Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
NAJI
T he late afternoon sun beat down like it was mad at somebody, and the heat wrapped around my neck like a thick scarf I couldn’t take off.
My sister, Chiamaka, and I found refuge in a secluded corner of the park, where the sprawling branches of a wide magnolia tree cast a welcome shade over a weathered wooden bench.
We were distanced from the hustle of joggers weaving through the pathways, parents pushing strollers, and dogs tugging eagerly at their leashes.
I sat first—arms folded, sunglasses on.
Chiamaka lingered hesitantly in front of me, her posture uncertain as if waiting for permission to join me.
“May I?” she asked, her voice laced with an overly polite formality that felt out of place.
I didn’t respond immediately; instead, I shifted slightly to the side, offering her a subtle invitation. She quickly understood and took a seat beside me, smoothing the hem of her denim skirt with delicate movements, as if trying to smooth out the invisible tension that hung in the air around us.
“You… you look very pretty,” she complimented after a moment.
I laughed—short, sharp. “Stolen toothbrush! Ugh! Thanks. S-so do you.”
Her brows twitched upward, but she didn’t comment on the tic. That made me breathe easier.
“Before we dive into anything,” I began, but as I spoke, my elbow instinctively pulled inward, my body reflexively curling up for a brief moment as if trying to escape the discomfort.
“Stupid birds! Bubble-wrap bones!” I exclaimed suddenly, my voice ringing out louder and faster than I intended.
Chiamaka jumped slightly at my outburst, yet she remained silent. Instead of reacting, she simply waited, her gaze focused on me with a mix of curiosity and concern.
I felt a jolt of embarrassment surge through me, and I winced, taking in a deep breath and silently coaxing my next words to remain steady.
After a moment, I exhaled and shook my head. “That’s actually what I was about to tell you about.”
I turned toward her slightly, voice low but steady now.
“You probably figured it out at the dinner—or maybe they told you. I have Tourette’s. That’s why I was blurting r-random stuff. The outbursts. The twitches. The head jerk. All of it.” I paused, then added with a faint smirk, “Although… some of what I said that night was true.”
To my surprise, she laughed softly.
I did too—for a second.
But I settled again just as quickly.
“ It’s not something I can hide, and I’m not trying to anymore,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “All I ask is please … d-don’t stare awkwardly.”
My nose wrinkled in a comical display, twitching twice—like I was stifling a sneeze that refused to manifest.
“Eyes on fire! Eyes on fire!” I spat, the urgency of my words punctuated by a sharp exhalation. I added softly, almost a whisper, “Don’t make me feel like I’m some exhibit. I get enough of that already. I’m not fragile, but I n-notice everything.”
Chiamaka, with an air of thoughtfulness, nodded slowly. Then she turned to me, her voice unexpectedly tender.
“I’ve actually been doing some extensive research. On Tourette’s, OCD, and tics—all of it. I didn’t want to come into this blind. So I think I understand a little more than you might think.”
Her words took me by surprise, leaving me momentarily speechless. I paused, taking a moment to study her earnest expression before giving a single nod in gratitude.
“Thank you,” I expressed... And I meant it. “I came here to talk to you,” I added calmly.
A fly buzzed too close to my ear, and I flinched. My fingers grasped my earlobe, and my neck whipped to the right, as if I were trying to shake off an unseen annoyance.
“Buzz off, winged demon!” I shouted, swatting at the air in frustration, my breath escaping in a huff as I tried to regain my composure.
Chiamaka smirked, but to her credit, held back a laugh and didn’t stare at me with judgment.
“I hate flies,” I muttered under my breath before steering the conversation back on track. “An-anyway. Like I said… I came here for you. Not them. So please don’t try to convince me to talk to them. That’s not happening. Not today… not tomorrow.”
My voice wasn’t angry; just firm and cool, but not cruel.
Chiamaka held up both hands, palms out. "I wasn’t going to," she replied, her accent soft but confident. “They were wrong; I know that. My name is Chiamaka, by the way—as you may have already known before I was introduced at the dinner. But everyone calls me either Chia or Amaka."
"I knew before then. Pretty name, but I’ll sti-stick with Amaka. I… I already call someone Chi. So close enough,” I responded.
She nodded slowly. “I, um... I’ve been following you for years," she confessed, looking straight ahead instead of at me. "I wanted to reach out so many times, but... I was afraid of your reaction."
I tapped my fingers against my arm in a repetitive motion.
