Ellen Banky Shaffa, a multi-millionaire married to my father’s friend, Mr. Augustus Coker, met death barely a night after the wedding. It was almost as though the universe had only called him long enough to witness it. The tragedy hit everyone differently. Ell was only twenty when she inherited the burden of enormous wealth. Managing CODAX and ViX simultaneously was no small feat, yet she handled both companies with unsettling precision. For all we knew, Ellen was a silent sweeper. No one ever saw how she made things work, but somehow she always did. I, on the other hand, was the loud one. The disappointment. The constant reminder to my mother that her younger daughter—even as a widow—was stronger, calmer, more responsible. The woman never let me forget it. Every conversation somehow circled back to Ell. How composed she was. How respected she had become. How she carried two companies on her shoulders without making noise about it. As though silence itself had become a form of power. And because of that, everyone adjusted around her. Everyone except me. Ellen rarely spoke. She moved through the house with a strange calmness that made people lower their voices without realizing it. The workers straightened up whenever she passed. Even the air around her felt organized. Meanwhile, Mom and I were in the middle of another argument. “Look at your sister, dear child.” I scoffed loudly. “And then what? Become a silent revolter?” “She’s married.” I laughed dryly. “She used an old man as bait. How she managed to swoop in on him is what I still don’t understand.” “That’s business. Pros and cons. You look at the bigger picture.” “Big nonsense,” I muttered. “She’s slowly dying under all that pressure and pretending it’s success.” “Your father’s company and her husband’s company are tied together now,” Mom replied carefully. “The boards are ruthless with judgment and decisions.” “I can’t silence my entire life because everybody wants to build some perfect image.” As usual, Ellen entered quietly, observant eyes sweeping across the room. She carried herself with controlled elegance, dressed in soft grey and black, her heels barely making a sound against the tiled floor. Thirty years old, yet she moved like someone much older than all of us. I groaned dramatically. “Please don’t start another lecture. I need rest, Mom.” Ellen paused briefly. “How was your day?” “Long,” I answered flatly before heading upstairs. “I made dinner,” Mom called after me. Silence. I scoffed under my breath. “The audacity.” “Shut up,” Mom warned. “I hate her.” “She’s handling a lot.” “You’re defending this, yunno?” “Get a grip, darling.” She walked out before I could respond. INT. DINING ROOM The dining table was already set. White rice. Shrimp sauce. Fish simmering in pepper stew. Mom and I had already started eating when Ellen walked in quietly, taking her usual seat like she belonged more to the house than the rest of us combined. I rolled my eyes. “You know, you could at least act like you’re alive. It’s causing concern.” “I’m hungry,” Ellen replied calmly. I smirked. “Interesting. I thought the living told no tales.” “Shut it, Tania,” Mom snapped. “Not when she keeps acting like we’re strangers in this family.” “I am normal,” Ellen replied, dishing food onto her plate without looking up. That calmness irritated me more than anger would have. I slammed my palm against the wooden table. “You all know exactly what you’re doing, and I’m not having it. Jesus Christ!” Mom sighed heavily. “Where are you going now?” “To my room,” I snapped. “Where I can actually speak to real humans and not robots.” “I’ll be going too,” Ellen said softly. “No, baby,” Mom quickly interrupted. “Sit with me a little.” Ellen simply nodded. I stormed upstairs while Mom watched helplessly. “I told you she’s not normal,” I muttered. “My sister is sick,” Mom whispered quietly. My phone buzzed almost immediately. Farida’s face appeared on the screen. She burst into laughter the moment I answered. “What’s with the darkness? Is there light outage in your estate?” “Maybe I just need to scream,” I groaned, burying my face into my pillow. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” “She walks around like a ghost.” “She’s an introvert.” “And I hate the atmosphere she brings into this house. Everywhere suddenly feels cold and quiet.” Farida laughed harder. “That’s dramatic.” “No, seriously. Even the way she uses her spoon feels creepy.” “Is she that scary?” “I wish. Her presence alone is enough.” “I could come over and scare her back.” “Don’t you dare.” Farida grinned wickedly. “You’re having a good time though.” I reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on. “Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?” A voice suddenly answered from behind me. “You shouldn’t stay in the dark. Real things happen

