BEYOND HEALING

CHAPTER 2: HEAVEN OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

POV: Ayoola Davis

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My eyelids felt unbearably heavy—I couldn’t see a thing. Slowly, rays of light pierced through the darkness as I struggled to open my eyes.

Wait... am I in heaven?

Well, thank God I go to church regularly. I was even dragged into the drama unit, enduring all those murderous glares thrown my way. Now here I am... in heaven? Who would've thought I’d die so young? And to be honest, I’ve always tried to behave myself. Sure, I get into a few fights here and there, but I don’t lie, and I’ve never stolen a thing from my grandfather...

I slowly widened my eyes, adjusting to the soft stream of light filtering in through the parted black curtains. As my vision cleared, I took in the familiar surroundings: a black punching bag hanging silently in the corner, framed pictures of Roman Reigns and The Bloodline proudly displayed on the wall, their intense gazes meeting mine. The entire room was dressed in shades of black and grey, a moody, almost cinematic palette that matched my state of mind.

It didn’t take long for the realization to settle in—I was back in my own room.

Death, it seems, will have to wait for another day.

I heard footsteps approaching—no, not just one pair. There were two. I inherited my sharp hearing from my grandfather. He was the one who taught me how to truly focus—to listen not just with my ears, but with full attention. Concentration, he used to say, is the key to hearing what others miss.

The door opened.

Auntie Praise walked in, carrying a food tray, followed by another woman. She usually only comes around during Christmas or Easter, with her husband and kids in tow, always bringing me thoughtful gifts. She’s really kind. But… why is she here now?

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she asked, setting the tray gently on the bedside table.

“I’m… surprised,” I replied honestly, still trying to process everything.

“Well, you don’t look like it,” she scoffed lightly.

Yeah… my face rarely reflects what’s going on inside. It’s always been like that.

She then gestured toward the young woman standing quietly beside her. “Well? Won’t you at least greet your mother?”

That made me take a proper look at the woman from head to toe—well, from toe first, actually. She was wearing nude-colored wedge heels, the kind that added height without trying too hard. Her green bodycon gown hugged every curve of her stunning figure, and a sleek 9-inch wig framed her face perfectly. She was bent now, lowering herself to meet me at eye level.

“Why is she always kneeling?” my mischievous inner voice whispered. “She must have been the one who proposed to her husband, don’t you think?” I almost laughed at the thought.

Then our eyes met—those large, warm brown eyes. The same ones I remembered. She held my gaze with a soft intensity, and suddenly, it clicked.

She’s really my mom.

But she looked so different now. Her skin practically glowed, smooth and radiant. Her body was snatched—refined, confident, elegant. She was giving off major billionaire’s wife energy, and I couldn’t help but stare. She didn’t look like the version of her I carried in my memory.

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FLASHBACK

“How can you be fighting with someone older than you?” My primary school headmaster’s voice boomed through the office as he raised his cane in fury. Without waiting for a response, he brought it down hard across my open palms.

“You’re just six years old!” he shouted again. “And he’s ten! Your senior in class—and twice your size!” Another sharp sting landed on my hand. I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

I stood there, unmoving, my small frame straight with defiance as I stared at the pot-bellied man in front of me. I took each lash silently, swallowing the pain, refusing to cry or flinch. My eyes locked onto him—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to contempt.

He noticed. “And you’re looking at me with those dirty eyes, you mannerless brat!” he barked, his face red with anger and sweat. “No home training whatsoever! Just like that rude old soldier you call a grandfather!”

He paused, breathing heavily now, his chest heaving from the effort of both yelling and swinging his cane. He looked at me like I was some cursed burden that refused to break.

But I stood my ground.

Inside, my blood boiled—not because of the punishment, but because he dared to insult my grandfather. The man who raised me to be strong. The man who taught me never to bow my head, even in pain.

