"Why would I come live with you and leave my grandfather's house?" I asked, my voice rising slightly. A flicker of frustration sparked in my chest. Was I just supposed to uproot my entire life because she suddenly decided to show up?
"Your pretty mom is really something," my inner voice chimed in, clearly irritated too.
She didn't respond to my outburst. Instead, she pulled a slim, flat envelope from her bag.
"Well, earlier—before you woke up—Dad's lawyer came by and left this for you," she said, holding the envelope out to me.
I looked at her, uncertain. She nodded toward it. I hesitated, then reached out and took it. The envelope felt heavier than paper—like it carried more than just words.
I tore it open and pulled out a neatly folded set of documents. My eyes scanned the first page, and her voice broke the silence again.
"That's his will. You're to liquidate all his properties… except for the restaurant he owns in Lagos."
"What the… He has a restaurant in Lagos?" my inner mind squeaked, genuinely shocked.
It started making sense, though. He always had money to get me anything I needed. Unlike most retired people in our neighborhood—who either lived off their children or did menial jobs to get by—Grandpa was different. He owned a small block industry, and I sometimes helped out there, but it never seemed to bring in that much.
A restaurant in Lagos? He never mentioned it.
"You're his next of kin," she added softly. "He wants you to come with me and manage the restaurant."
Everything she said lined up exactly with the words I was reading on the paper in my hands. My fingers tightened around the will, my mind spinning.
Should I try to be stubborn? I thought. Should I say I'm not going—Grandpa isn't here to force me like he always used to?
But then another thought crept in. Did Grandpa think I was angry with her?
He knew me better than anyone. He'd taught me never to hold grudges, never to waste energy on blame. He taught me to rise above emotions that trap people. He raised me stronger than that.
Still, another question surfaced. Does going to Lagos mean I'll have to live with her family? I don't like people. At all. Christ...
I took a deep breath, voice calm but firm.
"I don't want to be a burden of any sort to you," I said, eyes fixed on her.
Grandpa taught me to be independent. That should count for something—it should allow me to live on my own.
"Of course you're not a burden," my mom replied quickly, as if she'd been waiting for me to say that. "I actually came here to take you with me—even before all this happened." She pointed to the documents in my hands.
My aunt, now seated beside her, added gently, "It'll be better if you don't stay alone. You've already been through too much."
I could feel frustration bubbling inside me.
"Are you really pitying me right now?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Do you think I was raised to be dependent?"
My mother met my eyes. "No. We know you're capable of managing on your own," she said sincerely. "But remember, your grandfather knew what was best for you. That's why he wrote this." She gestured again to the will in my hands.
"He brought you up to be strong and independent—that's exactly why he left everything in your name. He didn't write any clause saying you'd inherit it later. He trusted you now."
My inner voice whispered again. "What are you going to do? You can always leave later if it doesn't work out."
I stared down at the documents. The truth was, the decision had already been made the moment he signed those papers. Whether I liked it or not, I was tied to it now.
"I guess the decision's already been made... and I'm bound to it," I murmured, finally letting go of the fight. "So... are we going after his burial?"
"Are you also carrying that? We can always buy another one," Mom asked, her tone casual, as if she were talking about a pair of old sneakers and not the thing I had just placed gently in the trunk of the cab.
I turned and looked at her, then at the punching bag.
It wasn't just any punching bag.
It was the punching bag.
The one Grandpa bought me on my eighth birthday, back when I barely knew how to throw a punch. He'd tied a red ribbon around it and said, "This is where you learn to fight—not with your mouth, but with focus."
That bag had soaked in years of frustration, joy, energy, and pain. It had been my outlet, my sparring partner, my stress relief. I'd cried while hitting it, laughed while spinning around it, and grown up beside it.
"I'm taking it," I said, firm, final. No hesitation. No explanation needed.
I placed my gym bag beside it—stuffed with the only clothes I owned. A few joggers, T-shirts, hoodies, and trousers. I wasn't one for fashion shows. Grandpa always said, "You dress like a person on a mission. That's good. Life respects focus." He'd never once asked me to wear anything different. Not even when neighbors whispered that a girl should "look like a girl."
Then came my backpack. It was worn around the edges but still sturdy, like me. Inside were my books—not textbooks, but real books. The kind Grandpa loved to buy for me. Books on business, leadership, mental toughness, controlling your emotions, handling disappointment, standing alone.
He believed school taught you what to think.
He wanted me to learn how to think.
I paused for a moment, looking at my three items in the trunk—my punching bag, my gym bag, my backpack. That was all I had. All I needed.
Mom glanced around, confused.
"You only packed those three? Where are the rest of your things?"
I shrugged lightly.
"That's all."
She didn't say anything. Just looked at me for a second—maybe surprised, maybe guilty, maybe neither. Then she turned to her sister.
"Thanks for everything," she said quietly, hugging my aunt.
"Take care of her," my aunt replied, with a faint smile. She didn't hug me. She knew I wasn't a fan of soft gestures in public. But her eyes said everything—sadness, pride, and that unspoken "you'll be okay."
Mom joined me in the backseat.
"Bye," my aunt called softly, waving from the doorway.
I lowered my head in a respectful bow. Not dramatic—just enough. It was my way of saying goodbye.
The engine hummed to life. As the cab began to move, I leaned against the window and let my eyes lock onto the house behind us—Grandpa's house.
The cracked front steps. The old basketball hoop that leaned a little to the left. The porch chair where he'd sit every evening with a glass of ginger drink. The faded welcome mat that never truly welcomed anyone but him and me. The whole place looked frozen, like it was holding its breath until I came back.
Except I wasn't coming back.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as the house disappeared behind us.
This was real.
I was leaving behind the only place that ever felt like home, the only person who never treated me like an inconvenience or a mistake. Grandpa had filled every space in that house with his lessons, his presence, his strength. And now… it was just walls and memories.
Will the city be a problem? I wondered.
The stories I'd heard about Lagos made it sound like a jungle. Loud, fast, unforgiving. The kind of place that chews people up and spits them out before they realize what hit them. But Grandpa never feared the city.
He used to say, "There are some opponents you go out and face—before they come looking for you."
Maybe this was what he meant.
Maybe Lagos was my opponent now.
And just maybe... he'd already trained me enough to take it on.
My aunt had mentioned earlier that the burial would take place in December—three months from now. She said we had to wait for Uncle Promise to arrive. He hadn't even heard of the loss yet. December made sense, I guess—it's the holiday period, when everyone would be available. But I still didn't understand why people delay burials. Why not bury the dead immediately?
Maybe they think waiting makes it easier to say goodbye.
Or maybe, deep down, they hope something impossible might happen.
Maybe they think the dead might resurrect.