I sat down in front of my laptop, taking another sip from my cinnamon, mango, and pineapple-infused tea, wondering again why, after so many years, memories of my first home still clung to me like an extra limb. I found myself marveling once again at the concept of home which has remained an elusive shadow while at the same time persisting like an invisible rode to my mental, emotional and psychological anchor. As I clicked on AllAfrica.com on the laptop, I took another sip of tea as my eyes began to look for news from various parts of Africa. I searched through several encouraging news about Ghana, Ethiopia, Rwanda – countries that seem to be slowly but surely clawing their ways out of poverty by taking simple, commonsensical actions with the help of reasonably responsible leaders. Then I turned to news about a police raid on girls in Abuja, the capital of the country of my birth and my smile turned into a frown when I read the list of things that could get a person arrested under some stupid law about indecent dressing: transparent tops, miniskirts… I patted my head, fingering my short, cropped, salt and pepper grey sisterlocks and would have chuckled if I wasn’t so mad at the thought that people could get arrested, for deciding like me, to wear their hair the way God made it when my phone began to ring.
I gave up trying to see who it was on the caller ID and reached to take off my glasses that had become foggy from the steam of the tea when I first made it. I tried to clean the glasses with a paper towel quickly and then noticed it was my old friend, Aminu Saladin on the phone.


“Hello madam, I hope I didn’t wake you?” He sounded apologetic. I smiled, recalling how I had failed at convincing Aminu to drop his informal way of addressing me as “Madam”. I should be used to this typical Nigerian way of addressing one’s superiors and elders. So what if I am much older than him and once served as his direct boss? We’re colleagues! We have also known each other for so many years. I smiled recalling how I also find myself addressing people as sir, madam, uncle, and aunty as soon as I arrived in Nigeria.


“No Aminu,” I replied to his question. “I find that as I get older, I’ve become more of an early bird. How are things in Lagos? I was just reading about some not so interesting things happening to women in Nigeria.”


“Do you mean Glopol had already contacted you? We just found out…?

“No Aminu, no one has called me about anything to do with Nigeria. I was just referring to something I read in the papers …”

“Papers? Did the press…?”

“Aminu! What I read has nothing to do with your case, at least I don’t think so. Why don’t you start by telling me why you called?” I asked, trying not to sound too impatient. I’m the one who was supposed to be notorious for my wondering mind.

It turned out that he was calling to invite me to help with a case which might have international diplomatic implications. He told me the details of the case and even though I explained to him that I was retired and had moved to Canada to be close to my daughter and her family, he insisted he wanted me to help with this particular case given my connection with Nigeria. He would call Glopol and tell them he had brought me on board.

After talking to him, I hesitated before calling Rola to let her know I might be going to Nigeria to work on a case. She and my two grandchildren were the reasons I decided to move to Canada after retirement. I also knew she was going through a period of adjustment since her divorce.

“Mum, should you be taking on a case right now?” She sounded disappointed.

“Honey, I know we both agreed that after I retire, I’d not travel so much and simply spend my time with you and the children while writing my memoirs but…”

“But what mum? Have you changed your mind? Are you now going to be working as a private investigator? So what’s the use of retiring?”

I found myself chewing the sides of my lower lip.

“Well?” she asked when I didn’t say a word.

“Honey, I really don’t know how to explain this to you. I love you and the boys but…”

“We’re not enough to keep you occupied.”

“Don’t sound like that. You know how much I enjoy spending time with you all. And writing my memoirs is going a lot slower than I thought. I’ll still come over this evening for dinner and bring Mo back here with me for the weekend as we planned.”

After hanging up with Rola, I noticed that Aminu had sent me the email he promised to send with some preliminary details about the case.

Do walls really have ears? Do they have the desire to talk? Do houses have memories and secrets? Well, the house in Ikoyi, Lagos, the reason Aminu called, certainly did. The building was one of the several results of the attempts of the British in tropical West Africa to provide inexpensive alternatives to the adobe structures that they found on the ground when they colonized Lagos. The desire to provide housing for their local staff led the British to import huge amounts of cement, and corrugated iron sheeting. No 27, Lady Laggard Street, started out life as a standard colonial-issue tropical house with a deep veranda, overhanging eaves, and classical forms. It stood for decades in the upscale neighbourhood of Ikoyi.

Unlike neighbouring houses on Lady Laggard Street, however, number 27 had more than just memories. It had a secret which might cause people, who are superstitious, to imagine that it must have haunted its inhabitants for many years. It was tucked away in a drum. But I am not one of those people and I was determined to pry the secret open. From the onset, I found the fact that number 27 Lady Laggard Street had housed diplomats from Germany, the UK, Switzerland, and the Netherlands at various points fascinating. It had played host to middling dignitaries who wined and dined there from virtually every country on earth.

On my way from Toronto to Lagos via Amsterdam, I took the opportunity to read through the pile of documents that I printed out from the barrage of emails I received from Aminu. From the reports he sent, May 8th, 2003 was the third day of excavation for a construction team that was working to dig the foundation of No 27 after the old colonial story building was demolished. The demolition was to make room for a new block of flats that would house 16 apartments on 8 floors. On the morning of that third day of excavation, the backhoe loader that was being used to dig a new foundation hit something which the operator thought was unusually solid. He backed the tractor up and disembarked in order to take a closer look at the cause of the obstruction. The obstacle turned out to be a steel drum that had been sealed and buried in a rather shallow grave. When it was lifted and pried open, astonished construction workers were first hit by a stench and then noticed what appeared to be the crown of a human head with large bald patches from where hair had fallen off.

Who's body could this have been?

Could this have been a crime? If so, who's responsible?

Read the full story in the link below.
http://bunmioyinsan.com/kumbi-coates-investigates-the-secret-of-a-house-with-memories/