Chapter 14
The night draped Samantha’s world in stillness, broken only by the faint chorus of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves beyond her window. In her spacious bedroom, perched atop a luxurious estate, she sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft duvet pooling around her waist. Her knees were drawn up, one leg bent beneath her, as she hunched over her phone, fingers dancing across the screen. She was texting Tony, her best friend, their conversation a comforting tether to the outside world. After a while, her wrist grew tired, and she let the phone slip from her hand onto the mattress beside her.
Leaning back against the headboard, Samantha tilted her head to gaze at the ornate ceiling—a masterpiece of wealth, its intricate moldings and chandelier gleaming faintly in the dim light. For a moment, her mind drifted, unmoored from thought. Then, a fragment of her biology homework surfaced. “The bronchi… thoracic…” she murmured, her voice trailing off as her eyes traced the ceiling’s patterns. She was mid-sentence when her phone buzzed sharply, snapping her out of her reverie.
The screen lit up with a message from Alex: I’ve got the book. Samantha frowned, ignoring it, and resumed her quiet recitation. “The lungs don’t release all their air, or they’d collapse,” she said, piecing together the lesson she’d studied earlier. The phone buzzed again, insistent. With a sigh, she snatched it up. Another text from Alex: It’s as dumb as he is.
Samantha rolled her eyes, an exasperated “arghh” escaping her lips. She typed a quick reply: If you want to keep talking to me, stop insulting Ugo. He’s a nice, smart guy—just confused. She hit send and slumped back, staring upward again. Ugochukwu—Ugo to his friends—occupied a tender corner of her thoughts. His family’s struggles gnawed at her. International School, with its steep tuition of three hundred fifty thousand naira, was a world apart from the life Ugo knew. His relentless attempts at online businesses weren’t just teenage ambition; they were a lifeline for a family teetering on the edge. Beneath her irritation with Alex, a flicker of worry stirred. Ugo’s “stress” felt heavier than the usual high school chaos—something deeper, rooted in his circumstances.
Her phone buzzed again, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at it, then back to the ceiling, debating whether to respond. As she reached for it, the door creaked open, and her father stepped into the room.
“Sam… how are you?” Chief Gabriel’s voice was warm, tinged with the weariness of a man whose days were consumed by work and power.
“I’m fine, sir,” she replied, her tone polite but distant. Her phone remained in her hand, its screen still glowing.
“That’s good,” he said, hovering near the doorway. “I won’t be going anywhere tomorrow.”
Samantha’s brow furrowed. “Why?” she asked, more out of habit than genuine curiosity. Her father’s presence was a rarity—his life a whirlwind of business deals, political maneuvering, and late-night calls. She’d grown accustomed to his absence, their interactions reduced to brief greetings before school and fleeting exchanges when he returned home to entertain his associates. His standing there now, in her room, felt almost surreal.
“Your friend’s dad is heading to the UK to push Moferso’s sales overseas,” he explained, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“Oh,” she said, her voice flat.
“So tomorrow, I’ll just be here, waiting to hear how it goes,” he continued, studying her with a faint smile.
“Um… thank God. That’s great. But I’ve got school,” she said, shifting on the bed. “And I need to study.”
“Yeah, sure. I was thinking maybe we could spend the evening together. Your mom’s asleep. We could play the piano, and I’ll tell you some stories.”
“Daddy, I’m studying,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind.
“Of course,” he replied, nodding. He lingered at the door for a moment, his smile softening, then stepped out, closing it gently behind him.
Samantha didn’t bother checking her phone again. Instead, she slid off the bed and crossed the room to the small whiteboard propped against her wall—a study aid she’d insisted on installing. Picking up a marker, she began scribbling chemical equations, her hand moving with practiced precision. Alkanones flowed from her pen, each symbol a quiet rebellion against the distractions tugging at her mind.
Downstairs, the house slumbered—save for the faint hum of the night. But beyond its walls, in a shadowed realm Samantha could scarcely imagine, her mother, Helen, was far from rest. Physically, she lay in bed beside Chief Gabriel, her breathing steady. Yet her soul had slipped free, drawn to the coven of the Daughters of Hilda.
