We left just after noon.
The sun was high, but it wasn't the heat that made the day feel heavy. It was the weight in my chest—the kind that sits stubborn and still. I sat in the back of the cab, pressed up against the window, my backpack on my lap like it might fly away if I let go.
I didn't look at anyone. Not my mother, who sat quietly beside me, smelling like imported lotion and freshly ironed guilt. Not the cab driver, who hummed an old Yoruba song as he adjusted his mirror.
The drive was long.
We passed sleepy towns and stretches of road lined with bush, then small markets where everything was either on someone's head or hanging from a stall. My mind wandered between silence and memories.
Mom didn't speak.
I didn't either.
It was better that way.
The road stretched like it had no end. We stopped once to buy water. The driver bought puff-puff and tried to offer me one. I shook my head.
I thought of Grandpa.
How he'd pack lunch for our road trips even when we were just going to the next town.
How he insisted I memorize routes—"Never depend too much on drivers. Learn the roads yourself."
There would be no more trips with him now. Just instructions he left behind. A will that said: Go with her. Manage the restaurant. Live.
I didn't argue. Not because I agreed. But because arguing with a dead man is pointless.
The closer we got to Lagos, the more the landscape changed.
The air thickened with dust and noise.
The buildings grew taller, tighter.
The traffic multiplied like ants around sugar.
And then, we entered.
---
Lagos was not welcoming.
It was impatient, fast, hot, and loud. Cars squeezed into lanes that didn't exist. Hawkers sprinted between traffic, selling everything from bathroom slippers to plantain chips. Someone knocked on our window trying to sell air freshener. Another tried to clean the windshield with water that looked dirtier than the glass.
"Gala! Cold mineral! Groundnut!" Voices layered on top of each other like a choir without rhythm.
I'd never seen this much life packed into such small, tense spaces.
We drove past a long row of shops with faded signboards. I saw a mechanic's workshop that looked like it had survived a war. A group of boys played football beside a drainage channel. A woman walked confidently through the middle of the street like she couldn't be hit by anything slower than lightning.
I didn't realize how tight my grip was on my backpack until Mom tapped my arm.
"We're almost there," she said.
I gave a slight nod. That was all.
The streets got quieter as we turned off the main road. Bigger houses. Taller gates. Fewer people walking. Fewer horns. It was like the city had two faces—one wild and messy, the other calm and hidden.
We stopped in front of a cream-colored house with a black gate. The cab man honked once, and the gate opened without a word. A uniformed security man nodded as we drove in.
The compound was wide. The house was neat. Too neat. Like someone wiped it down every hour to keep the world out.
The car stopped.
I opened the door slowly and stepped out with the kind of caution I'd learned from sparring with Grandpa—don't rush into unfamiliar territory.
My mother stood beside me, silent. Watching.
I didn't say a word. I walked to the trunk and pulled out my punching bag, my gym bag, and finally, my backpack. I carried all three myself. Nobody offered to help.
Maybe they knew better.
Or maybe they still thought I was breakable.
I took one last look at the street outside the gate—noisy, rude, real.
Then I looked at the house in front of me. Calm, clean, distant.
One was chaos. The other, quiet expectation.
Neither felt like home.
But I was here now.
Grandpa always said, "You won't always fight in familiar rings. Learn to control your stance anywhere."
So I stood up straight, adjusted my bag strap, and walked in.
The house in Lagos was larger than I expected. Too bright, too quiet, too curated. It had that sterile kind of silence you find in showrooms—clean lavender diffusers on every surface, tiles that reflected the ceiling, and air that felt a little too expensive to breathe freely. It didn't smell like home. Not like Grandpa's house ever did—with its mix of disinfectant, cocoa butter, and old books.
Mom walked ahead, giving me a tour as if I'd just checked into a luxury hotel. I nodded where necessary, barely looking at her. Each room felt like it was designed for a magazine spread. Nothing felt lived in. Nothing felt mine.
Then the silence cracked.
They walked in—confident, noisy, and entirely too comfortable in their own skin. The twins. A boy and a girl. Fourteen years old. Dressed like they were coming back from an outing with friends—air of freedom, clothes just slightly too trendy, voices loud like the house was their playground.
"So you're the older sister everyone's been whispering about," the girl—Jamila—said, folding her arms and tilting her head as she scanned me like I was a math problem she didn't quite understand.
"She doesn't look like she talks much," the boy—Jayden—added with a smirk, eyeing my joggers, oversized t-shirt, and worn backpack. "She kinda looks like a female version of John Wick. Or maybe an undercover agent."
I didn't laugh.
I didn't even blink.
