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Chapter 9: King

“I’m on a short business trip. Once I get into town tomorrow, I’ll see you.”

I hang up, and the silence of my hotel room at the Oriental Hotel presses in. I can still hear the echo of her voice, a sound that has become a quiet point of focus in the chaos of the week. I want to see her. I need to confirm that she’s okay and still standing. 

Lagos is a different kind of heat. It is not just the humidity. It is the pressure, the dense, moneyed air of the city and this expensive suite. The opulence is staggering. Crystal decanters, thread counts in the Egyptian cotton sheets I can feel with my fingers, a minibar stocked with vintages that cost more than my first car. It is all a performance for an audience of one, and I am the reluctant critic. I do not complain. In this world, you accept the extravagance as part of the language. You learn it, you speak it, but you do not let it define you.

My client, the First Son, is not new, but his demands are escalating. The emergency meeting that had him flying me all the way from Abuja to Lagos was a formality, a fifteen-minute conversation sandwiched between a round of golf and the real business, which is the party I just left at his Ikoyi residence. I could have declined his invitation and it wouldn’t have been a problem, but I had come with hopes to present Deze’s case to him. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance to speak, as he had a million and one things to say—one of which was an offer to buy out Barrett Brothers and reduce me to being his official event planner. An offer I politely declined. It wasn’t the first time he’d thrown in that proposal, and to be honest, I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable with his insistence. I can only imagine what Deze and other women go through in a world of men that can’t take no for an answer in a professional setting.

My head still throbs from the sensory assault of the party. The bass from the sound system had vibrated in my bones. The air, thick with cigar smoke, expensive perfume, and the sharp, sweet scent of decadence. I had watched his entourage, a collection of young men and women with inflated titles. Senior Special Assistant on Digital Innovation. Head of New Media Protocols. Adviser on Social Media Matters. Their only job seemed to be orbiting him, laughing at his jokes, ensuring the champagne never stopped flowing. The Office of the First Son does not exist in our constitution, but you would not know it from the way taxpayer money funds this circus. His aides have aides. It is a Russian nesting doll of patronage and privilege, and it turns my stomach.

He introduced me to a woman. Maya. I recognized her instantly from social media, the girlfriend of a popular influencer. Drop-dead gorgeous, no denying it. All curvy angles, flawless skin, and eyes that promise a world of trouble.

“King, this is Maya. Maya, this is the planner I told you about. The best in Abuja,” the First Son said, his arm slung around her shoulder, a gesture of casual ownership.

Maya’s eyes scanned me, from my shoes to my face, and she smiled. “The best? I like the best.”

For the next hour, she was a shadow. A tipsy, insistent, intoxicatingly beautiful shadow. She brushed against my arm, her laughter a little too loud in my ear, her compliments a little too direct. “You are not like these other guys,” she slurred, leaving her breath warm against my neck. “You are solid.”

My body responded to her proximity. I am a man, not a statue. But my mind is a locked vault. I do not play around with other men’s women. It is a messy, dishonorable game, and I have enough chaos in my life. It is a principle, one of the few lines I refuse to cross. Ambition is one thing. This is another.

When I finally extricated myself and took a car back to the hotel, she slipped in beside me into the backseat. 

“Oriental?” she asked. I nodded, showing a smile that had reached its limits. “Me too.” She giggled.

Throughout the ride, she talked. Touching me, rubbing my arm and thigh, whispering to my ear. It was pure sexual harassment, but any reaction from me in this small space would have had her looking like the victim. I don’t want to trend online for being an assaulter.

“King,” she said once we got into the hotel lobby, “thanks for the ride.”

When I didn’t respond, she moved closer and flipped her weave back to show me cleavage that had been in my face all night.

“My room is just on the fifth floor. We could have a nightcap.” Her eyes were heavy with intent.

“That is not a good idea.”

“Why? Don’t you find me attractive?”

“I find you very attractive. But you are also someone else’s problem. Goodnight, Maya.”

I turned toward the elevators. She followed and stayed with me all the way to my door on the twelfth floor. I waved the keycard over the lock panel. The green light blinked. I opened the door and turned to block the entrance with my body.

“This is where you stop.”

Her face fell, showing genuine confusion and irritation. “You are serious.”

“I am.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head with a scoff before turning and walking away. I was amused. I’ve seen her type many times; I blame the men who can’t say no to them. 

