Chapter 2 - THE ABANDONED SCHOOL AND THE SECRET BENEATH ITS FLOOR
I stared at Nkem, waiting for her to tell me that I had misunderstood.
She didn't.
Outside our bedroom, birds were singing in the garden. Somewhere downstairs, the household staff were preparing breakfast.
But the world I had known only minutes earlier was disappearing.
“What do you mean someone chained the doors?” I whispered.
Nkem pressed her trembling hands together.
“I saw a chain hanging from the rear entrance. I remember because there were children banging against the door from inside.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They wrote down my statement. Then a man from the district office told me I must have been confused by the smoke.”
“Were you?”
Nkem looked offended for the first time.
“No, Helen. I know what I saw.”
Obioma pulled a chair closer.
“Please sit down, Nkem. Start from the beginning.”
She sat slowly, as though the memories had suddenly made her older.
Sixteen years earlier, Mercy House had been a small community center on the outskirts of Umueri. My parents had helped run its reading program, providing books, meals, and afternoon lessons to children from struggling families.
My mother taught reading.
My father repaired the building, maintained the classrooms, and helped organize the community's donations.
They weren't wealthy.
But they believed education could give children opportunities their parents had never received.
Then disputes began over the land surrounding Mercy House.
According to Nkem, several families had received notices claiming their houses would be demolished for a new development project.
My mother had become involved because many of those families had children attending her classes.
“She kept saying the land belonged to the community,” Nkem explained. “She said somebody was trying to steal what had been set aside for the children.”
“Who?” Obioma asked.
“I never knew for certain.”
She glanced at the photograph.
“But your mother kept records. She said papers mattered because powerful people could deny promises, but they couldn't always deny their signatures.”
I looked at the old brass key resting in my palm.
“Did she keep those records at Mercy House?”
Nkem's eyes moved toward the key.
“Possibly.”
“Do you recognize this?”
She leaned forward.
For a moment, her expression changed.
“That looks like the key to the old records cabinet.”
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
“Is the building still standing?”
“Part of it. They closed the school after the fire.”
I turned toward Obioma.
“We have to go there.”
He didn't hesitate.
“Then we'll go together.”
An hour later, we were driving toward the outskirts of Umueri in Obioma's black SUV.
I had changed into a simple long dress and flat sandals.
For the first time since the wedding, I had deliberately left my royal jewelry behind.
I didn't want to visit the place where my parents had died dressed like someone who had never known hardship.
As we traveled, the busy town gradually gave way to quieter streets and aging houses.
I recognized the road before I recognized the building.
There was an enormous mango tree near the entrance.
My father used to lift me onto its lowest branch while my mother prepared the afternoon lessons.
I remembered laughing as he pretended he couldn't reach me.
Now the branches hung above a rusting gate.
The school beyond it looked almost forgotten.
Its walls were cracked, weeds covered the courtyard, and broken windows stared out like empty eyes.
Obioma parked.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I stepped out.
The smell of damp earth brought back memories I hadn't allowed myself to revisit in years.
I remembered my mother's voice.
“Helen, read the next sentence.”
I remembered my father calling from outside.
“Who wants roasted corn?”
And I remembered the night everything changed.
Smoke.
People running.
My father's arms lifting me from the classroom.
His voice telling me not to be afraid.
Then the hospital, where my mother died two days later from injuries and smoke inhalation.
I had never seen my father again.
Obioma came beside me.
“We don't have to do this today.”
I shook my head.
“If I leave now, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering.”
We entered through a side gate that Nkem had said was usually left unsecured.
The old classroom doors were damaged, but the records room remained surprisingly intact.
It was a narrow room with peeling paint and shelves covered in dust.
Against the far wall stood a metal cabinet.
My hands shook as I fitted the brass key into its lower drawer.
At first, it wouldn't turn.
Obioma gently steadied the cabinet.
“Try again.”
I twisted the key.
A faint click followed.
The drawer opened.
Inside were several water-stained folders, a cloth-covered notebook, and a thick ledger wrapped in plastic.
My mother's handwriting appeared on the first page.
MERCY HOUSE COMMUNITY EDUCATION AND LAND TRUST
My eyes burned.
“She wrote this.”
Obioma stood beside me while I turned the pages.
There were names of families, scholarship records, donation receipts, and handwritten notes documenting promises made to struggling households.
Then I found something that made me stop.
A list of twenty-four land parcels.
Beside each one was the name of a family that had been promised permanent housing protection or educational support.
At the bottom of the page was a note written in red ink.
Funds approved for community protection. Transfer authorization pending verification.
Beneath it appeared a familiar name.
Chief Madu.
I stared at it.
Chief Madu was one of my father-in-law's most trusted royal advisers.
He had served the kingdom for decades.
He had also been among the elders who objected most strongly to my marriage.
“Obioma,” I whispered. “Why is Chief Madu's name here?”
He took the ledger.
His face grew serious.
“I don't know.”
I turned another page.
Several entries recorded large payments supposedly made to families who had lost their homes.
But beside each payment, my mother had written the same question.
Recipient not confirmed.
Some pages had been torn out entirely.
We photographed the records and carefully returned them to the cabinet before leaving with the ledger and copies of the most important papers.
I felt sick.
For years, I had thought my parents' lives had ended because of bad luck.
Now I was beginning to suspect they had discovered something dangerous.
As we walked toward the SUV, a deep mechanical rumble echoed from the road.
Three heavy construction vehicles appeared beyond the gate.
A man wearing a reflective vest climbed down from the leading truck and approached us.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You shouldn't be inside this property.”
Obioma stepped forward.
“Why?”
The man pointed toward a large notice posted beside the gate.
I hadn't seen it when we arrived.
I moved closer and read the words.
OFFICIAL LAND CLEARANCE NOTICE
ALL OCCUPANTS MUST VACATE WITHIN 72 HOURS.
PROPERTY AUTHORIZED FOR REDEVELOPMENT.
My hands tightened around the ledger.
“Redevelopment?” I asked.
The man nodded.
“The old building is scheduled for demolition.”
“Who authorized it?”
He checked the document on his clipboard.
“Chief Madu, chairman of the Royal Community Development Council.”
May you like
Then he looked directly at me.
“And according to our records, Princess Helen, the land is being transferred to a development company connected to your husband's new estate.”
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