COVENANT OF ASHES

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE: THE SCHOOL AND THE LETTER

One year later.

The sign read:

THE MIRIAM OKAFOR SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

“Even in ash, God grows flowers.”

Kids were everywhere. White uniforms. Loud voices. Chiamaka was chasing a group of them with chalk.

Victoria was handing out books.

Tunde was trying to fix the sound system and failing.

And I was standing at the front gate, holding Kael’s hand, trying not to cry.

“Stop,” Kael said. “You’re going to flood the courtyard.”

“I’m happy,” I said. “Happy people cry.”

He pulled me to him. Kissed my temple.

“You did this,” he said. “Not me. Not the land. You.”

The governor was there. Cameras. Speeches.

I didn’t talk. Kael did.

He talked about second chances. About covenants. About a girl who prayed in a tunnel.

When it was over, we walked through the classrooms.

New desks. New Bibles. New dreams.

In the last classroom, on the wall, was a photo.

My mother. Young. Smiling.

Under it: Founder’s Mother.

Chiamaka came in and hugged me from behind.

“We did it, sis,” she said.

“We did,” I said.

That night we had dinner at the beach house.

Just us.

Jollof rice. Plantain. Fish.

Kael burned the fish. Again.

After dinner we sat on the deck.

The ocean was calm.

Kael’s phone buzzed.

He looked at it. Frowned.

“Work,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I nodded.

Ten minutes later he came back.

With an envelope.

No return address.

Postmark: Lagos.

He handed it to me.

“Don’t,” I said.

“Open it,” he said.

I did.

Inside: One sheet of paper.

One photo.

And one key.

The paper read:

You thought it was over.

It isn’t.

The covenant has a second clause.

Check the drive. File 91.

You have 30 days.

— E

The photo was of us.

At the wedding.

On the beach.

And the key was small. Silver.

With a number stamped on it: 91

My hands started shaking.

Kael took the paper. Read it.

His jaw tightened.

“File 91,” he said. “There was no file 91.”

He went inside. Pulled out the original drive.

Plugged it in.

87 files.

88.

89.

90.

No 91.

He tried again.

Nothing.

“Hidden,” he said. “It has to be hidden.”

He looked at me.

“Amara. I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t apologize.”

I took the key.

“Where does this go?” I asked.

Kael was quiet. “Safety deposit box. Probably. Box 91.”

“Then we go,” I said.

Victoria came out. Saw our faces.

“What is it?”

Kael showed her.

Victoria cursed. “That man is dead and he’s still playing games.”

“Then we end it,” I said. “Tonight.”

We drove to the bank.

Union Bank. Same one.

Box 91.

The key fit.

Inside:

One USB.

One letter.

I opened the letter first.

My dearest Amara,

If you are reading this, then I am gone. And Elias has found you.

I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.

The land is not the only inheritance.

There is a second account. In your name. 500 million dollars.

It was set up by your father. To protect you.

But there is a clause.

If you claim it, you must also claim the responsibility that comes with it.

The board. The hospitals. The people.

Elias wants it. He has always wanted it.

Don’t let him have it.

Or give it away.

The choice is yours.

I love you.

Dad.

I read it twice.

Kael was watching me.

“What does it say?” he asked.

I handed it to him.

He read it.

“500 million,” he said. “And a company.”

I nodded.

He put the USB in.

One file.

File 91.

It was a video.

My father.

In a hospital bed.

Older. Tired.

“Amara,” he said. “If you’re seeing this, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I was a coward. I let Elias talk me into hiding you. Into hiding from you. But I never stopped watching. Never stopped providing. The account is real. The choice is real. You can take it and run. Or you can take it and stay. And fight. I pray you choose to fight. Because the world needs women like your mother. Like you.”

The video ended.

Silence.

Kael took my hand.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

I looked at the key.

At the letter.

At him.

“I want to fight,” I said.

Kael smiled. “Good. Because I’m terrible at running.”

We didn’t sleep that night.

Lawyers. Accountants.

By morning, the account was in my name.

On the news, it said:

“Unknown heiress takes control of Ashford Holdings.”

Elias’s lawyer called.

Kael answered.

“Ms. Okafor declines,” he said. And hung up.

For the next month, it was chaos.

Board meetings. Decisions.

I hated it.

Until I walked into one of the hospitals.

And saw a girl.

12 years old.

Same age I was when I signed the first paper.

