Chapter 3 : The Diary of Ireti Afolayan

Chapter 3 : The Diary of Ireti Afolayan

It started with a name.

Professor Ekon Itaye. A myth. A ghost. A warning whispered in orientation week but never printed in the official handbook.

Zara mentioned him in passing while chewing boiled groundnuts on the library lawn. "He was the Head of African Philosophy… disappeared during a lecture about ancestral memory. Left his glasses on the podium. Never came back."

"What happened to his office?" Nia asked.

Zara shrugged. "Sealed. Same as his favorite section of the library. East Wing. No one goes there."

That, of course, made Nia want to go there.

After a restless night with Halima whispering again in her sleep—words this time soaked in dread—Nia followed the urge. The library, called The Archives of Ivory, was a massive octagonal building, wrapped in ancient stone, draped in vines that bloomed with tiny blue flowers no one ever seemed to pick.

She entered just as the 11 a.m. bell chimed. Students wandered among the stacks, oblivious. A sleepy librarian with bifocals too big for her nose waved from behind the desk. Nia smiled politely and walked past the signs, past the whispered "authorized personnel only" sections, past the glass cases housing handwritten scrolls and palm-leaf manuscripts.

At the far end of the East Wing, down a narrow corridor dustier than the rest, she found it.

A locked wooden door, carved with ancient Nsibidi symbols. The plaque read:

"Section 9B: Forgotten Histories and Forbidden Rituals."

The door had no knob. No keypad. Just a brass plate embedded in its center, shaped like a palm. The wood radiated heat, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

She touched the brass palm.

Nothing.

She tried again, pressing her father's pendant into the plate. It glowed faintly—just for a second. Then dimmed.

But the door creaked. Just a little.

From the other side, a whisper slithered through the crack:

"You do not yet carry the memory."

Nia jerked back. Her heart thudded in her ears. The hallway suddenly smelled of wet earth and charcoal. Books nearby fluttered on their own—pages turning as if searching for something.

That's when she saw it.

A faint shadow moving behind the frosted glass. Not a person—but a shape. Something with a long neck and twisted limbs. It moved like smoke, like hunger given form.

Nia stumbled away, nearly knocking over a stack of books.

"You shouldn't be here," said a voice behind her.

She turned—it was Dean Olanrewaju.

His eyes held no anger. Just deep, infinite weariness.

"That door isn't locked to keep you out," he said. "It's locked to keep something in."

"But what was that voice?" Nia asked, breathless.

He paused. Then said softly, "Ivory Crest stands on ancient land, child. The past here is not buried. It's archived. And it remembers those who try to forget it."

Then he gestured back toward the entrance. "Leave. While you still walk freely."

As she turned, shaken, she noticed something: the blue flowers outside the window had all wilted.

And in the reflection of the window, Nia didn't see herself anymore.

She saw a girl in white, smiling.

****

At the center of Ivory Crest University sat the heart of its soul: the Phoenix Courtyard. Students passed it daily—on their way to lectures, meals, or romantic strolls—but few stopped to truly look at it. Fewer still noticed its unusual detail: the fountain never stopped glowing, even under the brightest afternoon sun or darkest night sky.

The legend was whispered more than told: "The Phoenix only burns for those who forget who they are."

On a warm Thursday evening, Nia found herself drawn to it—feet moving with a will of their own, sleep-deprived and still shaken from her brush with the East Wing. Zara was off at a choir audition, Kaira claimed she had a "mystic hangover," and Halima hadn't spoken in two days—only muttered something about "the wings rising again."

So Nia wandered, ending up in the middle of the courtyard.

The fountain stood tall, its base shaped like a blazing bird rising from stone. The water that spurted from its wings shimmered gold—not yellow, gold—and fell with a sound that wasn't quite water. It was like the hum of ancient chants trapped in liquid.

She sat on one of the curved benches surrounding it, trying to clear her mind.

And that's when she saw her.

A girl, maybe twenty, wearing an Ivory Crest uniform—but outdated, like something from the 70s. Her hair was braided with cowries, and her eyes glowed faintly with violet light. She walked slowly around the fountain, trailing her fingers through the golden water.

Nia blinked.

The girl vanished.

Only to reappear across the fountain, now sitting on the edge, feet in the water, staring directly at her.

"You're looking for answers," the girl said, her voice echoing like it came from inside a cave.

Nia stood cautiously. "Who are you?"

The girl smiled, cocked her head. "A warning. A memory. Maybe both."

Nia approached slowly. "What's happening to me?"

The girl's smile faded. "The university called you because you carry a fragment. A piece of a story long buried, one only few remember. But knowledge always comes with a cost."

"What cost?"

The girl raised her hand—and golden flame burst from her palm. The water hissed. The wind stilled.

"The Phoenix burns those who try to rewrite fate."

Before Nia could respond, the flame flared and the girl dissolved into sparks, which drifted toward the center of the fountain and vanished.

And in her place, left at the edge of the pool, was a diary—bound in red leather, embossed with the Ivory Crest logo, and a single name:

"Ireti Afolayan – Class of 1979."

The moment Nia touched it, the courtyard shuddered.

Lights flickered in surrounding halls.

And from the depths of the fountain, something ancient stirred—watching, waiting.

That night, back in Room 206, she opened the diary.

The first page read:

"They said the Phoenix would save us.

But they never told us what it would burn first."