I was seated with my grandfather in his living room, quietly watching as he tended to the wound on my elbow—an injury from yet another schoolyard fight. He dabbed the scraped skin with an antibiotic-soaked cotton ball, his touch gentle but firm.

“I told you never to get hurt while fighting, didn’t I?” Grandpa said, pausing mid-clean and lifting his gaze to meet mine. “Do you want to talk to me?”

I nodded slowly and began to speak.

“The headmaster is a greedy man,” I muttered, my voice thick with frustration. “He punished me because that boy’s mother gives him money and food and all kinds of things. That’s why he took his side.”

I swallowed hard before continuing. “The boy called me a witch. He said my parents didn’t want me… that’s why they dumped me with you.”

My eyes burned with tears, but I refused to let them fall.

“I punched him. Then he pushed me, and I fell—that’s how I hurt my elbow. But I got up and kicked his leg, then punched him again. A lot.”

Grandpa listened in silence, then let out a thoughtful hum.

“Hmmm… sounds like you dealt with him well, huh?” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “But listen, you must always anticipate your opponent’s next move—block before they strike.”

He closed the first aid kit, placed it gently on the table, then suddenly swung his fist toward me. I instinctively dodged. He chuckled.

“That’s more like it,” he said, and we spent the next few minutes practicing boxing right there in the living room.

After a while, he lifted me up and settled me on his lap, wrapping his arms around me like a shield. I rested my head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming the storm inside me.

"What will you do when you see your mom?" he asked that evening.

It caught me off guard—he had never brought up my mother before. I guess I was too well-behaved, too quiet to push for answers.

"I’ll tell her not to leave me again," I replied.

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END OF FLASHBACK

I remember that moment clearly. I was just a little girl then. But when Grandpa asked me the same question again when I turned twelve, my answer had changed.

"I’d be angry with her," I said bluntly.

He gave me a long look, the kind that said more than words ever could.

“You still have a lot to learn about this world,” he said gently. “Everyone has the right to make their own decisions.”

At the time, I didn’t understand. But a few months ago, he asked me again—just before everything changed—and this time, I gave a different answer.

"I don’t really know how I’d feel," I told him honestly.

And now, here I am.

Standing face-to-face with the woman who left me fourteen years ago.

Strangely, I don’t feel angry. I’m not sad either. I thought I would be overwhelmed with emotion—rage, tears, something. But all I felt was... nothing. A calm sort of emptiness.

She looked at me with teary eyes, her voice trembling.

“You’ve really grown. I know you must hate me right now… but I just need you to move on from the past. Please, forgive me.”

Her words were heavy, but they didn’t pierce me the way I once imagined they would.

“I don’t need your apology,” I said quietly. “And I’m not stuck in the past. You did what you thought was best. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me, stunned.

“And I think you should stand up,” I added softly, offering my hand.

She hesitated, then took it.

I helped her to her feet, then turned and walked toward the living room.

Just then, her voice broke the silence.

“How did it happen?” she asked gently.

Auntie Praise stepped forward and sat on the couch, watching me. “Did he… did he die right after you called and said he was in the hospital?”

I paused, the lump in my throat returning. “I guess he’s really dead.”

“After you called,” she said softly, “I phoned your mom. Luckily, she was already in Nigeria. Dad was taken to the morgue not long after... and I saw you lying unconscious in the hospital bed.”

“The doctor said you passed out from shock, so I brought you home.”

I remembered it clearly now. I’d just gotten back from basketball practice… still in my black jersey. I found Grandpa collapsed in his room. I don’t remember how I got him into the car. Just that I did.

“I panicked… but I got him there.”

“I never thought it would happen this soon,” Auntie Praise said, tears in her eyes.

She squeezed my hand.

“It must’ve been really hard on you… since he raised you.”

I nodded slowly.

“I’m alone now,” I whispered.

“No, you’re not,” a voice responded gently.

I looked up. My mother was walking toward me.

“You’ll come live with me in Lagos,” she said.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

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End of Chapter Two