She was holding her sister’s hand.

I sat with her.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Grace,” she said.

“Do you need anything?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just for my sister to get better.”

I paid the bill.

All of it.

On the way out, Kael asked,

“Feel better?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then let’s do it again tomorrow,” he said.

And we did.

Six months later, Ashford Holdings was different.

Free clinics. Scholarships.

No more weapons. No more bribes.

Elias’s name was scrubbed from everything.

One evening, we were back at the beach house.

Kael was grilling.

I was reading.

A car pulled up.

Daniel.

He got out.

Looked older. Tired.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

Kael stood up. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

He went inside.

Daniel sat across from me.

“I’m getting married,” he said. “To a lawyer. From my firm. She’s good. Kind.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

He looked at me. “Are you happy?”

I thought about it.

About the school.

About the hospital.

About the man inside burning dinner.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

Daniel nodded. “Good. You deserve that.”

He stood.

Hugged me.

“Take care, Amara.”

“You too,” I said.

He left.

Kael came out.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He pulled me into his arms.

“Good,” he said. “Because I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

He put my hand on his chest.

Under his shirt.

There was a new scar.

And under it, a tattoo.

Small. On his ribs.

A cross.

And under it, one word:

Covenant.

“I got it the day you said yes,” he said. “To remind me.”

I touched it.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

He kissed me.

“Come inside,” he said. “Dinner’s ready.”

“It’s burned, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Probably,” he said.

We laughed.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.

I went to the deck.

The ocean was loud.

Kael came out with a blanket. Put it around me.

“Thinking?” he asked.

“About my mother,” I said. “About my father. About seven years ago.”

“And?”

“And I think God knew,” I said. “Even then. Even in the hospital. Even in the ash.”

Kael sat next to me.

“I think so too,” he said.

We sat in silence.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I almost didn’t answer.

I did.

A voice. Young. Female.

“Ms. Okafor?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Grace,” she said. “From the hospital. I just wanted to say thank you. For paying. My sister is going home tomorrow.”

Tears filled my eyes.

“That’s wonderful, Grace,” I said.

“Also,” Grace said. “The nurses said you built a school. With your mom’s name on it. Can I go there?”

“Yes,” I said. “You can.”

“Okay,” Grace said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I said.

I hung up.

Kael was looking at me.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just... flowers.”

He didn’t understand.

I didn’t explain.

The next morning, we went to the school.

Grace was there. With her sister.

Enrolled.

She ran to me and hugged my legs.

“Ms. Okafor!” she said.

I picked her up.

“Hey, you,” I said.

Kael took a picture.

That night, I found the picture on my phone.

Me. Kael. Grace. Her sister.

In front of the sign.

I set it as my wallpaper.

A week later, another letter came.

No return address.

I was scared to open it.

Kael opened it for me.

Inside:

One page.

Handwritten.

Amara,

If you are reading this, then you chose to fight.

I’m proud of you.

The covenant is not about land. Or money. Or contracts.

It’s about people.

It’s about Grace.

Keep going.

— Dad

At the bottom, a P.S.

P.P.S. Tell Kael his father says he did good.

Kael read it.

He didn’t cry.

He just held me.

For a long time.

A year after that, the school had 400 girls.

Three hospitals were renovated.

We started a foundation.

On our second anniversary, Kael took me back to the monastery.

Father Joseph was still there.

We prayed.

Together.

On the way home, Kael said,

“Do you regret it? Signing that paper?”

I thought about it.

About Daniel.

About Elias.

About the blood.

About the beach.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

He squeezed my hand.

At home, there was a package.

From Chiamaka.

Inside:

A onesie.

And a sonogram.

I stared at it.

Kael came in. Saw my face.

“What is it?”

I handed it to him.

He looked.

Then looked at me.

Then dropped to his knees.

“Amara,” he said. “Is this—”

“Yes,” I said.

He stood up. Picked me up. Spun me.

We were both laughing and crying.

That night we told Victoria.

She cried.

Tunde cried.

Chiamaka cried.

Nine months later, we had a daughter.

We named her Miriam.

After my mother.

Kael held her first.

He looked at me and said,

“The covenant continues.”

I nodded.

And on the wall of her nursery, we hung the photo.

From the school.

Me. Kael. Grace.

And under it, in Kael’s handwriting:

Even in ash, God grows flowers.

THE END... for now.

Word count: ~40,500