I locked myself in, and the first thing I did was call Deze. We didn’t speak for long. I just wanted to know how she was doing, and she told me she was fine. She sounded fine. After the call, I took a shower to expunge Maya’s fragrance from my body. Then, I returned to the coolness and peace of the room, staring out the ceiling-to-floor window.

I’m still there when Nabil’s call meets me. I walk to the minibar where my phone is resting and take a seat and a bottle of water before answering the call.

“King. Are you sitting down?” 

“I’m always sitting down when you call, Nabil. It is a survival tactic. What is it?”

“The case. The NFCC case against Deze. It is gone.”

I sit straight. “Gone how?”

“Struck off. Vaporized. I have never seen anything like it. The case file has been marked for indefinite review. The prosecutor has lost all interest. It is over.”

A wave of relief washes over me, so potent it is almost dizzying. “How?”

“That is what I was going to ask you. Did you talk to your uncle?”

The mention of my uncle is a bucket of cold water. “No. I would never.”

“Then who? This kind of result does not just happen. This is a surgical strike. Someone with serious reach made a call.”

“I don’t know, Nabil. I swear. I’m just glad she’s free.” I truly am. The feeling is pure and relieving.

Nabil laughs. “King, what is it about this one? Seriously. I have seen women throw themselves at you for years. You’re polite and you keep it moving. But this one… you’re diving into NFCC fires for her. You’re gathering evidence. What is it?”

I look out the window at the glittering Lagos skyline. What is it? It is not one thing. It is the way she looked at that gala, a perfect blend of control and professionalism. Or was it the wedding? Classiness and hidden vulnerability. How about her laugh at the amusement park? Unguarded and tender. It is the brutal injustice of seeing a brilliant career destroyed because she would not play a corrupt man’s game. The need to stand between her and the wolves, not because she is weak, but because the wolves should not win.

I laugh, a short, soft sound. “I don’t know, man. But I want her. That is all.”

Nabil snorts. “You want her. For just knacks or…?”

“No.”

He waits for me to say more, but I’m quiet.

“Okay, Mr. Barrett. Be careful sha. Women you want are usually the ones that change your entire life.”

We hang up, and his words linger in the air. Change your entire life. I finish the water and get ready for bed, canceling my plans to see the First Son for breakfast to talk about Deze. I book the first flight out, lucky to catch a seat in business class. I then shut my eyes and my mind goes into a whirlwind of Deze’s freedom and the power that secured it.

***

The first flight to Abuja feels longer than usual. My head is a reel of images. Deze’s face when I last saw her, shadowed with fear, when Abubakar came for her at the parking lot. Nabil’s voice saying, “It’s over.” The glittering, empty excess of Lagos. I need the familiar order of my own space to process it all.

As my ride pulls up to my gate, the first thing I see is the car parked out front. A Toyota Sienna. A practical, unassuming, family-hauling minivan. A slow smile touches my lips. Only one person I know would drive such a vehicle with unapologetic pride.

I pay the driver and walk up the path, my eyes scanning the front windows, which have been thrown wife open. She has a key, and she uses it with the casual authority of someone who owns a piece of the soul of this place, not just the deed.

I push the door open and step inside. Victony’s voice from the sound system hits me first, not loud enough to shake the walls, but loud enough to disturb the quiet and orderliness I’m known for. I look around my usual ship-shape living room and all I see is messiness. A pair of flip-flops beside the coffee table, a box of tools strewn open with spilling tools on my favorite couch, an empty pet bottle of soda and a half-eaten donut that looks as big as a small pizza on the floor. Resting against the wall are two large paintings that formerly used to adorn my walls. The air smells of turpentine mixed with feminine cologne.

And then I look at her. Her back is to me, and she’s standing on a small step stool as she adjusts one of two new large canvases on my living room wall.

I let the door click shut and just watch her for a moment. She is petite, her frame bundled into a paint-splattered oversized sweater. She hums along to the music, completely absorbed in her task. The paintings are different from the old ones but still have the same eeriness. One is a swirl of yellow and deep purples, with something that looks like a lake or lagoon. The other is a chaotic splash of white and gold, where what might be a bird or demon is either being consumed by the flames or being born from them. I cannot tell. I never can.

I walk up behind her quietly, lean in and press a soft kiss to the crown of her head, right through her curly hair.

She doesn’t startle. “You and early morning flights,” she says, not turning around.

My eyes still trying to decipher the art. “What is this one supposed to be? The inside of a volcano?”

She finally glances over her shoulder with bright eyes. “It’s whatever you feel it is, King. That’s the point.”