In a clearing shrouded by dust and darkness, Ekene and two other sisters hoisted a calabash skyward, its surface etched with ancient runes. The Queen Mother stood before them, her arms raised in supplication, her presence commanding the night. Inside the vessel sloshed the blood of two men from Agbor—Joshua’s father and Kingsley’s father—sacrificed by Helen on the night of a grand launch. For Omolola, another sister of the coven, this was vengeance fulfilled, a reckoning for the wrongs Joshua and Kingsley had inflicted on Richwill weeks ago.
The witches lifted the calabash higher, and the Queen Mother’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips moving in silent incantation. The vessel trembled, then rose from their hands, floating midair as if guided by unseen forces. The sisters formed a semicircle before it, their chants rising in a haunting crescendo. Dust swirled around them, the ground quaking beneath their feet. Helen stood among them, her voice melding with the chorus, her spirit alight with the ritual’s power.
Back in the estate, Samantha’s whiteboard was now a tapestry of equations and diagrams. She paused, marker hovering, as a faint melody drifted up from downstairs—the delicate notes of a piano. She tried to ignore it, but the tune tugged at her heartstrings. It was their song, the one her father used to play when she was a child, when life felt simpler. Closing the marker with a soft click, she descended the stairs, drawn irresistibly to the sound.
Chief Gabriel sat at the grand piano in the living room, his fingers coaxing the familiar melody from the keys. He stopped as Samantha appeared, turning to face her with a questioning look.
“Um… I just came to get some water,” she said, shifting awkwardly.
“Sure,” he replied, resuming his playing as she slipped into the kitchen.
Glass in hand, Samantha paused, the music seeping into her soul. She set the glass down and returned to the living room, hesitating near the piano. How could she admit she wanted to join him after brushing him off earlier? Her father, sensing her presence, stopped again and turned.
“You sure everything’s okay?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, offering a tentative smile before starting toward the stairs. She glanced back once, twice, catching his gaze each time, her smile widening despite herself.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” he called after her.
She froze, then turned. “Yes, please.”
He chuckled, a warm, knowing sound. “You’ve been trying to figure out how to say it, haven’t you? Too proud to admit it.”
“I thought you’d turn me away,” she admitted, grinning sheepishly.
She stepped closer, resting an elbow on the piano as he resumed playing. The melody softened, evolving into the song he and Helen had sung to her as a toddler:
“In your eyes, I see a love so true,
A bond that’s strong, a heart that’s new.
With every breath, I’ll be by your side,
Through laughter and tears, I’ll be your guide.”
Samantha reached for the double bass leaning against the wall, unzipping its case. She drew the bow across the strings, her notes weaving a rich harmony with her father’s piano. The music swelled, a testament to a love that had frayed but never broken.
As they played, Samantha’s thoughts drifted to her parents’ steadfast support—her father’s late-night encouragement, her mother’s quiet strength. This song was their gift to her, a reminder of their bond. Yet beneath the harmony, a storm brewed within her. School had been relentless, its pressures chipping away at her resolve. Tonight, she let it pour out through the bass:
“Dark clouds gather, thunder rolls,
My heart is racing, my soul is cold.
I’m lost in the storm, searching for a way,
To calm the turmoil, to seize the day.”
The notes trembled with her pent-up frustration, her father’s eyes glistening with concern as he listened. When the song faded, Samantha felt lighter, as if the music had lifted a weight from her chest.
Miles away, the coven’s ritual reached a fever pitch. Pillars of stone crumbled, dust cloaking the air until visibility dwindled to shadows. The Queen Mother’s chants grew louder, her spirit attuned to the shifting energies. Something was wrong. The dance intensified, the witches’ voices rising in fervor—until Omaomi, one of the sisters, was hurled backward by an unseen force, crashing into the earth.
The Queen Mother whirled around, her gaze piercing the haze. The Uchichis—ancient spirits of retribution—were stirring, their wrath ignited. Helen, breathless from chanting, froze as a chill prickled her skin. She scanned the chaos, her pulse quickening, until her eyes locked on a figure in the distance: Anu, pedaling furiously toward them on his bicycle. Fear gripped her, her senses screaming of another presence. She turned—and there he was.