I just walked past them and into the room Mom pointed at.
It was nice, I guess—if you liked pale walls and beds with too many pillows. I set my punching bag in the corner, unzipped my gym bag, and left my backpack on the table. That was everything I brought with me. No photo frames, no stuffed animals, no clutter. Just my habits.
A knock came a few minutes later.
Zainab stood in the doorway. Same age as me. Smooth skin, long lashes, perfect hair. Pretty in the way social media girls were pretty, like she always knew where the light hit best.
"Hey. I'm Zainab. My dad's the one married to your mom, so… I guess that makes us step-somethings."
Her tone wasn't hostile—just calculated. Calm. Polished. I wondered how many times she'd practiced introductions in her head.
I didn't say anything. Just nodded once.
She stepped further into the room, eyes scanning everything.
"You box?" she asked, pointing her chin at the punching bag.
Another nod.
"That's different."
There was a pause. A kind of silent negotiation.
"I'm into makeup and skincare. Fashion too. I can help you blend in a bit, if you want."
I gave her the look Grandpa always called "neutral defense". No answer, no offense, no invitation. She got the message.
"Right. You're probably still adjusting."
She backed out of the room with a short smile. "Anyway, welcome. Dinner's at eight."
When I was alone again, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The walls suddenly felt closer. The air tighter.
I didn't hate them—none of them. Not the twins with their relentless questions and off-brand sarcasm. Not Zainab and her surface-level kindness. Not Mom's husband who nodded at me like I was a new neighbor moving in next door. No one had been rude.
But still, I didn't belong.
Not in this glossy house.
Not among people who lived like life was a party waiting to happen.
Jayden and Jamila popped in later—uninvited, but not unwelcome in their own minds.
"Why don't you smile?" Jamila asked, dropping her head onto my bed without permission.
"Do you listen to music? Or are you one of those podcast people?" Jayden followed up, crouching beside my punching bag like it was a relic from an ancient world.
I didn't answer.
They didn't seem to mind.
They kept talking. Kept asking. Kept poking at the quiet I had built around myself like armor. Like spoiled brats, but not in a mean way. Just... in a way that showed they were used to being heard. To being answered. To being adored.
I didn't come from that world.
I came from early morning jogs with Grandpa. From chores before breakfast. From conversations that were more action than words. I came from earned respect, not automatic acceptance.
I'd left pieces of myself behind—on the floor of his bedroom, in the backyard where we shot hoops, in the sound of him calling out my name after a win. Pieces I wasn't ready to replace.
Now here I was, in this strange, glassy Lagos house, surrounded by energy and laughter that wasn't mine.
Grandpa used to say, "Even fighters trained in quiet gyms must learn to win in noisy rings."
So maybe this was the ring.
And maybe I wasn't supposed to blend in.
Maybe I just needed to stay standing.
---
Dinner was served exactly at eight, just like Zainab said.
The dining room was polished and proper, with a long glass table at the center surrounded by cream leather chairs. A chandelier hung overhead, its light too bright for how I felt. The table was already set when I walked in—napkins folded into fans, plates that looked like no one ever actually ate off them, and a smell of grilled chicken and stew that should have made me hungry. It didn't.
I took a seat quietly at the far end, near the wall. My usual instinct—sit where escape is closest.
Mom came in a minute later, wearing a soft pink blouse and grey pants. She looked good, like always. Glowing skin, perfect makeup, her hair pulled into a sleek bun. Sometimes I wonder if she recognizes what I see when I look at her.
Because when I look at her…
I see me.
Or rather, I see the version of her that must have existed before marriage, before this house, before all this shine.
The resemblance between us was so sharp that even Zainab had stared earlier when she saw Mom standing behind me. It was like seeing the past and present in one frame. I didn't like it. I wasn't trying to look like her. I was just born that way.
The twins entered next, arguing over something that had to do with music and who last touched the speaker in the sitting room.
"It's always you, Jayden!" the girl twin—Jamila, I think—rolled her eyes and flopped into the seat beside her brother.
"She literally listens to songs that make your brain melt," Jayden replied, tossing a grape into his mouth like it was popcorn. "I'm saving the house from her trash playlist."
Their father came in last. He was tall and broad, the kind of man who fills a doorway just by standing in it. He greeted everyone with a simple nod and sat beside Mom, stretching his arms before picking up his fork.
"Let's eat," he said, as if that alone opened the dinner.
No one prayed. No one waited. Forks moved, plates clinked.
I watched. Not the food. Them.
Mom kept glancing at me. Not long stares, just little flashes. Like she couldn't believe I was really here. Or maybe because every time she looked up, she saw her younger self across the table.
