The Unspoken Truth
The air in our small living room felt thick, like the moment before a thunderstorm cracks the sky. My mother's words landed like a boulder dropped between us. "What? Dad's family doesn't know about us?" My voice shook so hard I barely recognized it. My fingers dug into the couch cushions, as if clinging to something solid might stop the room from spinning.
She wouldn't look at me. Her eyes stayed fixed on her lap, where her hands twisted together like tangled rope. "Yes," she whispered. "They don't know."
For a second, I thought I'd misheard. But the way her shoulders slumped—like she was carrying an invisible weight—told me this was real. My whole life, I'd assumed Dad's family was just… gone. Maybe they'd died before I was born. Maybe they lived far away. Other kids at school didn't talk about their grandparents much either, so it never seemed strange.
But now, the truth hit me like a slap: Their parents knew their families. Ours didn't.
This wasn't just distance. It was a secret. A lie.
And with Dad gone, there was no one left to explain it.
The Weight of Goodbye
After Dad's funeral, our house became a museum of silence. His favorite chair sat empty. His laughter no longer rumbled through the halls. Even the clock on the wall ticked slower, as if time itself was grieving.
Then, one evening in May, Mom pushed open my bedroom door. Her face was pale but determined. "David," she said, "I'm pulling you out of school. You'll start somewhere new soon."
I wasn't surprised. Without Dad's money, we couldn't afford the fees anymore. But my stomach still dropped to my feet. School wasn't just a building—it was where she was. Favour.
Her name alone made my chest ache. We'd been friends since JSS1, when she'd rolled her eyes at my terrible project ideas and redid our poster herself. Over the years, I'd memorized everything about her: the way she tucked her braids behind her ears when concentrating, how her laugh sounded like wind chimes, the way she'd argue for hours about why "Things Fall Apart" was better than any modern book.
I'd planned to tell her how I felt next term. To finally say, "I love you," without tripping over the words. But now? Now I'd never get the chance.
The Clock That Wouldn't Turn Back
If I could rewind time, I'd go back to before the accident. Before the hospital calls. Before the coffin. I'd go back to the version of my life where Favour was still down the hall, where my biggest problem was whether she'd laugh or groan at my jokes.
But time doesn't bend. It marches forward, crushing every "what if" under its boots.
So I packed my suitcase, folded my uniforms, and tried not to think about the future waiting for me—a future that made no sense at all.
The Transfer
The school fought back, of course. The principal's voice crackled through the phone, sharp with frustration. "Mrs. David Okeke, this is highly irregular! David is one of our top students!"
Mom didn't flinch. "The decision is final."
I knew why they were upset. Losing the son of their biggest donor wasn't just embarrassing—it meant less money for new labs, fewer scholarships. But rules were rules. By morning, my records were being prepared for transfer.
A New Path: Mafia's School of War
The name alone sounded like a bad joke. Mafia's School of War. But Mom wasn't laughing. "It's the best option now," she said, as if enrolling me in a place that trained future criminals was as normal as choosing between rice and pasta.
I begged. I argued. I even cried. But her mind was made up.
The school's brochure didn't hide the truth. Between math and English classes, students learned things like "strategic combat" and "loyalty enforcement." Government-approved certificates were handed out—but everyone knew the real lessons were about power.
This wasn't a place for someone like me. I didn't want to be a kingpin. I just wanted to read books and see Favour again.
But wanting didn't change anything.
A Promise to Uphold
Dad's last words to me had been simple: "Take care of her." So even when Mom's choices felt like punishment, I obeyed. If staying quiet meant keeping her safe, I'd swallow every protest.
The Friend I Left Behind
At my old school, most friends stuck around for the perks—free snacks, rides in nice cars. But Favour? She'd once scolded me for wasting money on expensive sneakers. "David, these won't make you run faster," she'd said, grinning.
Now, she was in Lagos, and I was in Abuja, with no way to explain why I'd vanished. The guilt gnawed at me like hunger.
A Farewell Party
We were supposed to return to Lagos after a few weeks. But then Mom announced, "We're staying in Abuja until I finish what I started."
I didn't ask what she meant. Some secrets, I'd learned, were better left unspoken.
But before I could face this strange new world, I needed one thing: to say goodbye to Favour. Not with a text or a call—but properly. Even if it broke my heart all over again.
To Be Continued.