Before The Empire

Once upon a time, I believed my father was invincible. When I was ten, I thought my father was someone that could fix anything. If I hurt my knee, Daddy carried me and told me I was tougher than pain. If I did poorly on a math test, Daddy sat with me and worked through numbers until I didn't think they were my enemy anymore. If I had a nightmare, he would kiss my forehead and always say this. "Oreva, you are an Eze. We don't run away from storms. We become the storm." When I was young, I thought storms were things that happen to other people. I believed my family was untouchable. I was wrong. The first c***k came to our world one Tuesday afternoon. My mother was crying in the living room when I arrived from school. Beside her was Daddy looking calm, although I could see through his eyes that there was another story. He smiled when he saw me. "Come here my princess." I dropped my schoolbag and rushed to my father's arms. Although his arms felt so warm and familiar like they always were, his body felt weak. Too weak. "Daddy, what happened?" Daddy and Mummy exchanged glances before he said, "The doctors found something." Mummy sobbed more. My stomach tightened. "Something bad?" Daddy brushed the hair away from my eyes. "We will fight it." Cancer had arrived at our house. We treated it as an unwelcome guest and thought money could chase it away. Emmanuel Eze owned a number of construction companies, hotels, and real estates across the World. People rose when he entered a room. We flew to London, then to India, then to South Africa for his treatment. The doctors continued giving us hope. Every treatment was giving us time. And every extra month spent at a hospital came with a price of a chunk of our fortune. Our houses began to be sold off one after another. The vacation house in Dubai. The mansion in Milan. The beachfront house in Capetown. Mummy began selling her jewelry, while Daddy sold his investments. None of us complained; after all, what was money compared to the man who held our family together? I was nineteen years old when I began to learn that the love and desperation a family can have can empty even the deepest of pockets. I was in my second year studying Accounting when I traveled every weekend to help Mummy. Daddy was diminishing before my eyes; the broad-shouldered man I once carried on his shoulders was in need of help to stand. But he never lost his smile. One evening when Mummy was fast asleep on the sofa, he called me over to his bedside. "Oreva." I took his hand. "Yes, Daddy?" He looked at me, pride shining in his eyes, the same way he always did. "You are the strongest person I know." I choked back tears. "No, Daddy. You are." He shook his head slightly. "I've had a good life, Oreva, but you, your story is only the beginning." "Please don't say that," I said. He squeezed my hand lightly. "Listen to me," he whispered almost inaudibly. "There are people I trusted that were not who they seemed to be." My chest clenched. "What do you mean?" "If something were to happen to me, look after your mother. And never let anyone tell you are powerless." I started to cry. He wiped the tears from my eyes with his thumb. "Promise me." "I promise." Two weeks later, my father passed on. The world turned silent. The only sound I heard was my mother's scream of grief, which I knew forever in my life meant a heart had been shattered beyond repair. At his funeral, his guests, which included politicians, business moguls and religious leaders were gushing over his kindness, his vision and the inspiration he was to so many. Standing beside his coffin, numb; all I felt was a desire to scream, to ask God why his prayers didn't keep him. I was empty. After the crowd left, a group of my father's trusted business partners showed up at our door with papers and kind faces. Tunde Balogun was one of them, my father's closest business partner whom I once affectionately referred to as Uncle Tunde. "Your husband left you in great debt, Oreva," he informed Mummy with a sympathetic smile. "We will help you sort it out." Mummy, weak with grief, agreed and signed the papers that she never truly read. I however, hesitated. "Shouldn't we have our lawyer have a look at this?" I asked, but Tunde smiled warmly and assured me, "Oreva, we are family." I wanted to believe him; my father did. Within three months, our assets were gone. The companies, the shares and our houses; even the one I grew up in. By the time our lawyer saw the papers, it was too late. The ownership was transferred and there was nothing left to do. I will never forget the day we had to move out. Mummy stood in the middle of the empty living room staring at the grand staircase where Daddy used to wait for us every evening before picking us up. She ran a hand over the wall and tears streamed down her face without sound. I carried the last box, taking one last glance at the house that had once been our kingdom but was no longer our own. The gates of the mansion slammed shut with a metallic echo that reverberated my last goodbye. We were given a small two-bedroom apartment in a middle-class neighborhood. The power went off that night, leaving us in darkness; the heat unbearable with the sound of buzzing mosquitoes accompanying us. Mummy cried herself to sleep, but I lay awake looking at the ceiling, filled with fear for the first time in my life; not the fear of being broke, not the fear of losing status, but the fear of forgetting the man who believed in me the most. In that darkness, I promised myself I would finish my education and put our life back on track; I would do whatever it takes to ensure justice for the father who was robbed. I turned on my side and wiped away my tears. "Daddy," I whispered into the dark night. "I don't know how I'm going to do this, but I promise you, I will." I didn't know then that I was about to lose more, to be broken so many times over, or that years later in the midst of a storm in New York, I would run head first into the man who was to change it all. The only thing I knew for sure was that my name was Oreva Eze and my story was just beginning.