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“Your father did not need a road. He needed a story with a road in it.” Two investigators in the back of a car, each waiting for the other to spend a word first and the one truth I had not let myself name sitting under three locks nine minutes
Nine minutes’ walk from my father’s gate. He could have walked it in the time it takes to boil water, any day, any of eleven thousand days, stood in front of her and said the thing. Instead, he sent money. Thirty years of school fees, a roof, a shop and an old woman on a veranda holding my hands and weeping with gratitude for the man who killed her son.
If I don’t return, Akanda. Not a sentence nor an explanation. A frightened man writing down the only thing that would matter if he became a body that could no longer speak. The name of the person to blame. An arrow drawn by a dead hand, pointing across thirty years at the man they buried on a Tuesday.
A madwoman does not keep a garden like that. Everything tended, everything chosen. Thirty years the town said Iyabo lost her mind waiting for a man who ran to Lagos and she has been sitting in a clean house at the edge of the red road, in complete possession of it, waiting for someone from that family to be brave enough to knock.
“Your father did not kill Bayo.” I had not asked. That is the first thing you should notice. I had not said the word kill and here was my uncle answering the accusation before I had made it, which is what a man does when he has been rehearsing the answer for thirty years. Every word he told me was true.
That was how I knew he was lying.
Chief Akanda Oyelaran was buried on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, strangers were already coming to confirm he was truly dead.
To his town, he was a benefactor. He paid school fees, built boreholes, and funded community projects. To others, he was something else entirely.
When his estranged daughter returns home after eleven years to attend his funeral, she discovers a family drowning in secrets, a locked room everyone fears, and whispers that refuse to die with the man who created them. Hidden ledgers, missing people, forgotten lovers, and buried betrayals begin to surface, forcing an entire town to confront an uncomfortable question:
Were Akanda’s sins his alone, or did everyone share in them by choosing silence?
The Sins of Akanda is a gripping Nigerian mystery drama about power, loyalty, corruption, and the dangerous cost of looking away.
Romance isn’t always candlelight and quiet dinners. Sometimes it’s loud music, dancing crowds and spraying money on a wedding dance floor. Experiencing an Owambe with your partner might just be one of the most unforgettable forms of romance.
Jelili finally sees the mysterious lady from Tesco again. His heart races, his confidence peaks and he even manages to exchange a few words. Then a warning hits him like a freight train: she might be much younger than he thought. Suddenly, romance turns into panic and reality crashes in with a text from Tunde: the bank wants to verify his address. Abroad life just got more complicated… and funnier.
Jelili approached UK public transport like a general going to war. The bus stop humbled him immediately. He stood confidently in the middle of the road like he was hailing a taxi in Ibadan, tapped his bank card on the bus screen like he was greeting technology and sat proudly in the pram space until a British mother nearly set him on fire with her eyes. By the time he travelled twenty minutes in the wrong direction and asked a stranger, “Which road leads to where I am going?” the abroad had completed his initiation. This episode captures the day the UK transport system baptized Jelili without water.
After three years of prayer points and heartbreak, Jelili finally got his UK visa. He screamed so loud the neighbours thought Nigeria had just won the World Cup. Within hours, he’d sewn a golden Ankara “travel outfit” fit for royalty and started practicing his British accent. Everything was perfect…well, until his cousin called at 3 a.m. to inform him his flight was yesterday.
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