially asked for access to the orange-roofed house from the management, saying it was for the investigation.

We wrote the request letter, stamped it, and hand-delivered it to the office. Everybody in the station waited, holding their breath.

But, surprisingly, this normal request caused big trouble.

Suddenly, phone calls started flying up and down. The DPO’s mood changed. The clerk whispered, “Oga, dem no wan touch that house at all.”

Our team leader, Old Sani, was called for a meeting. When he returned, he immediately called Tunde Bello and me into his office.

He was not smiling. His prayer beads hung from his wrist, and he barely looked up as he spoke.

He said, “You people can keep investigating, but don’t touch that orange-roofed house again. Just focus on finding the criminal.”

His voice was soft but firm, the way elders speak when they know more than they can say. Tunde looked ready to protest, but I squeezed his arm.

We were shocked. All our clues pointed to the orange-roofed house—if we couldn’t check it, and it was really involved, how would we find the criminal?

Tunde started to speak but Old Sani raised his hand. He tapped his prayer beads, eyes hard. “Some things pass police work, my sons. Leave that house.”

But Old Sani had no answer for me.

His eyes said more than his mouth—fear, resignation, maybe shame. I wondered whose secrets the house protected.

No matter what we tried, we couldn’t get any more information about the orange-roofed house.

Every door we knocked on was shut. People who once gossiped freely now lowered their voices or looked away.

Our investigation in that direction was blocked—just as something more serious happened.

I began to suspect that our search had stirred up something deeper than a village secret. Maybe something that could swallow anyone who poked too hard.

During the earlier drama with Baba Kola, one person who should have shown up didn’t: Ifunanya’s grandfather, Papa Chukwudi.

I noticed his absence at the kiosk. In times of crisis, the elders always show face, but he stayed away. It felt wrong.

While the whole village believed Baba Kola was the beast who touched the children, Papa Chukwudi did nothing and wasn’t even at the kiosk. This was strange.

Neighbours began to whisper, “Maybe the pain don too much for am.” But I knew the look of a man on a private mission.

The reason: he had his own suspect. But he didn’t tell us—he acted on his own.

He carried his grief like a load of firewood, determined to find justice by himself, even if it killed him.

This made things get out of hand.

In our country, when elders bypass the system, it can turn to serious wahala. That was how the next storm started.

When we next saw him, he was bruised and battered.

His face was swollen, lips cut. He limped into the station, clutching his arm. The sight broke my heart—an old man beaten in his search for the truth.

He cried at the station, saying he’d been beaten by the man who killed Ifunanya.

His voice trembled, and the tears fell without shame. “I no fit hold am again, Oga police. The thing dey pain me for chest.”

“It was Mr. Okoli. He… he’s not human…”

His words hit me like slap. Even Tunde, usually unshakable, looked away, uncomfortable.

Papa Chukwudi spoke through tears.

He sobbed, hands shaking so badly that the bottle of malt we offered nearly slipped from his grip.

I quickly remembered the name: Mr. Okoli—the girls’ class teacher, that rough-looking middle-aged man.

Suddenly, everything seemed to fit. The kola nut, the tired face, the casual excuses—how did we not see it before?

“Not just a teacher, not just… he’s also a distant relation. Ifunanya respected him a lot… I never thought, never thought he would…”

Village ties run deep. Sometimes, it is the ones closest to us who do the most harm.

So that was it.

My heart sank. We had all been looking in the wrong direction, blinded by noise.

Papa Chukwudi then explained in detail how he confronted Mr. Okoli and was beaten up.

His story poured out, raw and full of pain. I recorded every word, my hand heavy on the pen.