Chapter 6 - THE SECRET THE PALACE TRIED TO KEEP BURIED
“WE HAVE TO GET TO MERCY HOUSE BEFORE THEY DESTROY IT.”
I was already reaching for my phone when Obioma gently stopped me.
“Helen, it's almost midnight.”
“Then we go at midnight.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he nodded.
“Let me call our attorney first.”
Within fifteen minutes, Barrister Ifeanyi Cole was on the phone.
His response was immediate.
“Do not enter the building and start tearing up the floor yourselves.”
I frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because if you discover original documents, Chief Madu will claim you planted them or damaged the evidence.”
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
“So what do we do?”
“I'll contact the proper authorities and arrange witnesses. We need the discovery documented.”
Obioma glanced at me.
“Can you get it done before morning?”
“I'll do everything I legally can.”
We agreed to meet at the site at sunrise.
But sleep never came.
I lay awake beside Obioma, thinking about my parents.
For sixteen years, I had remembered my father as the man who carried me out of a burning building.
Now I wondered how many people had known about the missing funds before he died.
I wondered whether my mother had been frightened when she wrote to the queen.
And I wondered how different our lives might have been if someone had listened.
At four in the morning, I got out of bed.
Obioma found me sitting beside the window.
“You're thinking about them.”
I nodded.
He sat beside me.
“Tell me about your father.”
I smiled sadly.
“He was terrible at singing.”
Obioma laughed softly.
“Really?”
“He loved singing old songs while he worked, but he never remembered the words correctly.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said God had given him many wonderful gifts, but a singing voice wasn't one of them.”
We both laughed.
Then my smile faded.
“My father used to tell me that being important didn't mean being powerful. It meant being useful.”
Obioma squeezed my hand.
“I think I would have liked him.”
“He would have liked you.”
I paused.
“After making sure your intentions were serious.”
Obioma smiled.
“I would have passed his test.”
“Eventually.”
He laughed again.
For a moment, the grief became something gentler.
A memory I could hold without feeling that it might destroy me.
At six-thirty, we arrived at Mercy House with Ifeanyi and two authorized witnesses.
Nkem was waiting beside the gate.
She had insisted on coming.
“I remember the building before it burned,” she explained. “Your mother used to keep the classroom records near the back wall.”
A district preservation officer unlocked the damaged building after confirming that our attorney had obtained permission for a supervised inspection while the demolition dispute remained unresolved.
Inside, the old classrooms smelled of dust and damp concrete.
Sunlight entered through broken windows.
I walked slowly toward the room where my mother had once taught me to read.
My heart ached.
The walls were blackened in places, but I could still picture the rows of wooden desks.
I could almost hear children laughing.
Nkem knelt near the back corner.
“There used to be a cupboard here.”
I moved closer.
The wall behind it had been repaired with a different kind of plaster.
And one section of the floor looked newer than the rest.
Ifeanyi asked the preservation officer to photograph everything.
Then the work began.
As the first loose board was lifted, I held my breath.
Underneath was a shallow concrete recess.
Inside lay a rectangular metal box, wrapped in the remains of an old waterproof covering.
My knees felt weak.
Obioma gently supported me.
“It's okay.”
But it wasn't okay.
Because whatever was inside that box could change everything we believed about the past.
The officer carefully lifted it out.
The metal had rusted around the edges, but the lid remained secure.
After the witnesses documented its condition, the box was opened.
Inside were several sealed packets containing original property agreements, handwritten statements, old bank deposit receipts, and a small notebook.
I recognized my mother's handwriting immediately.
One document identified the community trust as the intended holder of land reserved for affordable housing and educational services.
Another showed a substantial donation from Queen Ihuoma.
The amount was far larger than I had imagined.
More troubling were records suggesting that some of the money had been redirected to accounts unrelated to the original community program.
Ifeanyi studied the documents carefully.
“These need professional verification,” he warned. “But they're significant.”
I looked at him.
“Can they stop the demolition?”
“They may help us obtain a court order preserving the property while the ownership dispute is investigated.”
For the first time in days, I felt hope.
Then Nkem noticed something inside the box.
A folded photograph.
It showed my parents standing with several community leaders outside Mercy House.
One of the men was Chief Madu.
Another was a younger man whose face I didn't recognize.
On the back, my mother had written:
Meeting with development partners. Final terms rejected.
I turned the photograph over again.
Chief Madu was shaking the stranger's hand.
Obioma stared at the image.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
He pointed toward the younger man.
“I've seen him before.”
“Who is he?”
“Felix Nwosu. He works in the palace financial office.”
I looked down at the photograph.
The man had aged, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
He was the same accountant who had handled many of the royal family's charitable accounts.
Ifeanyi placed the photograph into an evidence sleeve.
“We need to establish his role.”
Before anyone could say more, vehicles approached outside.
A uniformed officer entered with two other officials.
“Barrister Cole?”
Ifeanyi stepped forward.
“Yes?”
The officer held out a document.
“We have an order to secure materials recovered from this property.”
Ifeanyi read it.
His expression hardened.
“On what grounds?”
“The materials are alleged to have been removed from a royal archive without authorization.”
I stared at him.
“That's impossible. They belonged to my mother.”
The officer remained polite.
“You can raise that objection through your attorney.”
Ifeanyi immediately requested copies of the paperwork and a formal inventory of everything being taken.
He also ensured that our photographs and the witnesses' written observations were preserved.
But the officers still collected the box.
As they carried it toward their vehicle, I felt helpless.
Someone had anticipated what we might find.
Someone had obtained an order before we could properly examine the evidence.
And someone was determined to keep those original documents out of our hands.
Then Obioma's phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
May you like
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
YOUR WIFE SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE PAST ALONE. THE NEXT THING SHE LOSES WON'T BE A BOX OF PAPERS.
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