“I feel like it’s going to give me nightmares. It’s… intense.”

“Life is intense.” She hops off the stool and dusts her hands on her sweater. “You’re just not used to looking it directly in the eye.”

I leave her to her work and head to the kitchen. I need coffee and something solid. I pull out eggs, bread, bell peppers and tomatoes. The music dips slightly as a song ends.

“Don is very angry with you,” her voice carries from the living room, clear and matter-of-fact.

I pause, a tomato in my hand. I did not mention the fight to anyone. “Did he call you?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just know.” She appears in the kitchen doorway, leans against the frame and lights a blunt.

“Hey, not in my house. You know the rules.”

She ignores me. “You think I need a phone call to know when my brothers are trying to tear each other apart?”

And there it is. The thing that always sets my teeth on edge. Sody, my adopted little sister. Her mom was my mom’s best friend, but she is late. After she passed, Sody’s dad, who was already married with two wives and nine children, dumped Sody in an orphanage. My mom couldn’t bear it. She took the five-year-old firecracker and brought her to stay with us. Sody’s dad is still alive, somewhere in the east, living as a powerful spiritualist. Sody’s late mom, like my mom, had been a prophetess and had found a kindred spirit in the man. From that union came Sody, who got a double dose of whatever that is. The sight. The knowing. She sees things in dreams, feels the shifts in the air between people, and even has encounters in the physical with the supernatural world. Me, I go to church. I believe in God, in faith, in a moral order. But Sody’s world of spirits and visions is a language I never learned to speak, a territory that makes me deeply uneasy.

“It was a disagreement,” I say, turning back to dicing the tomato in precise movements. “It will pass.”

“It won’t,” she says in certainty. “Not this time. You can’t fight to keep him as a partner, King. It will end badly. For the business, and for you two as brothers.”

I stop chopping and look at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need to let him go. If you keep him caged in Barrett Brothers out of guilt or some misguided sense of duty, he will grow to resent you so deeply that you will lose him forever.”

The word guilt lands like a physical blow. She knows which levers to pull. She always does.

“The business works because of our combined effort,” I argue, though it feels weak even to me. “It’s a system.”

She stares at her long acrylic nails. “And the foundation is starting to shake. Let him go, big brother. Before the whole thing collapses.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She turns and walks back to the living room, leaving a trail of smoke and the heavy weight of her prophecy trying to spoil my morning.

***

Sody leaves not long after, taking her unsettling paintings and her even more unsettling predictions with her. I finish my breakfast and clean the living room and kitchen. Let him go. The words echo in the empty house. How do you let go of a limb? Even a damaged one?

I drive to the office. The Barrett Brothers headquarters is a sleek, modern space in the Central Business District, a testament to the empire we built from my initial gamble and Don’s subsequent, solid groundwork. The glass doors slide open to a hive of controlled activity.

The event of the moment is the Rabiu-Samaila wedding, a high-profile, three-day cultural and religious spectacle. It’s the kind of job that cements reputations. My team is deep in the trenches. Junior planners are huddled around a massive mood board, debating God-knows-what. The scent of fresh coffee from the open kitchen mingles with the focused energy.

I head straight for my glass-walled office, but the peace is temporal. A brisk knock is followed by Marian stepping in. She’s a woman in her late thirties, all efficiency and no nonsense. Right now, her face is a mask of pure frustration.

“King, good, you’re back,” she says, not wasting time on pleasantries. “I need your authorization on the customs clearance for the fireworks for the Rabiu wedding. The shipment is held up at the port, and the agent is insisting on a director-level approval. I’ve been calling Don since yesterday afternoon. His phone is off. Is it because he never approved of the shipment in the first place? He said it was too extravagant, that we just needed to buy from Lagos. But I told him that we’re buying more than we need for the wedding because we can sell to other planners and use some for other events…”

I stop her by clearing my throat. Don’s behavior makes her second-guess herself and she feels like she always has to explain her moves.

“Did I or did I not approve of that shipment, Marian?”

“You did.”

“Who signed off on it?”

“You. But Don fought us both because of it and now, his phone is off. It was on when I started calling him. Please, help.”

She slides a tablet across my desk, and I scan it. Don’s phone is never off. He might be moody, but he’s always reachable for work. This is a statement. A cold, deliberate withdrawal.

“It’s fine, Marian. I’ll handle it.” I scribble my electronic signature on the screen. This is Don’s domain. His absence creates a vacuum I’m forced to fill. “Is there anything else?”