"I get that. I probably would’ve ignored you… or blocked you,” I said blatantly.
“Understandable. In all honesty, I didn’t know the real story about you until last year; not the one Baba told. Not the lie… but the truth. I overheard Mama crying one night, saying she regretted what they did to you.”
“H-how do you feel about everything?”
She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “I hated them when I first found out for lying. For acting like you were some shame they had to erase. But mostly… I hated myself for not asking questions sooner.”
“D-don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”
I looked away, lips pressing into a tight line. A wave swelled behind my ribs—grief, nerves, or something older than both. My fingers twitched, then moved to smooth the hem of my shirt over and over.
Then it hit.
“I didn’t ask to be this way! I didn’t—d-didn’t sign up for this factory default setting! Who left the door open?!” The last words came sharp, ragged, and loud—like they’d clawed their way out.
I gasped, chest heaving lightly as the storm of it passed.
Chiamaka waited, her eyes calm, respectful—like she understood that silence was safer than sympathy until the moment passed.
“But yeah, when Giselle reached out, saying you wanted to see us… well, they… we all saw it as fate."
I turned to face her directly, my curiosity piqued.
"How long before that dinner did you all know about it?" I inquired, eager to uncover more.
"Well," she began, her eyes drifting as she recalled the events, "your mother-in-law got in touch with us about a week and a half ago. She said you were finally open to meeting us. She took care of everything—flights, accommodations, the works. We flew out of Nigeria on a private jet. When we landed, she had a nice car waiting for us and booked us into a luxurious hotel. It was my first time ever leaving the country.”
I sat back, processing everything.
"How long will y’all be here?”
"Just four more days," she answered, her tone somber as she absently picked at a thread hanging from her sleeve. “I don’t know how we’re going to make it too much longer… financial wise. We barely have money these days for anything.”
Her words hit me harder than I expected.
Maybe it was because I was—technically—a billionaire now.
Maybe it was because not too long ago, I was that same girl hiding her pain behind forced smiles and praying for a way out.
Hearing my sister speak that kind of struggle aloud made my chest tighten.
She didn’t say it for pity. She said it like it was just a fact.
I looked down at my hands and didn’t speak on it—not yet. Because sometimes, guilt wears silence best—referring to my parents. And I didn’t want to offer money before offering understanding.
“But I don’t want to go back,” Chiamaka revealed, which took me by surprise. “Nigeria is... boring. At least it is to me now after being there for eighteen years. I’m ready for something new… more exciting,” she further explained.
I let out a light scoff, raising an eyebrow.
“You say that now, but w-wait until excitement shows up in a blacked-out SUV with tinted windows and no warning label or return policy and a delayed explanation.”
I rolled my eyes with a crooked smile, thinking back to the night I was taken from the peace I called home—and never returned.
"Dramatic much?" she teased, chuckling softly.
I released a dry laugh. "T-that wasn’t drama; it was my GPS completely rerouting my life without warning."
Her playful smile vanished slightly. "Surely that’s not how you ended up meeting your husband?"
I tilted my head, my fingers lightly tapping against my thigh as I pondered my response.
"Let’s just say… he didn’t just slide into my DMs; he dropped me right into a whirlwind of c-chaos."
Chiamaka squinted at me, intrigued. "What does that even mean?"
I shrugged, a sly smirk creeping onto my face. " Exactly. "
Chiamaka leaned in, voice hushed. “Naji… was it… safe?”
I gave her a look, an expression of bemusement on my face, that said define safe, then shrugged. “It is now.”
She sat back. “That sounds like a whole Netflix series waiting to happen.”
I chuckled softly, shaking my head. “Trust me, y-you don’t even know the half of it—the trailer alone would leave you on the edge of your seat.”
I told a jagged little piece of truth—wrapped it in riddles and sarcasm—just enough to satisfy her curiosity without actually giving her the ‘real’. It was more than I usually shared. And maybe that was enough—for now.
“So, is there someone special in your life?”
My voice wobbled around a tic, but the words were clear enough.
Chiamaka's eyes sparkled with mischief before she erupted into a fit of laughter, then immediately blushed.
“There’s this boy.”
"Mm-hmm. Please, go on," I encouraged, leaning in closer to hear more.
"He works at the hotel," she explained, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's really cute, and he has these long, neat dreadlocks.”
“ A dreadhead bombaclout,” escaped before I could stop myself.