Lagos bound

WOUND REOPENED, Chapter 6 Scene 3

Chapter 6

Wound Reopened

The grand hall of Chief Adebayo's sprawling estate in Lagos buzzed with the remnants of celebration. Laughter still echoed faintly from departing guests, their arms laden with exquisite parting gifts—custom gold cufflinks for the men, rare silk scarves and crystal decanters for the women—all courtesy of the Chief's legendary generosity. The occasion had been a triumph: toasts raised, deals whispered, old alliances reaffirmed under the glow of chandeliers.

Kunle stood at the entrance, smiling broadly as he welcomed the last stragglers. "Safe journeys, sir. Thank you for coming," he said, shaking hands firmly.

But Chief Adebayo's attention was elsewhere. His sharp eyes had locked onto the two women lingering near the fountain: Mrs. Ngozi, elegant in her emerald wrapper, and Leila beside her, radiant yet visibly tense. The Chief's breath caught. Could it be? After all these years? He stared hard at Ngozi, doubt warring with recognition. The face was familiar, yet time had softened the edges, added lines of quiet endurance.

Then his gaze shifted to Leila. The resemblance struck like lightning—the same high cheekbones, the same intelligent spark in the eyes. It had to be her. Ngozi had come back. With their daughter? No—Leila was her niece, but the girl carried echoes of the past.

The Chief's face darkened. He turned to Kunle, voice low and edged with steel. "Kunle. A word."

They stepped into the quiet corridor leading to the study. The door clicked shut.

"What is this?" Chief Adebayo demanded, eyes blazing. "You invite her here? You open old wounds I buried long ago? I thought you had moved on after that party years back—laughter, joy, guests departing with gifts and goodwill. I believed you had forgotten her. Clearly, I was wrong."

Kunle met his father's gaze steadily. "Dad, please. It's not what you think. Ngozi deserves—"

"Deserves?" The Chief cut him off. "She left me without a word. Shattered everything. And now you plead for her? Because of your lingering love for Leila? Don't insult me, boy."

Kunle stepped closer, voice softening to a plea. "Just hear her out, Dad. For mercy's sake. For the children. Leila... she's innocent in all this. And Ngozi has suffered too."

Chief Adebayo's jaw tightened. "Suffered? She made her choice. I will not reopen that grave."

The argument escalated, voices rising until the Chief finally waved a hand in dismissal. "Enough. Go rethink yourself, Kunle. You're making a grave mistake. Leave me be."

Kunle stormed out, face thunderous. He strode to his car, engine roaring to life as he zoomed off into the night, tires screeching. Leila watched from the doorway, phone already in hand, dialing frantically. No answer. Texts sent—unread, unreplied. Ngozi stood beside her, hand over her mouth, helpless and confused.

The next morning, Leila packed in silence. Despite her aunt's tearful pleas to stay longer—"Give him time, my dear"—bitterness and heartbreak won. Kunle's cold silence had cut too deep. She boarded her flight back to Monaco, eyes red, heart heavy.

Kunle, meanwhile, suspended himself from work without explanation. He locked himself in his apartment, bottles piling up on the table. Days blurred into drunken stupor—whiskey straight from the bottle, lights off, phone silenced. His absence rippled outward: missed meetings, delayed projects, colleagues whispering in concern. Leila's own work in Monaco suffered—designs half-finished, deadlines slipped, her focus shattered by unanswered calls and the ache of rejection.

The fallout touched Chief Adebayo too. He grew quieter, more withdrawn, the lively patriarch replaced by a man haunted by memories. Ngozi watched from afar, guilt gnawing at her.

On the second day after the party, Ngozi resolved to act. No matter the shame, for the sake of the children—Kunle and Leila—she would try again. She drove to the estate, only to be stopped at the gate by stern guards. "Chief's orders, ma. No entry."

She returned the next day. Again, denied.

The third time, fortune shifted. As she approached, Chief Adebayo emerged from the compound, heading to his car. Ngozi rushed forward, tears streaming. She fell to her knees before him in the driveway, voice breaking. "Please, Adebayo. Just one minute. Hear me out. Please."

