Chika nodded once.
“Go ahead and marry Tunde Bello. I will go to the village.”
Mr. Obiora reached toward her. “Chika—”
But she was no longer listening to him. Something inside her had gone cold and quiet.
She faced Kemi fully and said, “This is not the first time you have taken what should have been mine. You did it before. You are doing it again. So take it.”
Kemi smiled.
Chika’s gaze did not waver. “But do not regret it later.”
Kemi laughed. “I will never regret choosing wealth.”
That night, Chika packed alone.
Nobody helped. Nobody truly apologized. Her father avoided her eyes. Kemi moved around the house glowing with victory. By morning, Chika had become a woman being handed over, not in love, not in honor, but because her sister wanted more.
The drive out of the city felt endless.
After a long while, the car stopped at the edge of a narrow path.
“Madam,” the driver said awkwardly, “this is where I stop. Cars do not pass the road ahead.”
Chika looked outside.
For a second she just sat there, staring at the rough path, the open land, the distant clusters of small houses, and felt like she was watching the outline of the rest of her life.
Then she stepped out.
Her suitcase was heavy. Her heart felt heavier.
“You must be Chika.”
She turned.
The woman walking toward her was in her late fifties, simply dressed, with calm eyes and a face made gentle by years rather than softened by comfort.
“I am Grace Eze,” she said warmly. “Obinna’s mother. Call me Mama Grace.”
Chika greeted her softly.
“My son is still out,” Mama Grace explained. “Work kept him, so I came myself. Ah, this suitcase is too much.” She immediately flagged down a local bike to help with the luggage and led Chika the rest of the way.
The ride into the village was rough. The path shook. Dust rose. Goats wandered without urgency. Women carried baskets. Children ran barefoot. Everything looked smaller than the world Kemi had fought so hard to avoid.
By the time they reached the house, Chika felt out of place in every possible way.
The house was small. Clean, but simple. Nothing about it looked impressive.
Mama Grace noticed the look on her face and said gently, “It is not fancy, but it is home.”
Chika quickly shook her head. “I understand, Ma.”
Inside, the house was tidy and quiet. Mama Grace took one long look at her and said, “You are too thin. Did you eat before coming?”
Chika shook her head.
“Ah-ah. Sit down first. My son’s wife cannot enter my house hungry.”
Those words did something to her.
Not because they were dramatic, but because they were not. They were just care, offered simply.
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