Before The Empire

Chapter Two:Learning to Survive

Grief didn't arrive like a storm. It came quietly. In the empty chair at our dining table, In the untouched suits hanging in my father's wardrobe, In the silence that settled over our home after my mother's tears ran dry.

For weeks after Daddy died, I kept expecting to hear his voice, "Oreva, my princess." Sometimes I would wake up and forget for one beautiful foolish second, that he was gone. Then reality would return like a knife to the chest and I would have to lose him all over again.

Our new apartment felt nothing like home. The walls were stained, the ceiling leaked when it rained, the kitchen was so small that if my mother and I stood in it together, our shoulders touched. But what hurt most was watching my mother try to pretend she was fine. She had once hosted charity galas in gowns that cost more than some people's annual salaries. Now she spends evenings calculating how to stretch money for food, electricity, and my tuition.

One night, I walked into the kitchen and found her staring at an unpaid bill. Her shoulders were trembling. "Mummy?" She quickly wiped her eyes. "I'm fine." I hated those words. They were the adult version of a lie children tell when they don't want anyone to worry. I sat beside her. "You don't have to be strong every second." She gave me a tired smile. "If I fall apart, who will hold you together?" My throat tightened. I reached for her hand.

"Daddy left me to take care of you too." That was the first time since his death that she truly looked at me. Not as her daughter, but as the woman I was becoming.

University became my refuge. I buried myself in lectures, assignments, and accounting textbooks. Numbers were predictable, they made sense, unlike life.

My classmates whispered about how much my family's situation had changed. Some pitied me, others enjoyed the scandal. I learned to keep my chin up. To walk past them as though their words could not touch me, but there were nights when I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my eyes were swollen. I missed my father. I missed our old life, I missed the version of myself who believed that if you were good, life would be fair.

One Saturday, I returned home to find my mother sorting through a box of my father's belongings.

She held one of his wristwatches to her chest. "He loved this watch," she whispered. I sat beside her. Inside the box were photographs, documents, and a leather journal. My fingers froze when I saw my father's handwriting.

I opened the journal carefully. The first page contained a single sentence:

“For Oreva, if life ever becomes too heavy.”

My vision blurred, I turned the pages. There were notes about business, reflections about life, and small messages addressed to me. One entry read:

“Never let hardship convince you that your worth has changed. Gold remains gold, even in the mud.”

I pressed the journal to my chest and cried. That journal became my lifeline. Whenever I wanted to give up, I read my father's words. And every time, it felt as though he was still guiding me.

By my final year, money was tighter than ever. My mother began baking fries and meat pies to sell to neighbors. I started tutoring students in accounting and mathematics. Some evenings, we were so exhausted that we barely spoke over dinner, but we kept going because stopping was not an option.

The day my final results were released, my hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone. "First Class." For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Then I screamed. "Mummy!" She rushed into my room. "What happened?" I burst into tears. "I did it." Her eyes scanned my screen. When she saw the result, she covered her mouth. Then she started crying too. We held each other in the middle of my tiny room, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

"Your father would be so proud," she whispered. I looked up at the ceiling. "I hope I made you proud, Daddy." That night, my mother cooked jollof rice and fried chicken. It wasn't the kind of celebration we used to have.

There were no caterers, no champagne, no guests. Just two women who had survived more than they ever thought they could.

After dinner, my mother grew quiet. My mother sat quietly for a long time, then she reached for my hand. "Oreva," she said softly, "do you still speak with Elira? I nodded.

Oreva's Pov'

Elira Voss is my university friend, the one person I called when everything started falling apart, and I had nowhere else to turn. I met her long before she travelled to New York, back when we were still students trying to figure out what our futures would look like. She usually followed me home during holidays to stay over and that was how my Mom got to know her. She was always the bold one between us, the kind of person who spoke about leaving the country like it was already decided, not something to dream about. I used to admire that about her, even when I didn't fully understand it.

When she eventually moved to New York City, we didn't lose touch. If anything, distance made our friendship sharper. She would send voice notes filled with noise from the city, talking about rent struggles, job applications, and how "surviving here is a full-time job." I would listen and laugh.

"She is in New York now, isn't she?" my mother asked. "Yes," I whispered.

My mother exhaled slowly, like a decision had already been forming in her heart.

"Call her," she said. I hesitated. "Mom..." But she shook her head gently. "Call her, Oreva. Ask her the truth. Ask her if there is any chance for you there."

That night, I called Elira. Her voice came through the phone — tired, but warm. "Oreva?" she said, surprised. "Is everything okay?"

I struggled to speak at first, but my mother pressed the phone closer to me. I explained everything to her. And then Elira said something I didn't expect.

"You can come here," she said firmly. "It won't be easy, but you can stay with me until you find your feet." Silence filled the room.

My mother closed her eyes, as if she had been waiting for that answer all along. I felt my chest tighten. "New York?" I whispered. My mother nodded. "Not because it is perfect," she said. "But because you will not be alone there."

And for the first time in a long time... I felt a fragile kind of hope. "I'm scared." I said to my Mom "But I'm going anyway. Because you raised me to be brave." My Mom let out a smile I haven't seen in ages. I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. Hope, small, fragile, but real.

I didn't know that New York would test me in ways I couldn't imagine. I d

idn't know how many doors would slam in my face. Or that one day I'd meet a man who would change my life.