The atmosphere was charged—staff watching discreetly, passersby glancing curiously. But the Chief saw the raw pain in her eyes, felt the ghost of old feelings stir despite himself. He hesitated, then nodded curtly. "Get in the car."

They drove in tense silence to a quiet nearby restaurant, tucked away from prying eyes. Seated in a private booth, Chief Adebayo avoided her gaze, staring at the tablecloth as if it held answers. He could not look at her—afraid the old love would resurface, afraid of the betrayal that still burned.

Ngozi spoke, voice trembling. "I never wanted to leave you, Adebayo. I was forced. My parents... they didn't mean to hurt you. They used money to push me away, to protect the family legacy."

She explained everything: her father's gallery teetering on the edge of ruin—debts, loans, creditors circling. The only salvation was a marriage alliance. They arranged for her to wed Victor Dike, son of the legendary artist Benjamin Dike—a wealthy, influential figure whose name carried weight in Lagos society and the international art world. Victor was charming in public, but the union was a transaction to save the gallery, to preserve her father's sweat and legacy from becoming a mockery.

"I never loved him," Ngozi whispered. "Not his money, not his name. I loved only you. But I had no choice. They threatened to disown me, to let everything collapse."

Tears fell freely now. "My time with Victor was bitter. He abused me—physically, emotionally. See?" She rolled up her sleeve slightly, revealing faint scars on her arm, marks from old violence. Chief Adebayo's eyes flickered to them, sympathy softening his hardened features despite his resolve.

"He left me for another woman abroad," she continued. "We had no children of our own. I took Leila—my sister's daughter—as my own, raised her with all the love I couldn't give elsewhere. And the gallery... I built it back. Made it the best in Lagos, known far and wide. But every success felt empty without you."

She broke down fully, sobbing. "I missed you every day, Adebayo. Every single day."

The Chief finally looked at her—really looked. The scars, the tears, the woman he had once adored. His hand trembled on the table. For the first time in decades, the wall cracked.

He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the quiet booth. "Ngozi..." His voice was rough, unused to softness after so many years of armor. "You think I didn't suffer? When you vanished—no note, no goodbye, just gone. I searched for weeks. Months. I went to your family's house, but they turned me away like I was dirt. I thought you'd chosen someone else, someone richer, better. The bitterness... it ate me alive."

Ngozi wiped her eyes, listening intently.

"I was broken," he continued, gaze dropping to his untouched coffee. "Lost my fire. The job I had then—mid-level manager at the oil firm—felt meaningless. I drank too much, worked too little. Friends drifted away. Then I met her. Kunle's mother. Her name was Adesola. She was a colleague in accounts, sharp, steady, always with a kind word when I was at my lowest. She didn't pity me; she challenged me. Pushed me to start my own consultancy, helped with the paperwork, the connections, the late nights drafting proposals. We built it together—piece by piece. She believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself."

A faint, pained smile touched his lips. "We married quietly. Kunle came soon after. Life started making sense again. She was... everything I needed to stand up straight."

Ngozi's breath caught. "And then?"

The Chief's eyes glistened. "Cancer. Aggressive. She fought hard, but it took her just after Kunle's seventeenth birthday. Right in the middle of his final exams in secondary school. He was preparing for university entrance, scared but determined. I couldn't let him see me crumble. I buried the grief deep, told him his mother was proud, watching from above. I handled the house, the cooking, the school runs, the business deals—all of it. Made sure he never felt her absence the way I did. Tutored him late into the night when he struggled, attended every match, every prize-giving. He thinks I was strong. Truth is, I was holding on for him."

He finally met her eyes fully, the old hurt mingling with something softer—perhaps forgiveness, perhaps just exhaustion. "I swore I'd never let another woman close enough to break me again. That's why I pushed you away today. Why I told Kunle to rethink himself. But seeing you like this... hearing what you endured... it reminds me we're both scarred."

Ngozi reached across the table, hesitating before gently touching his hand. "Adebayo, I never stopped loving you. Not for a day."

He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up, fingers curling slightly around hers. The restaurant faded around them—the clink of cutlery, the murmur of other patrons—leaving only two people who had lost so much time, yet found each other again in this fragile moment.

Outside, the Lagos sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. Inside, something long frozen began, slowly, to thaw.