The Beginning Of The Fall
1534 Words
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Two Years Ago
The automatic gates slid open with a soft mechanical hum.
A silver Lexus RX 370 glided into the compound, tires rolling smoothly over the patterned stone driveway that curved through the mansion grounds.
At the time, I barely noticed.
I was too busy sitting cross-legged on a woven mat spread neatly across the garden lawn, counting the ridiculous amount of stones scattered around me.
“Twenty-six… twenty-seven…”
“No!” Chetachi groaned dramatically beside me. “This cannot be happening.”
I glanced sideways.
She sat with her legs folded, lips pressed tightly together in frustration, tossing tiny pebbles back into a basket with unnecessary aggression.
“This man has officially ruined my life.”
I raised a brow. “Your driver?”
“Yes, my driver!” she hissed. “I specifically told him to bring me layered sedimentary rocks, Zara. Do these look sedimentary to you?”
She shoved the rocks closer to my face.
I blinked.
“They look like rocks.”
“Exactly!” she said, throwing her hands into the air.
I laughed quietly.
Chetachi had been obsessively gathering stone collections for her science project for almost three weeks now. Her driver had recently returned from his village in Ondo State, and apparently, she had trusted him with part of her precious “scientific mission.”
Bad idea.
“These are completely wrong,” she muttered again.
I picked one up, inspecting it like I actually cared.
“Hm.”
She stared at me expectantly.
I shrugged.
“Welcome to science class.”
Her jaw dropped.
“You’re evil.”
“You’ll survive.”
I carefully arranged the stones inside the square glass display box sitting beside me, separating the smooth ones from the rough-textured pieces.
The surrounding garden smelled faintly of fresh flowers and damp earth.
It was my favorite part of the house.
Mother had hired some expensive landscape designer who transformed the backyard into something that looked straight out of a luxury magazine.
Tall palm trees lined the edges of the compound. White roses bloomed near the stone pathway, while tiny solar lights sat hidden between trimmed hedges. A small fountain flowed quietly nearby, water catching sunlight like glass.
Beyond the garden sat the high estate fence separating our house from the neighboring property.
Chetachi’s house.
We practically grew up through that fence.
Same estate. Same schools. Same loneliness.
Her mother was Lebanese. Elegant. Beautiful. Impossible to ignore.
Her father, well.
Busy.
Always busy.
A typical Anambra businessman I had heard about more than I had actually seen.
Her mother, however, was famous enough to make up for it. A retired model who now trained young girls and owned one of the biggest luxury fashion brands in Lagos.
Sometimes I wondered if all rich parents secretly signed contracts promising to never stay home.
The sound of a car door opening pulled me from my thoughts.
I looked up.
The Lexus had stopped beneath the car canopy.
A woman stepped out.
Stylish sunglasses.
Flowing caramel-colored jumpsuit.
Designer heels clicking softly against the pavement.
Long dark curls resting perfectly over one shoulder.
Even from a distance, she carried herself like confidence had personally chosen her.
I froze.
“No way.”
Then..
“AUNTY TRACY!”
I shot to my feet so fast the stones nearly spilled.
Without thinking, I ran.
She laughed immediately, opening her arms just as I reached her.
“There’s my favorite girl!”
I threw my arms around her tightly.
She smelled like expensive perfume and airport travel.
“Aunty Tracy!” I said again. “You didn’t tell me you were coming!”
She pulled back dramatically.
“And miss seeing that reaction? Never.”
Behind me, Chetachi approached, suddenly much more composed.
“Aunty Tracy,” she greeted politely.
“Look at you!” Tracy gasped. “Chetachi? You’ve grown so much!”
Chetachi grinned. “Well, I am fifteen this year.”
“Damn, you people become taller and make me feel old.”
“You’re literally impossible to look old,” I said.
She removed her sunglasses slowly.
Sharp cheekbones. Smooth dark skin. Bright eyes that somehow always looked amused.
“You still know how to flatter me,” she smiled.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
Chetachi suddenly straightened beside me, her expression changing slightly like she had just remembered something important.
“Wait…” she started slowly. “Does this mean....”
I quickly turned to her before she could finish.
