Chapter 10

 Reflections

Deji scrolled through his phone in silence, his face clouded. Ada glanced at him from across the couch, where she sat cradling their one-year-old daughter, Little Ify. The late-night news echoed faintly from the television in the background, the headlines painting a grim picture: Billions Missing in Flood Relief Fund. Deji sighed and tossed his phone onto the coffee table, running a hand over his face.

Ada shifted closer, their daughter gurgling happily in her lap. “What’s wrong, Deji?”

“Same old thing,” he replied, gesturing toward his phone. “Another scandal back home. Billions gone, and no one will face consequences. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother keeping tabs on that country.”

Ada placed her hand on his. “You bother because you care. You always have.”

He gave a wry smile, shaking his head. “Caring never seems to change anything. Look at everything we went through—what Femi, Onos, even you, had to endure. And yet, here we are a year later, and it’s like none of it ever happened.”

Ada tightened her grip on his hand. “You did make a difference, Deji. It’s just that some battles are bigger than us. But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting.” She shifted their daughter onto his lap. “Look at her. If nothing else, she’s proof that something beautiful came out of all the chaos.”

Deji gazed at Little Ify, who giggled and reached for his nose. His expression softened, and a small smile appeared. “You’re right,” he admitted. “But I hope she never has to experience the kind of Nigeria you left behind.”

Ada nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. “She won’t,” she said softly.

The conversation was interrupted by the buzzing of Ada’s phone. She glanced at the screen and smiled. “It’s Aunty Ify.”

Deji grinned. “Put her on video. Let’s give her a surprise.”

Ada tapped the screen, and moments later, Aunty Ify’s face appeared, beaming as usual. “My children! How are you people doing over there?”

“We’re fine, Aunty Ify,” Ada replied, angling the phone so that Deji and Little Ify were in the frame.

“Ah! My namesake!” Aunty Ify exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy. “Look at her cheeks! She’s growing so fast. You people should bring her to Nigeria for me to see.”

Deji chuckled. “Aunty Ify, you know that’s not happening anytime soon.”

“Deji, I don’t blame you,” she replied, shaking her head. “After what they put you through, if I were you, I’d never step foot here again either. But sha, just know we miss you people.”

Ada laughed. “We miss you too, Aunty Ify. By the way, when are you coming to visit us?”

“I’m working on it,” Aunty Ify said slyly. “But before then, send me another video of Little Ify. I want to show my girls at the restaurant.” She leaned closer to the camera. “And don’t forget to tell her who she’s named after. Grand Aunty Ify ooo!”

Everyone laughed, and after a few more minutes of cheerful chatter, the call ended.

---

A week later, Femi sat in his small but well-organized office in Lagos. His security firm, though modest, had grown steadily in the past year. Just as he finished a call with a client, the door opened, and his father walked in, his cane tapping against the floor.

“Baba,” Femi greeted, standing to hug the older man. “What brings you here?”

His father settled into the chair opposite him, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “I wanted to see how my son is doing in this new venture.”

Femi smiled. “Business is good, Baba. It’s a whole different world from the police force—much better, and it’s honest work.”

His father nodded slowly. “When you joined the police, I told you it was a foolish decision. That the system would swallow you. But now I see… somehow, you didn’t just survive. You came out better for it.”

Femi leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I think you were right in a way. The force did try to swallow me. But it also showed me what I was made of.”

His father’s stern face softened. “I’m proud of you, my son. Even if I didn’t say it then, I’ll say it now.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Femi smiled, a rare warmth filling his chest. “Thank you, Baba.”

---

Later that evening, Deji reclined on the sofa, his phone pressed to his ear. Little Ify was fast asleep in her crib, and Ada busied herself tidying up the living room. Onos’s voice boomed from the other end of the line, filled with its usual fiery passion.

“Deji, can you imagine? Flood relief money—gone! Just like that. And as always, nobody’s asking questions. Sometimes I wonder if we’re all under a spell!” Onos ranted, his frustration palpable.

Deji chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Onos, calm down. I saw the News also, but You know how it is. Nothing’s going to change.”

“Ah, you’ve started again!” Onos snapped. “You and Femi—always quick to say, ‘Pick your battles.’ Even he told me last week, ‘Nigeria is not your father’s property.’”

Deji laughed, leaning back. “Well, he’s not wrong. You can’t carry the weight of the whole country on your shoulders.”

“Abeg, forget that!” Onos replied sharply. “You people don’t understand. If we all sit back and accept things, who’s going to stand up for what’s right? Who’s going to demand accountability?”

Ada, overhearing the conversation, smiled and gave Deji a playful nudge. Deji shook his head, still smiling. “You’re as stubborn as ever, Onos.”

“And proud of it!” Onos retorted with a laugh. “Anyway, let me get back to work. I have a post to draft. Somebody needs to wake these people up.”

Deji ended the call, still smiling, but as he set the phone down, Ada’s hand rested on his. “He’s not wrong, you know,” she said gently.

Deji sighed. “I know. But sometimes I wonder if Nigeria is even ready for someone like Onos. It’s hard not to feel hopeless.”

Ada squeezed his hand. “Well, hopeless or not, people like Onos don’t give up. Maybe we need more of that.”

In a dimly lit cell within a maximum-security prison, CSP Adebayo sat on the edge of a narrow cot, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The bitter irony of his situation weighed heavily on him. Once a respected officer, wielding power with impunity, he now bore the stigma of a convicted criminal, sentenced for attempted murder. Stripped of his rank and freedom, he was a man reduced to nothing, haunted by the choices that had brought him here.