“The permits for closing the street for the Nikkah procession. Also waiting on his signature. I’ll have the files sent to you.” She hesitates, her professional demeanor cracking for a second. “Is everything alright with him?”

“He’s taking some personal time,” I respond with a smile. “Just route anything urgent through me for now.”

She nods, but the doubt remains in her eyes as she leaves. The moment the door closes, I pick up my phone and call our accountant, Boma, who works remotely.

“Good morning, oga.”

“Send me a summary of our accounts. All of them. I want to see our liquidity and our operational float. As soon as you can, please.”

There’s a slight pause on the other end. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

I hang up and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The request is routine, but my motivation isn’t. Sody’s words are a drumbeat in my head. I need to know the numbers, the value of the dream we built together, and the price of severing it.

Boma’s email comes through an hour later. I open the spreadsheet and see the numbers neat and orderly in their cells. They tell a story of success, of growth. But all I can see is the potential division and subtraction.

Pushing back from the desk, I stand and walk out of my office. I lean against the doorframe and look out over the large, open space. My staff is busy, a well-oiled machine. But I see the empty chair in the office at the far corner, where he usually holds court with the logistics and operations team. I see the uncluttered desk. I see Marian, now on the phone, her shoulders still tense.

The system is working. But it’s working harder, straining at a seam only I can see. The machine is missing a crucial gear. The hive is without its field general, and it’s impossible to imagine this place, this thing we built with our own hands, without him in it.

My treacherous mind yanks me back, away from the sterile office lights and the hum of computers, into the humid, diesel-scented darkness of a night six years ago.

We were already established in business, a reputation without blemish. And that night, we felt invincible. We had just secured the First Son as a client. Of course, his father wasn’t the president then, but their family was part of the richest 1% in the country. He wasn’t our first major client, but our biggest. It felt like a coronation. We’d been working late with Ifechi that night—she was our accountant then—finalizing the pitch documents. The call came around 10 PM, just as we had rounded up. 

Meet me at Club Eclipse. No need to pitch. I’ll sign, we’ll celebrate. 

Don’s car had broken down a couple of days before, so I had given mine to him and Ifechi to use, since hers was also at the mechanic’s. She was to head home from the office while we met up with the First Son. Hence, she took the car and we hitched a ride, thinking it would be a quick drink. But one drink turned into several, and one nightclub led us to two others. The bass was a physical force, the champagne was flowing, and the world was ours. We were kings.

We stumbled out at 4 AM and met the usual quiet of Abuja, the music still ringing in our ears. We were drunk and laughing, replaying the night’s success. Don had a drink in his hand while I held a blunt that only the First Son had smoked and passed to me, even though I wasn’t a smoker. Talking loudly, we walked the length of a full street until we came out to the highway, realizing the distance we’d walked.

“Bro, you wan trek go house?” I asked Don.

“As e dey do me, I fit waka reach Zimbabwe now!”

We both burst into laughter, barely noticing the car that slowed down beside us.

Then the window rolled down.

I saw the glint of metal in the dim streetlight. I heard a voice, thick with rage. “You dey fuck my wife?”

Time didn’t slow down. It shattered.

A flash. A crack. I felt a searing heat graze my knuckles, a freak shot as I instinctively threw my hands up. But Don saw it before I did. He was always the one who saw the physical threat coming. He dove into me, a human shield, shoving me toward the relative cover of a concrete pillar.

The second crack was louder, closer.

He grunted, a soft, wet sound, and fell on me.

The car sped off, tires screeching. The world snapped back into a horrifying, high-definition focus. Don was on the ground, blood, shockingly dark and vivid, pouring from his face, covering his eye, his cheek, soaking into the pavement.

“Don! Don!”

His body was limp. I looked around, but there was no one in sight. A cold, clinical clarity descended on me, as I remembered the training from Red Cross when they visited my office and I paid a handsome fee to train me and my staff in First Aid.

Still panicked, I remembered the instructor’s voice when one of the interns had asked what we were to do when there was a gunshot to the head. We had all laughed, and I had teased her about having wild imaginations.

But staring at my brother soaked in his own blood, I was grateful for that question.

“Do not perform CPR,” the instructor had said. “But this is what you should do…”

Call emergency immediately!

I dialed 112 and luckily got a response. Stumbling through my words, I explained what had happened and where I was. I was still speaking when the line went off.

Stabilize the head…

I took off my shirt and padded the area around Don’s head. Only then did I remember to check for a pulse. But I didn’t need to. I could see the artery in his neck pulsing, but very slowly.

