The rain hammered on the zinc roof of the small room. Emeka Okonkwo stood in the doorway, water dripping from his agbada, his chest heaving like a man who had just run a marathon. Ngozi—his Ngozi—was alive. Thinner, darker circles under her eyes, but alive.
“Emeka,” she whispered again, her voice breaking.
Behind her, the room was sparse: a foam mattress on the floor, a kerosene stove, a school uniform hanging on a nail—Simi’s uniform. The smell of boiled yam and crayfish hung in the air. This was not the life of a billionaire’s wife. This was survival.
Simi stood beside her father, looking from one adult to the other. “Mummy, you know oga?”
Ngozi fell to her knees. Not out of weakness, but out of a terrible confession waiting to burst.
“She’s your daughter, Emeka,” Ngozi said, tears streaming. “I didn’t take her from you. I ran to save her. And to save you.”
Emeka’s hands trembled. “Save me? Ngozi, I buried you! I poured sand on your coffin! My mother wore black for two years! What are you saying?”
Ngozi reached under the mattress and pulled out a worn envelope. Inside were photographs, bank statements, and a handwritten letter on a letterhead Emeka recognized immediately: his own brother’s company, Okonkwo & Sons Logistics.
“Your brother, Chidi,” Ngozi said slowly, “did not want you to have a child. Because the family inheritance… the oil licenses… everything was supposed to go to your firstborn. Chidi had already sold the rights to a Chinese firm. If you had a child, the deal would be void.”
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