“Oh please,” I cut in with a playful scoff. “Don’t start acting like immigration officers. She has literally just arrived.”
Chetachi narrowed her eyes at me knowingly.
“You know exactly what I wanted to ask.”
“Yes,” I replied quickly, already smiling to kill the tension. “And no, we are not turning this reunion into an interrogation.”
Because truthfully,
The same question had already crossed my mind.
Did Mom know she was here?
Or worse,
Did Mom approve this?
Knowing my mother…
Probably not.
And that scared me more than I wanted to admit.
“Come inside,” I said quickly, grabbing one of Aunty Tracy’s shopping bags before the maid could. “Mom’s not around.”
“Oh?” Tracy raised a brow immediately. “Even better.”
Chetachi burst into laughter.
“That sounded suspicious.”
“It’s called freedom,” Tracy corrected, removing her sunglasses as we began walking toward the mansion.
The house towered behind us, sunlight bouncing softly against its glass panels. The double doors opened automatically as we stepped inside.
Cool air greeted us immediately.
The chandelier above shimmered faintly against polished marble floors as we strolled in.
Without hesitation, Aunty Tracy started walking toward the staircase.
Not toward the guest room.
Toward her room.
Or what she still apparently considered her room.
I exchanged a look with Chetachi.
“She hasn’t changed,” Chetachi whispered.
“Not even a little,” I muttered.
Aunty Tracy had always been like that.
Comfortable.
Bold.
Like leaving didn’t mean losing ownership.
She disappeared upstairs confidently, dragging her suitcase like she had never left.
And honestly…
Maybe part of her never had.
Aunty Tracy was my mother’s younger sister, the only sibling she had.
Growing up, I used to think my mother loved her in a way she didn’t know how to love anyone else.
After university, a ridiculously expensive private school my mum paid for entirely. Aunty Tracy had discovered she wanted more than just comfort.
She wanted business.
Freedom.
Something that belonged to her.
Mum had trusted her enough to put her in charge of one of our biggest jewel branches in Lagos.
And Tracy had done surprisingly well.
She managed staff.
Handled clients.
Expanded sales.
For the first time, my mother looked genuinely proud of someone.
I still remember the day Mum bought her a car.
A luxury white Mercedes-Benz GLE Coupe.
The car arrived wrapped in an enormous ribbon at the front driveway.
Aunty Tracy cried.
Actually cried.
And my mother, who rarely showed softness, stood there pretending not to care while secretly watching her reaction.
“You earned it,” Mum had said simply.
That was how they loved each other.
Trust.
Sacrifice.
For a while, things felt normal.
Tracy lived with us.
Worked long hours.
Laughed loudly.
Turned every quiet room into something alive.
I was twelve when she moved into the house permanently.
And for years, she felt less like an aunt and more like the older sister I never had.
Until one day,
Everything changed.
I remembered the night too clearly.
Rain tapping softly against the windows.
Tension hanging in the house.
Tracy was standing in the living room looking nervous for the first time in her life.
“I found another opportunity,” she had said carefully.
My mother barely looked up from her tablet.
“What opportunity?”
“A friend in the US,” Tracy explained. “She has a business partnership offer. Fashion and jewelry imports.”
Silence.
Then:
“And you already agreed?”
The room changed instantly.
Tracy hesitated.
“My flight is tomorrow.”
I still remembered how sharply my mother stood.
“Tomorrow?” she repeated quietly.
“You made plans to leave without discussing it with me?”
“I know i have no valid reasons to justify my action, but i knew if i told you about it, you would not be in support of it.”
The argument lasted hours.
Voices raised.
Doors slammed.
Things said that probably shouldn’t have been said.
My mother called it betrayal.
Tracy called it independence.
By midnight,
She was gone.
She left the house that same night, probably booked an hotel.
And after that…
Silence.
No visits.
No calls around the house.
Nothing.
Just absence.
Now here she was again.
Standing upstairs in the same room she once abandoned,
Like nothing had happened.
Like years hadn’t passed.
Like my mother wouldn’t walk into this house tomorrow and possibly lose her mind.
I honestly didn’t know what scared me more.
Why did she come back?
Or what would happen when Mum found out.
- Writer
