CHAPTER TWO – Whispers in the Rain

The rain in Lagos didn't trickle.

It slammed, it roared, it made the city fickle.

Water ran down rusted zinc,

and every drop made Adesuwa think.

She sat by the window, laptop aglow,

watching the morning unfold slow.

A siren blared in the distance loud,

then vanished beneath the city shroud.

Her coffee was cold, her toast untouched,

her thoughts were wired, her chest was clutched.

The name still echoed in her ear:

"Juwon Bakare." Gone. Too near.

A jumper, they said. Just like that.

A fall from height, a brutal splat.

The university released a tweet —

some hollow prayer, polished and neat.

But Adesuwa knew. She'd seen this scene.

Too many times, in headlines clean.

A bright young boy, a secret kept,

a family mourned, a city wept.

She opened Ife's old case file slow,

and placed it side by side in a digital row.

The details blurred, the timelines aligned —

two different names, one common sign.

"Another one," she muttered low.

"Another stitch in the undertow."

Her phone lit up — a call from Zee.

That hacker genius, forever free.

"Morning," he yawned, "you're up again?"

"I never sleep when it starts to rain,"

she replied. "I've got a lead,

but I need access, I need to speed."

"Send me the name," Zee said with flair.

"I'll dig it up from the campus air.

If it's in the cloud or some hidden hall,

I'll pull it out and crack it all."

She ended the call and grabbed her keys,

pulled on her hoodie past her knees.

Her boots met water with every stride,

but her mind burned hot, cold rain aside.

The university buzzed with silent dread.

Whispers floated where laughter once led.

Posters flapped on empty walls,

while students lingered in common halls.

She spotted Amaka near the café —

eyes darting fast, feet set to sway.

A petite girl with a nervous brow,

hugging her coat, unsure of how.

Adesuwa approached, voice kept low,

"I need the truth. I need to know.

You worked with Juwon. You shared a thread.

What was he chasing before he… bled?"

Amaka hesitated, then bit her lip.

Her fingers trembled, a worried grip.

"He said he found something bad," she said.

"Something that'd shake the campus head."

"A secret group," she whispered next,

"a list of names, encrypted text.

He said he'd publish it — go live.

But then he died. No more drive."

Adesuwa sighed, her thoughts spinning wide.

"What kind of list? Where did it hide?"

"A student cloud, a shared school drive.

He kept it locked — deep archive.

Passworded with poems and song.

Only he knew what truly belonged."

"Can you guess it?" Adesuwa asked.

Amaka paused, a mental task.

"He liked proverbs," she slowly said,

"Yoruba lines stuck in his head.

'The mouth that speaks too much will bleed…'

That's one he wrote, like some strange creed."

"I'll try it," said Adesuwa, noting fast.

"Stay safe, Amaka. Breathe. Don't blast."

She turned away as lightning flashed,

her boots now soaked, her jeans all splashed.

By noon, she sat in her car again,

wipers fighting sheets of rain.

Her phone pinged once — Zee had sent

a link to the folder, the digital scent.

"Folder found. Locked with rhyme.

Took some guesses. Cracked in time.

It's deep. Audio. One main file.

And sis… this chant ain't mild."

She clicked the clip. The sound began,

a low male voice, not quite a man.

He spoke in whispers, slow and raw,

each syllable like a hidden law:

"Blood must bind,

truth to lie.

Silence the tongue,

or the Circle will die."

Adesuwa froze. That chilling line,

was carved on Ife's desk — a sign.

Back then, no one understood the phrase.

Now it felt like smoke in a sacred blaze.

The voice was old, and filled with hate.

A chant of oaths to control fate.

It wasn't just a prank or play —

this was a ritual, masked in grey.

She downloaded the file, stored it tight,

then set her GPS for the next site.

One name repeated in Juwon's file:

Chief Obanla. Power and guile.

A man she'd hunted years before,

but never caught — just slammed the door.

Now his name was back again,

dancing in blood, soaked in sin.

That night she met with Tunde Jola,

at a diner lit like old Victrola.

He'd left the force two years gone by,

but still had eyes that pierced the sky.

She slid the tablet across the table,

and let him read, as much as he was able.

He whistled low. "This isn't small.

This sounds like blood, bound by a call.

If Juwon heard this, and then was killed…

You're hunting beasts, not just the build."

She nodded once, her stare like steel.

"Ife knew too. That's why they sealed."

Tunde leaned close, voice turned grim,

"You need protection. This circle's dim."

"They hide in wealth. They sleep in law.

They kill with care, then sweep the floor.

The files you have? They'll trace your source.

You need to tread a silent course."

Adesuwa stood, her fists now tight.

"I'm done with silence. I'll bring them light."

Tunde sighed. "Then watch your back.

They strike with silence. No time to track."

Back at home, she changed her locks,

burned the burner, reset clocks.

She watched the rain fall one more time,

its rhythm heavy, cruel, sublime.

She knew tomorrow would draw her near —

to secrets cloaked in fear and smear.

But she had one thing they could not hide —

a vow for truth, still burning inside.

The Circle had whispered in the past.

Now it roared.

And she would last.