“Don?” I called.

Cover the wound with a clean cloth.

I stared at my inner t-shirt, already stained with blood. I had worn it all day at the office. But it didn’t matter if it was clean or not. Taking it off, I kept calling Don’s name, my eye on that damned artery.

You will not die. You will not die because of me.

I called 112 again. Same operator, same voice. I yelled at her this time, asking why the ambulance was taking so long.

“He’s dying,” I cried. “My brother is dying!”

I didn’t hear a word she was saying. I didn’t even know how long I sat there or if there were people around me. It felt like an eternity. Then, a hand on my shoulder. One of the aides to the First Son stood there, an entourage behind him, their celebratory mood vanished, faces pale. Passers-by that didn’t exist in the silent street just minutes ago now surrounded me, their voices and laments loud enough to make me go crazy.

“Bring a car,” the aide said, his voice quiet, authoritative. “Now.”

Don’t move the person, to avoid spinal injury.

But I didn’t care at that point. Don’s artery had stopped pulsing. He was either at death’s door or was already romancing the grim reaper. I had little hope that he’d make it.

They helped me lift Don’s dead weight. We laid him across the plush leather seats of an armored SUV that pulled up. I climbed in, cradling my brother’s head in my lap. My hands, my body, everything, soaked in his blood, as we raced through the empty streets. That was the night my brother lost his eyes. The night he took a bullet meant for my chest and his sacrifice became the unpayable debt that has hung between us ever since—a ghost in every boardroom, a shadow in every argument. A debt his wife never lets me forget.

The memory of blood and gunpowder is so vivid I can almost smell it. The weight of Don’s limp body is a cold stone in my lap. I’m pulled back to the present by the jarring ringtone of my office phone. I answer it on autopilot with a steady voice as I discuss floral arrangements with a client, but inside, I’m still on that dark street, my hands slick with my brother’s blood.

The moment I hang up, Deze comes to my mind to relieve me of my haunted past. I dial her number.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“King, hi.” Her voice sounds strained, or maybe it’s me still in a mood.

“Hi, Adaeze. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s too quick, too brittle.

“I’m in town now, and I think we should see.” I want to see her. I need to look at her and confirm that the freedom Nabil described is real, that the weight has lifted from her.

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and then a quiet, shuddering sigh. Hearing that, the way my voice seems to unravel her composure, sends a protective jolt through me.

“Yeah, we should,” she whispers.

“I know a place—” I begin, already mentally scrolling through quiet, discreet cafes.

“Do you have a wife?”

The question is so sudden, so utterly unexpected, it stops me cold. “What?” A light, bewildered chuckle escapes me. “No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“None.” Where is this coming from?

“Baby mama?”

“I hope not.” The words are automatic, but my mind is already racing, piecing it together. This is the fallout, the damage Yele left behind. A deep, fundamental distrust of men, of their motives and hidden entanglements.

Her questions hang in the air between us, and my own past answers them. Infidelity. It’s a line I can never cross. Not again. Not after what I thought was a harmless, casual affair with a bored, beautiful woman. I knew she was married, but I rationalized my actions by saying I wasn’t hurting anyone since feelings were not involved. But my brother paid the price. That single, stupid misstep is the root of the debt that chains me to Don. It’s the reason I can’t just “let him go,” no matter how much Sody warns me. How can I? His sacrifice is the permanent scar on my conscience.

Deze’s small and vulnerable voice cuts through my thoughts. “Can you…? Can you please come to my house? I’m at home.”

There is no hesitation. “Send me your location,” I say. “And just wait for me.”

I hang up, and a sudden, electric energy courses through me. The heaviness is gone, replaced by a single, focused purpose: go to her. I grab my keys, and I’m out of the office in under a minute, offering a curt “Back later,” to Marian as I pass her desk.

In what feels like no time at all, I’m standing in Deze’s living room.

“Talk to me.” 

“I can’t stay here,” she says. “Everyone… everything… I need to get away. Just for a little while.” Her eyes lift to mine, and the plea in them is undisguised. “King… I know it’s a lot to ask… but can I stay with you? Just until this blows over?”

I take a deep, deliberate breath, letting the decision settle in the space between us. “Okay.” My voice is steady. “Get what you need. You can crash at my place.”

The relief that floods her features is evident. She’s about to turn away, but I stop her.

“Blows over? But Nabil told me you’re free.”

