The Unspoken Truth
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. "What? Dad's family doesn't know about us?" My voice trembled as I repeated my mother's revelation, my mind scrambling to make sense of it. She nodded slowly, her eyes avoiding mine, as if the truth itself was too painful to face. "Yes, they don't know," she admitted, her tone laced with something I couldn't quite place—shame? Fear? Regret?
Up until that moment, I'd thought it was normal—not knowing your extended family, never meeting grandparents or cousins. After all, many of my friends at school were in the same boat. They'd shrug when asked about uncles or aunts, saying, "My parents never talk about them." But there was a difference, a gaping hole in the logic I'd blindly accepted: their parents knew their families. Ours didn't.
The realization struck me like a physical blow. This wasn't just absence; it was erasure.
The Weight of Goodbye
Weeks bled into one another after Dad's death, each day heavier than the last. Grief was a silent shadow, clinging to the walls of our home, to the spaces where his laughter used to live. Then, on May 13th, 2018, Mom stepped into my room, her posture stiff with resolve. "David, I'm sorry," she began, and I already knew what was coming. "I'm pulling you out of your school. You'll be starting somewhere else soon."
I wasn't surprised. With Dad gone, everything was unraveling—our routines, our stability, the fragile normalcy we'd clung to. But the sadness still carved a hollow space in my chest. School wasn't just a place; it was where she was. Favour.
Her name alone was enough to make my pulse stutter. We'd been friends for years, ever since we'd been paired for a project in Jss One. Slowly, without me even noticing, those casual lunches and shared jokes had become something more. I'd memorized the way her nose scrunched when she laughed, the way her braids swayed when she walked, the quiet intensity in her eyes when she argued about her favorite books.
I'd planned to tell her next term. To finally say the words I'd rehearsed in the mirror a hundred times: "I think I love you." But now, the chance was slipping through my fingers like sand.
The Clock That Wouldn't Turn Back
If I could rewrite the past few weeks—if I could bargain with time itself—I would. I'd go back to the moment before Dad's accident, before the hospital calls, before the funeral that felt like a nightmare. I'd go back to the version of my life where Favour was still within reach, where my biggest worry was whether she'd say yes.
But time was merciless. It moved forward, indifferent to my pleading, to the ache in my throat when I thought of all I'd lost.
And so, with a suitcase packed and my heart in pieces, I prepared to walk away from the only life I'd ever known—into a future where nothing made sense anymore.
The Transfer
The call was made. My mother's voice, firm and unyielding, echoed through the phone line as she informed my school of her decision: I was being pulled out. The administration's displeasure was palpable—how could it not be? Losing the child of one of their biggest investors wasn't just a blow to their reputation; it was a financial setback. But reality was reality. They had no choice but to accept it.
A New Path: Mafia's School of War
With the paperwork finalized, my mother wasted no time. Her next move was already in motion: enrolling me in a new school right here in Abuja. The name alone sent a chill down my spine—Mafia's School of War. It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't a joke. The institution lived up to its ominous title. Here, students weren't just taught mathematics and literature; they were molded into future mafia henchmen, assassins, or—if they proved worthy—Mafia Kings, the highest title one could attain.
Government-approved certifications were still part of the curriculum, a thin veneer of normalcy over a world of calculated violence.
I fought back. Hard. Arguments erupted between my mother and me, heated debates that stretched late into the night. But her resolve was ironclad. In the end, I had no choice. Reluctantly, I surrendered.
The truth? This school wasn't for someone like me. It was a place for the strong, the ruthless, those with a mindset hardened by ambition or desperation. I had neither. Yet here I was, stepping into a world I never asked for.
A Promise to Uphold
My father's final words to me had been simple: "Take care of her." Listening to my mother, even when her decisions felt unbearable, was the only way I knew how to honor that promise. So I swallowed my protests and obeyed.
The Friend I Left Behind
Back at my old school, my relationships had been a mixed bag. Most of my so-called friends were there for one reason: the money I had. But Favour? She was different. The only one who saw me—not the wealth, not the status. Just me.
Now, she was miles away in Lagos, and I hadn't even gotten the chance to say a proper goodbye. The guilt gnawed at me.
A Farewell Party
Originally, our stay in Abuja was supposed to be temporary. But plans changed. My mother declared we'd remain until she accomplished her goals—whatever those were. With Favour out of reach, I needed closure.
So I approached my mother with a request: "Can I throw a party? One last goodbye for everyone here."
