THE DOOR OF NO RETURN.EPISODE 4: THE PASTOR'S CONFESSION
KEHINDE AKPORIEN@akporienkehinde866986
4 days ago
The church had no basement on its blueprints.
But Ada could hear singing coming from underground.
The same song. Over and over. In a language that predated Yoruba.
It started with the pastor's hands.
Ada had gone to the church New Life Evangelical Ministry, built 1987, with a corrugated iron roof and a hand-painted mural of the Last Supper on the outside wall because Dele's map showed it sitting directly on top of one of the red markers.
Pastor Emmanuel Falade was a commanding man. Sixties, silver-haired, with a voice designed for pulpits and a smile that had been giving people false comfort for decades. He welcomed Ada warmly, offered her zobo drink, and spoke at length about Ile-Aye's history with the easy authority of a man who had decided what the history was.
Ada watched his hands.
When she mentioned the iroko tree, his right hand pressed flat against the armrest of his chair. When she mentioned the disappearances, his thumbnail dug into the wood. When she pulled out the key just briefly, to check a note on her phone and deliberately let him see it both hands gripped the armrest so hard she heard the chair creak.
"That key," he said carefully, "where did you find it?"
"A woman gave it to me," Ada said. "Before she died."
He said nothing for ten full seconds.
Then: "Mama Agba is dead?"
"Yes."
He turned to the window. Outside, children were playing in the red dust. Normal life, happening in the sunlight, while something underground held its breath.
"She was the last one," he said softly, to no one.
"The last what?"
He stood up abruptly. "I think you should leave Ile-Aye, Miss Fayemi. Today. Your research can be completed using secondary sources. I will write you a letter "
Ada stood up too. "What is below this church?"
He froze.
"I can hear it," she said. Her voice was steady. She was shaking inside. "Something is singing beneath this floor. I've been hearing it since I sat down. You can too I can see it in your face."
The pastor's composure cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You cannot hear that," he whispered. "Only " He stopped himself.
"Only who?" Ada pressed. "Only descendants?"
His eyes moved to her wrist. To the birthmark.
He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of thirty years had just landed on him at once.
He spoke for an hour.
In 1987, when he broke ground for the church, his construction crew found a chamber. Stone walls, older than anything colonial. Inside: iron shackles, still attached to the walls. Markings carved into the stone Yoruba symbols, mixed with something older. And a door. A heavy iron door set into the far wall, with a keyhole unlike anything his locksmith had seen.
He had sealed the chamber. Built the church above it. Told himself he was protecting the community. Told himself the door was a historical artifact that would only cause pain if opened.
"I told myself many things," he said quietly. "But the truth is I was afraid. I heard the singing on the day we found it. I have heard it every day since. It never stops."
"What are they singing?" Ada asked.
He rubbed his face. "It's not a song. I had someone transcribe it a linguist from Ibadan, she came down, she listened for two days. She said it was a list of names." His voice broke on the last word. "Three hundred names. The same three hundred names, repeated, over and over, for the last one hundred and eighty years."
The room was very quiet.
"They're still in there," Ada said. It wasn't a question.
"Something is still in there." The pastor looked at her and for the first time, she saw that under the authority and the composure, this man was terrified. Had been terrified since 1987. "Whether it's them, or what replaced them after 180 years in the dark I cannot tell you."
Ada stood. "Show me the door."
"Miss Fayemi "
"Show me the door, Pastor. Or I will find it myself."
He looked at the key in her hand. He closed his eyes.
"God forgive me," he said.
He stood up and led her to the back of the church.
TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 5...
Three hundred names being chanted for 180 years. What are they waiting for? 😭 This one got me tell me it got you too.
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