The kitchen pantry was always cooler than the rest of the house, a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away at the far end of the mansion. It was one of those places where time seemed to stand still. The air smelled faintly of spices, the earthy aroma mingling with the faint metallic tang of canned goods. Shelves lined every wall, meticulously stocked with imported delicacies and exotic ingredients—luxuries I could never afford but handled daily.
I often found myself retreating there, drawn to the quiet solitude it offered. The chaos of the Onyekas' world, with its polished opulence and unrelenting demands, felt a universe away when I was in the pantry. The steady rhythm of arranging jars, organizing shelves, and straightening labels provided a peace I rarely experienced elsewhere in the house.
That day, I had been assigned to inventory and rearrange the pantry. It was a mundane task, but one I didn't mind. Madam Adaora's sharp eyes weren't following me here, and her clipped commands weren't echoing in my ears. For once, I could work at my own pace.
As I hummed softly to myself, I noticed a dusty box shoved into the back corner of a lower shelf. The cardboard edges were frayed, and the label was so faded it was impossible to read. It looked like it had been forgotten for years, untouched by the meticulous order that governed the rest of the pantry.
I hesitated for a moment, glancing over my shoulder as if someone might catch me. But the house was quiet, and curiosity tugged at me. My fingers brushed away the layer of dust as I pulled the box into the light.
Inside, I found an odd assortment of items: a stack of mismatched napkins, an old recipe book with brittle pages, and a few other odds and ends that seemed to have no place in the pristine Onyekas' home. But it was the photograph at the bottom of the box that made my breath hitch.
The picture was faded, its edges curled with age, but the scene it captured was unmistakable. A younger Dr. Dapo stood with his arm around a woman who was not Madam Adaora. The woman's smile was warm and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she held a small child—no older than two or three. They stood in front of a modest brick house, the kind of home that belonged to a very different life than the one the Onyekas now lived.
My heart thudded in my chest as I stared at the photo. Who was this woman? And why had I never heard of her? Madam Adaora often shared stories of her family during her moments of pride, recounting their journey to success and the life they had built. Yet this woman—and the child—were glaringly absent from those tales.
I flipped the photograph over, hoping for a clue. Scrawled on the back in uneven handwriting were the words: "Lagos, 1996."
The date sent a chill down my spine. If this picture was taken in 1996, it didn't align with the family history I'd pieced together. Madam Adaora once mentioned that she and Dr. Dapo married in 1998. So, who was the woman in the photograph? And where was she now?
The weight of the discovery pressed on me, and for a moment, I felt as if the pantry walls were closing in. My fingers trembled as I slid the photograph back into the box, my mind racing with questions I couldn't answer. This wasn't just a forgotten piece of the past—it was a piece of a puzzle I hadn't even realized existed.
I returned the box to its dusty corner, shoving it as far back as possible. My hands moved automatically as I resumed organizing the shelves, but my thoughts were miles away. What would Madam Adaora do if she found out I had seen that photograph? She had made it clear from my first day in the mansion that discretion and loyalty were the cornerstones of my employment.
The sound of footsteps in the kitchen jolted me. I froze, my heart pounding. Quickly, I slid the last jar into place and stepped out of the pantry, closing the door firmly behind me.
Chidi, the driver, was at the counter unpacking groceries. He glanced up as I entered.
"Everything okay?" he asked casually, his voice calm and unassuming.
"Fine," I replied, forcing a smile I didn't feel.
But everything was far from fine.
I hurried out of the kitchen, unable to shake the image of the photograph from my mind. That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the woman's smile haunted me. Her warmth and the simplicity of the life depicted in the picture were a stark contrast to the cold, polished perfection of the Onyekas' mansion.
I wanted to forget what I'd seen, to convince myself it didn't matter. After all, it wasn't my business. My job was to clean, organize, and remain invisible. Yet, something about the photograph refused to let me go. It felt important, like a thread tugging at the edges of a carefully woven tapestry.
My thoughts drifted to the other mysteries I'd encountered in the house: the locked door at the end of the east wing, the muffled arguments I sometimes overheard between Madam Adaora and Dr. Dapo, the fleeting moments of tension that seemed to hang in the air whenever the two were in the same room. The mansion was full of secrets, and I had just stumbled upon one more.
But this secret felt different. It wasn't just about the Onyekas' polished image or their carefully curated life. It was personal. And it had the potential to change everything.
As sleep eluded me, I found myself wondering about the child in the photograph. Was he still alive? Did he know about the life his father now led? And most pressing of all—what had happened to the woman?
The photograph wasn't just a relic of the past. It was a challenge, an invitation to uncover the truth hidden behind the Onyekas' gilded walls.
By the time dawn broke, I knew one thing for certain: my discovery had changed things. I wasn't just a bystander anymore, content to blend into the background. Whether I liked it or not, I was now part of the story.
And the truth—whatever it was—was waiting to be uncovered.