The words hung in the air. Would she allow it?
The words had barely left my mouth when Mum's face twisted into something between disbelief and anger. Her eyes, already red-rimmed from weeks of crying, widened as if I'd just spoken in a language she couldn't understand.
"David," she said, her voice sharp and brittle, "your dad just passed away, and you want to throw a party for your friends? Are you crazy?"
The accusation hung in the air like a slap. But I didn't flinch. Instead, I squared my shoulders and met her gaze.
"No, Mom, I'm not," I shot back. "Just because Dad died doesn't mean I should be like you." My voice wavered for a second, but I pushed on. "I mean, look at you—you look awful. You're always drunk, always crying, always breaking things around the house. It's like you've given up on everything!"
The moment the words spilled out, I regretted them. Mum's face crumpled, and tears spilled over her cheeks, streaming down in silent rivers. My chest tightened with guilt. I hadn't mean to hurt her—not like this.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, bracing myself for the sting of her hand across my face. But the slap never came. Instead, she pulled me into a hug so tight I could feel her heartbeat racing against mine.
"David… you're right," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Just this once… I'll let you have your party. You can use the house. I'll stay at a hotel until it's over."
I froze. This wasn't the reaction I'd expected. No shouting, no punishment—just quiet resignation. And somehow, that made me feel worse. But beneath the guilt, a spark of relief flickered to life.
"Thank you, Mom," I blurted, pulling away to look at her. "You're the best."
She managed a weak smile before her expression turned serious again. "Listen, David. No alcohol. No strippers. No drugs. And absolutely no nudity or sex. And try to stay out of trouble, okay?"
I nodded quickly, my mind already racing with plans. "Got it. No trouble."
With that, she turned and walked toward her room, her footsteps slow and heavy. I watched her go for a second before darting after her, wrapping her in another fierce hug. She patted my back gently before disappearing down the hall.
The Planning Begins
Back in my room, I threw myself onto the bed and grabbed my notebook. The party was happening. Finally, something to look forward to—something to drown out the suffocating silence of the house.
But as I scribbled down ideas—music, food, decorations—the weight of Dad's absence pressed down on me. The grief was a shadow, always lurking at the edges of my thoughts. I clenched my jaw and pushed it away. No. Tonight wasn't about sadness. It was about forgetting.
I flipped through my phone, sending out invites to everyone I could think of—classmates, teammates, even a few friends from old neighborhoods. A hundred people, maybe more. The more the better. The louder the better.
Then my phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen: Favour.
My stomach twisted. I'd sent her an invite, but I hadn't called. What was I supposed to say? Hey, sorry my dad died, wanna come drown our sorrows in my living room?
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the answer button.
The Weight of Unanswered Calls
The phone had been ringing relentlessly, a persistent echo of a connection I wasn't ready to face. Favour. Her name flashed across the screen again, just as it had countless times since the day I left school with Mom. Each vibration of the device felt like a hammer against my chest, a reminder of the life I'd left behind—the laughter, the shared secrets, the normalcy that now seemed like a distant dream. But how could I answer? How could I explain the storm that had swallowed me whole? The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on me, paralyzing my fingers every time I reached for the phone. So I let it ring. Again. And again.
And then, as if the universe was determined to test my resolve, the screen lit up once more. Favour calling… My breath hitched. My thumb hovered over the answer button, trembling. Ten minutes passed—ten agonizing minutes of me staring at the ceiling, wrestling with the words I could possibly say. "Hey, Favour. Yeah, sorry I vanished. My world collapsed, and I didn't know how to tell you." Pathetic. I swallowed hard, finally steeling myself. Just pick up. Just—
But the ringing stopped.
A curse tore from my lips. I'd waited too long. Again. The silence that followed was worse than the ringing—a void where her voice should have been. Guilt coiled in my stomach, sharp and unrelenting. Before I could second-guess myself, my fingers flew across the screen, dialing her back. The call hadn't even fully connected when her voice sliced through the line, sharp with frustration.
"Hey, David, what the fuck? Why haven't you been picking my calls?"
The sound of her voice—so familiar, so alive—sent a jolt through me. For a second, I forgot how to speak. Then the truth spilled out, raw and unfiltered, the words tearing free like a wound ripped open.
"I'm sorry, Favour. I… I kind of lost my dad. That's why."
The pain in my chest was a living thing, clawing its way up my throat. I could almost see her face faltering on the other end, the anger melting into something softer, something worse. Pity.
To be continued…