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “This must be what they felt,” he murmured, thinking of the many people he had locked up under flimsy charges. “Helpless. Forgotten. It’s justice, I suppose...in its own twisted way.”

The echoes of his past decisions haunted him as he stared at the tiny barred window of his cell. Time, once a luxury, now seemed endless.

Far away in a modest flat in the UK, Tunde sat at his desk, staring blankly at his laptop screen. He had started a blog to rebuild his life, writing pieces about culture and society, but no matter how hard he tried, the weight of his betrayal wouldn’t let him move on.

Every time he thought of Deji or Femi, shame pierced his chest like a dagger. He had lost not just their trust, but also his own sense of integrity. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he muttered to himself, “I’ll never forgive myself for what I did...and I can’t expect them to forgive me either.”

A deep sigh escaped him as he shut the laptop, burying his face in his hands. The guilt was a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

The next day, the world woke up to Onos’s latest post, which had already begun to gain traction on social media.

“Another day, another scandal,” it read. “Flood relief money, gone. Billions unaccounted for. And yet, we remain silent. Fela was right: we are a people who suffer and smile. We endure the oppression, laugh off the pain, and move on as if nothing happened.”

The post ended with a call to arms: “Nigeria will not change unless we demand it. Stand up. Speak out. The fight isn’t over—and it never will be, unless we make it so.”

As the post circulated, sparking both anger and indifference, Onos leaned back in his chair, exhausted but determined. “One day,” he muttered to himself. “One day, they’ll wake up.”

And as the world outside continued its unrelenting march, so did the corruption, injustice, and resilience of those like Onos, who refused to give up the fight.

Back in Houston, Deji and Ada sat on their porch, watching the amber hues of the sunset bathe the horizon. Little Ify played on the grass, her laughter mingling with the faint hum of evening cicadas. Deji’s mother stepped outside, carrying a tray of iced tea and cookies, her face soft with a smile that spoke of contentment and pride.

“I’m proud of both of you,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table between them. Her voice carried a depth of emotion that made Ada look up with surprise. “Life has thrown so much your way, but look at you now. You’ve not only survived; you’ve grown stronger—together.”

Deji reached for a glass of iced tea and handed one to Ada before taking his own. He smiled at his mother, the gratitude in his eyes unmistakable. “We’ve come a long way,” he said softly.

His mother nodded, her gaze resting on Ada. “And, Ada,” she began, her tone carrying the weight of sincerity, “I want to thank you. You’ve brought light into my son’s life, a kind of light I haven’t seen in him in years. Watching you fight for him, for your love, for justice...it taught me something I didn’t realize I needed to learn.”

Ada tilted her head slightly, a question lingering in her expression. “What’s that, Mama?”

Deji’s mother leaned forward, her hands resting on her lap. “That people are so much more than where they come from. I admit, I was quick to judge because of your background, your tribe. But when I saw the way you stood by Deji, when I saw your courage and your heart, I realized how wrong I was. You’ve changed how I see the world, Ada. And for that, I’m deeply grateful.”

Ada’s cheeks flushed with emotion. “Thank you, Mama,” she said softly. “That means so much to me.”

Deji’s mother reached over and patted her hand. “No, my dear, thank you. You’ve given me a second chance to see things differently. To see the good in people I might have otherwise overlooked. You’ve made me a better person.”

Deji, listening quietly, smiled at the exchange. He turned to Ada, his eyes filled with pride. “See? I told you she’d come around.”

Ada laughed gently, and Deji’s mother swatted his arm playfully. “Don’t get smug now,” she teased, though her smile remained.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard, Deji broke the comfortable silence. “You know, Mama,” he said, his tone reflective, “this journey—it’s changed me too. I used to think there was no point in hoping for change. No point in fighting for anything in Nigeria. But maybe...maybe it’s not about expecting everything to change all at once. Maybe it’s about doing what you can, no matter how small it seems.”

His mother nodded thoughtfully. “Change is slow, my son. It’s painful and frustrating, but it’s not impossible. Your father and I left Nigeria because we felt hopeless, but you—both of you—you’ve shown me that hope is something we can carry with us, even when it feels heavy.”

Ada reached for Deji’s hand, her fingers intertwining with his. “You’re right, Mama,” she said. “We might not see the change we want in our lifetime, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. At least, when Little Ify grows up, she’ll know we didn’t just sit and do nothing.”

Deji gazed at his daughter, who was now chasing fireflies in the growing dusk. His expression softened, and he nodded. “You’re right,” he said, squeezing Ada’s hand gently. “We owe her that much. A future where she doesn’t have to face the same struggles.”

They sat together in silence for a moment, listening to Little Ify’s giggles and watching the last rays of sunlight fade into the night.

Deji’s mother broke the silence, her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve both been through so much, but you’ve come out stronger. Hold on to that strength, because the world—whether here or back home—will always test you. But if anyone can face it, it’s you two.”

Ada smiled, leaning her head on Deji’s shoulder. “We’ll keep fighting,” she said softly.

The three of them sat there, savoring the peace they had fought so hard to find. And though the scars of the past lingered and the road ahead remained uncertain, a quiet hope flickered in their hearts—a belief that, no matter how small, every step toward change mattered.

As the stars began to dot the sky, Little Ify ran to her grandmother, holding up a firefly trapped gently between her tiny fingers. “Look, Grandma! It’s glowing!”

Her grandmother smiled and held her close. “Just like you, my little one. Just like you.”