Zainab sat across from me. She looked comfortable, like this was routine for her—passing salad bowls, sipping juice, responding to the twins with mild sarcasm.
Jayden and Jamila asked questions like they were on a talk show:
"So, do you have friends back where you came from?"
**"What's your favorite movie?"
"Why do you always look like you're thinking something deep?"**
I didn't answer. I just ate, slowly. Listening.
"She doesn't talk much, does she?" Jamila whispered loudly, though not loud enough for it to be a whisper.
"She's cool," Zainab said, mouth half-full. "She just got here. Chill."
Jayden leaned forward, grinning. "Do you box because of anger issues or just 'cause it's fun?"
That one almost made me speak. Almost.
But I blinked instead. Blinked slowly.
Then picked up my glass and drank.
Mom cleared her throat.
"Your sister just needs time to settle in," she said, voice soft and careful.
Sister. Like it was a normal word. Like it rolled easily off the tongue.
I caught her husband looking at me too. Not with hostility, not at all. Just curiosity. Like he was still trying to calculate where exactly I fit into the picture that used to make perfect sense before I arrived.
There was a moment—just one—when our eyes met. Mom and I. And something passed between us.
Recognition. Guilt. Maybe memory.
Because sitting there, across from her, I could see it clearly now. The shape of her nose. The tilt of her jaw. The set of her brows when she was deep in thought. All of it. The only difference was—hers had softened with time, and mine was still sharp with youth.
She saw it too. I know she did.
"You remind me of someone I used to know," she said, smiling gently at her plate.
"Yourself," Zainab said dryly, chuckling.
Mom laughed a little. But I didn't.
Because the person she used to be… the one I look like… is the same person who left me behind.
Dinner ended without drama. Plates were cleared. Juice was poured again. The twins argued over who would do the dishes and then somehow convinced Zainab to help them both.
I walked back to my room silently.
No one stopped me. No one asked me to stay behind. No one tried to talk again.
I was full. But not of food.
Just full—of noise, of faces, of voices I hadn't grown up with.
And yet, there I was.
Fitting into a family I didn't choose.
Looking like a woman I wasn't sure I even knew anymore.
Beautiful—here's the continuation of your story right after the private family dinner in Lagos. It maintains your reflective, emotionally steady tone, with a focus on your character's discomfort, observations, and inner thoughts as she tries to process this new life among people who expect closeness she hasn't earned or offered.
---
After dinner, I went straight to my room.
The food was good. Well-seasoned. Expensive-smelling. The kind of meal people post on Instagram with filters and soft music. But my mouth felt too dry to enjoy it. My stomach had no appetite for unfamiliar flavors.
The room was too clean. Too arranged. A guest space dressed up to look like it belonged to me. My punching bag stood quietly in one corner, already looking like it didn't belong here. My gym bag and backpack sat untouched near the wardrobe.
I sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled.
The air conditioner hummed softly, but I still felt hot. Not heat like weather—but heat like pressure. Like expectations I hadn't agreed to meet.
I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors.
Same face as my mother before she got married.
Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same expression when we're annoyed or hiding sadness.
Zainab had noticed it. Even the twins had pointed it out.
"You look just like Mom when she was younger," Jamila had said at dinner, wide-eyed.
"Yeah, like copy and paste," Jayden added with his mouth full of jollof rice.
And Mom smiled at that.
A weak, grateful kind of smile.
Like being her mirror meant we had something in common.
But we didn't.
I was shaped by a man who taught me to throw a proper hook and make tough decisions. I was raised in a house where silence meant strength, not awkwardness. Where love didn't come as hugs or compliments but in acts—teaching, showing, preparing.
This new place... it was noise wrapped in politeness. Affection served in shiny dishes and warm colors. But it didn't feel like love. Not to me.
There was a knock on the door.
I didn't answer.
Another knock. Then a soft voice.
"Hey… it's me. Zainab."
Pause.
"Just wanted to check if you needed toothpaste or an extra towel or anything like that?"
I didn't respond.
Not because I was angry. Just… tired.
Another pause.
"Okay. Goodnight then."
I listened as her footsteps faded down the hallway.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. No fan this time—just cold air and recessed lights. Grandpa would've said it was too fancy to be practical.
I missed the creaking of the fan in my old room. The one that made soft clicks every third turn. The one I stared at while memorizing exam notes or pretending not to cry.
This ceiling was too quiet. Too smooth. It had no memory of me.
Still, I was here now.
Not because I chose to be.
But because he chose it for me.
And Grandpa didn't waste his decisions.