It was a rainy Saturday morning. The rich smell of Arabian coffee filled Molade’s study as she momentarily gazed at the rain pelting down the glass windows and enjoying the rhythm of the sound of each drop on the roof.
She loved the rainy season, the smell of the earth filling her senses, the promise of newness that came with it as the plants sprouted from the soil.
While others looked for safety and scurried for shelter from the rains, she loved the feel of its drops on her face. It reminded her of her childhood. One of her favourite past times was playing in the rain.
Molade remembered getting into trouble more times than she could count during the rainy season as she could not help but succumb to the temptation of dancing in the rain. The sheer joy and feeling of abandonment always brought a smile to her face. Indeed she was too old to do so now but always could not help the feelings of nostalgia the season brought with it.
The days of being wild and free, eagerly embracing the consequences of her disobedience. Sometimes she caught a cold from her careless act, but this never deterred her the next time the heavens opened and poured down its tears to the earth. She liked to think of the rains as heaven pouring out its blessings on the earth.
Drinking the hot coffee that would scald the tongues of others but was just right for her, she read the dossier containing information about Adunni Adesida.
She stared at the picture and could see why her son would fall for the drop-dead gorgeous beauty and talented architect. She was not surprised to find that the girl finished top of her class although at a local university within the country’s middle belt. Adjusting her glasses, she read through papers of information. Information about people was easily collected in this part of the country. Still, if asked by the individuals for their personal use, this same information would be an arduous task to gather.
Adunni grew up in Ibadan. She attended one of the country’s unity colleges, served in Lagos and worked in a top architecture firm before joining two other classmates to set up their own firm. The girl had taken on some laudable projects; she must say, Molade thought to herself.
Her father was late, her mother was still lived in Ibadan. She was the last of five children and had a sibling in the senate. They were not from old or new money but appeared to be doing well in their fields.
As she worked down the report, a name caught her attention, Dr Lanre Braithwaite. The family doctor and the doctor that took delivery of the child. Goshen Medical Centre, Mokola, Ibadan.
Her mug, half full of coffee, fell from her hand, spilling its black liquid on the paper. She grabbed some tissue at the far end of the desk to clean off the liquid and spread the papers across the desk.
She scrutinised the document, checking and rechecking the dates, wondering if she was going crazy. Alas! It appears that somebody had been lying to her for over three decades. She had to know the truth.
She rang her driver, “prepare the Range Rover. We leave for Ibadan in an hour”.
21stcenturybelle 