She cracks a small smile. “Yes, I am. And trust me, I’m happy and grateful, but…”

She struggles with what to say. But I understand. Her freedom, though a victory, is shadowed by the damage the scandal has done. Her image has taken a hit that can’t be undone with just kicking her heels and starting over again. 

“I get it.”

She gives a quick, jerky nod before turning and disappearing into her bedroom. Alone, I let my gaze wander her living room. It is pleasantly messy. A stack of design magazines threatens to topple from the coffee table and I bend over to straighten it. The color scheme of the room is soft, blush pinks against cool, concrete grays. Feminine but grounded. There are artworks on three of the four walls but it’s the fourth wall that grabs my attention. It is not merely decorated; it is a sanctuary. A meticulously curated collection of photo frames. An older couple with kind, proud eyes. One of her brothers in scrubs, another in lab whites with a serious face, her sister bearing a smile quite like hers and a fifth frame with six children, whom I’m guessing are her nieces and nephews. The last, which rests in the middle, captures a moment of pure joy with Fana. Each face a story, a pillar of her life. I find myself wondering what it would take to earn a place on that wall.

The bedroom door opens and she steps out, wheeling a small suitcase. 

“Ready?” I ask.

“Yes.” But there’s a pause as she stares at the floor. “No.”

“No?”

She looks at me. “You know… I was just thinking, this is probably a huge mistake.” The words tumble out in a frantic, nervous stream. “I mean, we’ve only met twice. Literally, twice. And I’m not that type of girl, I swear, I’m really not. I don’t just… move in with men I don’t know.”

“Move in?”

“Not move in. Wrong choice of words. I meant…” She pauses again. “King, I don’t even know you. What if… what if we’re stuck in the same house and all this chemistry builds up… Because you know, we really have this thing between us. What if we…” She looks away and back at me. “You know… and it ends badly? Or what if we can’t even stand each other after two days? Not that I’ll be in your way. I know you’re super busy, so, I’ll be quiet as a mouse, I promise. Honestly, maybe I don’t need to do a sleepover. Maybe I just need chocolate cake and ice cream and a huge teddy bear hug. And I need Fana, but she’s out of town, and…”

I don’t interrupt. I just watch her with deep amusement warming my chest. This unraveling and whirlwind of anxiety and overthinking is the most real and unguarded she has ever been with me.

As she draws another breath to continue her monologue, I erase the distance between us in two steps. I don’t say a word. I simply take her hand. Her words cut off abruptly and she looks at our hands.

“If I give you a huge teddy bear hug and buy you chocolate cake and ice cream, will you change your mind about moving in with me?” 

My question makes her laugh. 

“Hmm?”

“We could start with the hug?” she responds, uncertain.

“Wince not. I’m good at hugs.”

“You are?”

“Come here.”

She steps in and I pull her into my arms. I feel her initial tension, then a gradual surrender as she sinks into the hug, pressing her face against my chest. I hold her, with one hand splayed against her back and the other cradling the back of her head. And what starts as a joke turns out to be something sweet and serious. 

The seconds tick by and I feel her fully settle into the comfort I offer.

“Should I let go?” I ask. She shakes her head and wraps her arms around my waist. After a long, quiet moment, her voice comes, muffled by my shirt. “King?”

“Mm?”

“Are you a good person?”

“I try to be.”

She doesn’t look up. She just continues speaking into the fabric of my shirt like she’s sharing a secret that’s just for the two of us. “When we were kids, my parents always warned my siblings and me not to talk to anyone who came to the gate when they weren’t home. They said they could be kidnappers, painted this whole scary picture. It was at that time that people’s children were turning into yams after picking money from the ground.”

I chuckle. “Wild times.”

“So, one day, this terrifying-looking man showed up from nowhere and was banging on the gate and all my siblings hid. They ran in and locked the door and somehow forgot me because I was playing at the other side of the house with the dog. But I was not afraid. I headed straight for the gate, looked right at him and asked, “Are you a kidnapper?’”

She pauses in her tale as I throw my head back in laughter.

“The sheer foolishness of a child.”

“What did he do?” My arms tighten around her slightly. 

“He laughed. He was just a man looking for work.” 

I laugh again and silence slowly returns. 

“Feel better?” 

She nods, her hair brushing against my chin. “Yes.”

I release the hug and she looks up at me. I reach down and pick up the handle of her suitcase. I look from her, to the suitcase, seeking her consent. She nods again.

“Well, you’ve already asked if I’m a good person. The least I can do is prove I am.”