Uncle Mike Mbeke stood before her, towering at six-foot-two, his black beard framing a face carved with authority. At seventy-six, his piercing eyes held the wisdom of decades, his power a legend whispered across Nigeria and beyond. In 1968, he’d summoned Jezebel’s spirit to win a battle, a feat that cemented his name among wizards and priests alike. He didn’t prey on wealth; he hunted souls, unraveling the lives of his enemies with surgical precision. The first male born in eight generations of the Mbeke family, Mike was a force ordained to dismantle rival darkness—a legacy Helen and now Samantha unknowingly carried.
“Why?” His voice cut through the silence, sharp and unyielding.
“I…” Helen faltered, words catching in her throat.
“Have you ever seen anyone from our family abandon our coven?” he pressed.
“They offered less satisfaction,” she managed, her voice trembling beneath her defiance.
“Less… satisfaction,” he repeated, each syllable deliberate. “They couldn’t protect your great-grandmother. Or your grandmother. Or your mother. Or you.”
“They refused to join,” he continued. “They paid the price.”
“And so did I,” Helen shot back, her confidence a fragile mask. “I took what I deserved.”
“You left us for them, thinking you’d find safety,” Mike said, his gaze boring into her. “Now they use you to strike at us, feeding on the secrets you’ve spilled.”
“You think you can waltz into the Daughters of Hilda and claim victory like before?” Helen retorted. “No lion survives a herd of cattle.”
“A small price for salvation,” he said coolly. “Your Queen Mother’s strength is no match for me.”
His eyes flicked to the Queen Mother, then back to Helen. He stepped forward, but a blur caught his attention—Anu, scooping Omaomi onto his bicycle and vanishing into the dust. Before Helen could react, Mike was gone too. The calabash crashed to the ground, its blood spilling onto the sand, which hardened instantly into concrete—a chilling echo of a ritual sixteen years past. The Queen Mother spun around, her fury palpable as she realized Omaomi was lost.
Back at home, Samantha and her father played on, their music a balm to her frayed nerves. Chief Gabriel’s eyes softened as she poured her heart into the double bass. He’d always been her anchor—more than her mother, whose presence felt distant despite her love. Memories of his lullabies and sage advice flooded back, and he rose from the piano, gesturing for her to take his place.
She handed him the bass and settled at the keys as he launched into Rise Above, a song he’d written for her years ago:
“When the world gets tough, and you feel like giving in,
Just remember, you’re strong, and you can always begin.
To rise above the noise, to shine like the sun,
You got this, kiddo, you’ve just begun.”
Samantha joined in, her voice blending with his, her fingers dancing across the piano. Laughter followed—a shared joke about refunding her school fees—and the room glowed with their rekindled connection.
“Should I wake Mom?” she asked, half-serious.
“No, she’s got work tomorrow—or today, rather,” Chief said, glancing at the clock. “One a.m. I’m the only one free.”
“I’ve got school, but it’s Friday—sports, drama, and home,” she said, still playing.
“Then I’ll come watch,” he teased. “Maybe collect that refund.”
They laughed again, the sound mingling with the music. Chief’s wealth—NovaTech, his Benin farm, Central Hospital—cast a long shadow, but here, with Samantha, he was just Dad. He’d seen her pride budding since childhood, and another song rose to his lips: Unassuming (Never Been Proud).
“I’ve never been one to boast or brag,
My heart is humble, my spirit is lag.
Oh my child, don’t you ever forget that they’re human,
Be moved with compassion, it speaks better.”
The melody wove a lesson in humility, a mirror to Samantha’s soul. As it faded, she grinned. “The old piano’s alive again.”
“Its keys echo in my heart,” he replied, his bass a gentle undercurrent.
“I love you, Dad,” she said, then added playfully, “More than Mom.”
“You told her the same when she drove you to school,” he quipped.
Caught, she feigned innocence, tiptoeing toward the stairs. “Goodnight!”
“Go away,” he called, laughing as she bolted upstairs.
In her room, Samantha smiled, the night’s harmony lingering. Unbeknownst to her, shadows deeper than the night stirred—her mother’s secrets, her uncle’s power—waiting to pull her into their orbit.