LEVERAGE The bar was crafted from raffia palm, its structure woven tightly in a way that reflected the local craftsmanship of the land, yet carried a faint touch of colonial influence that lingered in its design like a memory that refused to fade. Inside, carved wooden tables stood unevenly across the space, surrounded by worn plastic chairs that had clearly survived years of constant use. The air was thick with conversation and competition, as patrons—mostly local interpreters and basic students—sat scattered across the bar, locked in debates over palm wine served in a calabash gourd and simple stainless cups. Laughter rose and fell in waves, but beneath it was something sharper—pride, ego, and the silent need to be heard. One of the men scoffed loudly, leaning back in his chair with arrogance. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?” Anonymous 1 said with a dismissive laugh. “When real men were being made, you were still struggling at your mother’s breast.” A second man, not willing to be outdone, leaned forward. “Do you know how long we served under those white men?” Anonymous 2 replied sharply. “Back in our basic training days, we learned discipline and structure that this generation doesn’t even understand.” A third voice joined in, calmer but firm. “Still,” Anonymous 3 said, shaking his head, “this present basic system is more refined. More organized. You cannot deny that.” Anonymous 2 clicked his tongue in disagreement. “You call that refinement?” he said bitterly. “Back then, truth was not dressed in sugar. It was spoken plainly. And those who distorted it were dragged through the community, tied to horses, and stoned without mercy.” A brief silence followed his words, heavy with memory and discomfort. Then a voice broke through the tension. “Ndị banyi, ekelem unu!” Chief Ebiri greeted as he stepped into the bar. A chorus of respect followed immediately. “Chief! Odogwu himself! Okala mmo!” they hailed in sequence. Chief Ebiri smiled, acknowledging the greeting with calm authority. “Basic is still basic,” he said slowly, scanning the room. “But we are fortunate to learn from the master’s table.” His eyes shifted. “Lotanna!” A young woman stepped forward. She moved with quiet confidence, her presence instantly changing the atmosphere in the room. She flicked her gaze upward, her expression steady, her natural beauty contrasted by the bold intelligence in her eyes. “Chief,” she responded simply. “Nno.” Chief Ebiri chuckled, clearly impressed. “Ahh… the heiress herself,” he said, slipping a few cowries discreetly toward her. “Chai, nwa ọma… just look at her.” Lotanna sighed slightly, unimpressed by the gesture. “Please, sir,” she said flatly. “You already know I’m not interested in this.” Chief Ebiri only smiled wider. “Relax, relax,” he replied. “You know I admire confidence.” Lotanna turned slightly, discomfort flickering across her face. “I should go,” she said. “We have important guests arriving.” Before she could leave, Chief Ebiri’s attention shifted toward the older woman standing nearby. Mma Obiageli. Her presence was firm, grounded, and unshaken. Chief Ebiri tilted his head. “I want to marry your daughter,” he said directly. The room went quiet. Mma Obiageli blinked once, then responded coldly. “Taah! Tufia.” Chief Ebiri didn’t flinch. “I have money,” he added. Her expression darkened. “I would rather give her to a slave for shekels,” she said sharply, “than see her lie in the same bed with you.” A tension snapped instantly through the air. Chief Ebiri’s jaw tightened. “Then she should be ready to work,” he said coldly. “She will mine or till the ground if that is what it takes.” Mma Obiageli stepped forward slightly, unafraid. “At least she is not the one whose daughter was shipped away for cowries,” she fired back, “because he could not keep what is between his own legs.” Gasps rippled through the bar. Chief Ebiri’s face hardened. “Taah! Alu!” he spat. “Even with my red card, you speak to me like this?” Mma Obiageli did not move. “I dare you,” she said firmly. “I may be a widow, but I am not Lotanna. I will not tremble at your presence.” Her voice dropped lower, sharper. “I spit on the grave of the woman who named you,” she added. “She birthed a child without knowing the shame he would carry.” The silence that followed was heavy and complete. Chief Ebiri stared at her for a moment longer… then slowly, without another word, he turned and walked out.

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