THE DOOR OF RETURN, EPISODE THREE: The Ones Who Went In.
KEHINDE AKPORIEN@akporienkehinde866986
8 days ago
There were 17 missing persons reports filed in Ile-Aye in the last 10 years.
All 17 disappeared in the same month.
All 17 shared one thing in common: they had all asked about the iroko tree.
Ada did not sleep that night either.
She sat in her car outside the guesthouse with the doors locked and her laptop open, reading everything she could find about Ile-Aye. Academic papers sparse. Colonial records vague, deliberately so. Church records a gap between 1840 and 1851, as if an entire decade had been excised. Local newspaper archives she found one, from 2014, with a headline she had to read three times:
FAMILY OF MISSING MAN CLAIMS POLICE COVERING UP IROKO TREE DISAPPEARANCE
The article named names. Seven people, all locals, all gone within three weeks of each other. All last seen near the old iroko tree at the eastern edge of town. The police report had cited "voluntary relocation" as the likely explanation. The journalist had clearly not believed it. The journalist's byline, Ada noticed, appeared in no articles after that date.
She called Simi in Lagos.
"Girl, it is 2 AM," Simi answered.
"Listen to me carefully," Ada said. "If I stop picking your calls, come to Ile-Aye. Tell no one where you're going. And bring "
"Ada. What is happening?"
" bring the folder in my desk drawer. The red one. It has "
Something tapped on the passenger window.
Ada's heart stopped.
She turned slowly.
There was a child standing outside. A small girl, maybe eight years old, in a white dress that should have been visible from a distance in the dark. Ada had not seen her approach. Had not heard footsteps.
The girl was smiling. Her eyes were open too wide.
"Simi," Ada whispered. "I'll call you back."
She did not roll down the window.
The child pressed her palm flat against the glass. In her hand unmistakable, even in the dark was a key identical to the one in Ada's pocket.
Then she turned and walked into the darkness and was gone.
Dele was awake when Ada knocked on his door at 2:30 AM. He opened it immediately, like he hadn't been sleeping either. He was in plain clothes but his eyes were sharp.
Ada described the child. His expression didn't change, but his knuckles went white on the door frame.
"What was the color of the dress?" he asked.
"White."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Did she say anything?"
"No. But she had a key. Same as mine."
He turned and walked back inside without inviting her in. Ada followed anyway.
His walls told the story he hadn't. Photographs, newspaper clippings, a map of Ile-Aye with locations marked in red, strings connecting them. He had been investigating this for years. The iroko tree was at the center of the map and from it, red strings radiated outward like a wound.
"You've been investigating the disappearances," Ada said.
"I grew up here." His back was to her. "My father was one of the seventeen."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," Ada said quietly.
"He went to the tree on a Tuesday." Dele turned around. "I was twelve. He told my mother he was going to pray. He had converted he was a very serious Christian by then, but sometimes he still went to the iroko. Old habits." He paused. "They found his shoes at the base of the tree. Both shoes, side by side. Neatly placed. As if he had stopped to take them off before going somewhere respectful."
Ada thought of the footprints in Mama Agba's room. All those feet pressing toward the wall.
"There's a door," she said. "Isn't there. Under the tree."
"Under the tree." He confirmed it like a sentence he had been carrying for twenty-six years. "I've looked. I've dug. I've found nothing." His eyes moved to her pocket. "But I think that key is what I've been missing."
Ada pulled it out. Laid it on his table between them.
"Then we go together," she said. "Not alone. Like the old woman said."
He looked at the key for a long moment.
"You understand," he said carefully, "that some of the people who went in were found. Twice. Both times " He stopped.
"Both times what?"
His voice was very quiet. "Both times, it wasn't them anymore."
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