Tola, what are you doing? Lea’s scream ripped through the Thanksgiving afternoon like a cold blade. Tola jerked violently, the stick in her hand freezing midair. Her perfectly madeup face drained of color as if someone had pulled all the blood out of her body in an instant.

The sounds in the backyard vanished. No birds, no distant cars, only the rapid panicked breathing of Mama Remy kneeling on the ground and the pounding warrum heartbeat thundering inside Lake’s chest. He stood there at the back gate, still in his black suit tie, crooked from the long flight.

In his hand was a bouquet of white liies, flowers he had grabbed from the airport, meant for his mother. One by one, the petals slipped from his fingers and fell onto the dirty stone tiles, landing in a puddle of murky water, leaking from the drain mixed with old grease and leftover food. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His mother, Mama Remy, the woman who once carried him on her back for a whole mile to the hospital when he had a 106 degree fever. The woman who prayed for him every morning, even when she had nothing but a crumbling brick house, was now kneeling between two industrial trash bins behind his mansion. Her old yellow Ankura blouse was smeared with grease bone fragments and brownish red sauce.

Her trembling hands still clutched a handful of rice mixed with dirt. And her eyes lifted to her son were filled with joy, fear, and shame so deep it looked like she wished she could disappear. “Lak,” she whispered. Tola spun around her high heels, skidding on the tile. “You’re home early,” she forced out with a shaky smile. But the skin around her eyes had already tightened in fear.

Leica stepped toward them, his footsteps heavy and slow. With every step, the fury inside him rose like a tidal wave. Memories flashed. His mother cooking over a charcoal stove in Suru. Sweat dripping, smiling anyway, saying, “Go study my son. Let mama handle the rest.

” And now that same woman was being treated like garbage. Leica, let me explain. Tola rushed out, hiding the stick behind her back like a child caught stealing candy. He pointed at her, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. Explain. How do you explain forcing my mother to eat leftovers behind the trash cans? Tola swallowed hard. I I was just teaching her a lesson.

Because she insulted me first, she blurted. She said I was a gold digger, that I didn’t deserve you. I just wanted her to respect me. Respect. Leak laughed a cold empty sound. This is your idea of respect. Throwing an elderly woman with a heart condition behind the trash and forcing her to eat scraps like a dog. He knelt beside his mother, not caring that his expensive suit was soaking up the smell of rot and dirty water.

He slid an arm around her fragile back, helping her stand. Her skin was so thin, he could feel every bone beneath it. “Mom!” His voice cracked. “Are you okay? Why are you out here? Why didn’t you call me, Mama?” Remy shook her head weakly, tears shimmering. “I didn’t want to bother you. You’re busy.

I thought Tola was just joking. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. Something tore open in Leica’s chest, not from his wife’s cruelty, but from knowing he had left his mother to suffer alone. He lifted his mother into his arms, holding her like a child.

The bouquet of liies lay crushed under a garbage truck, rolling past the gate. Leica listened to me. Tolla reached for his sleeve, her voice rising with panic and pride clashing. “Your mother isn’t as sweet as she pretends. She criticizes me all the time, my clothes, my spending,” she says. “I’m not worthy of a billionaire husband. I only taught her a little manners.

” Leica turned sharply, his eyes darkening like clouds swallowing the sun. “Manners,” he said slowly. Is this how you teach manners by making her eat cold rice under a trash bin? Have you ever been so hungry you ate cold rice with water outside on the porch? Have you ever waited 6 hours in a hospital line just so someone you love could get a checkup? Have you ever given up your meal so someone else could eat and gone to bed with only Fcher? Each question slashed through Tolla’s fragile ego. She snapped back, voice rising. You always take her side.

What about me? I’m your wife. I deserve respect, too. She disrespected me first. I have a right. No. Lea cut her off. You don’t have that right. No one has the right to humiliate my mother ever. The Thanksgiving breeze lifted the kitchen curtain, carrying scents of roast turkey cornbread, and warm wine painfully contrasting the scent of rancid garbage around them.

Lakes’s voice dropped again, colder than before since the day I married you. I believed, like every man in Lagos, that my wife would love my mother like her own. I was wrong. I wasn’t here for my mother when she needed me. That’s my failure. But today he inhaled deeply. Today I fixed that mistake. Silence settled over the mansion.

The crystal chandeliers, Italian leather chairs, and luxury dining table suddenly felt foreign to him. Still holding his mother, he said clearly, “From this moment, we are done.” Tola blinked rapidly, waiting for him to take it back. She forced a tight laugh. laugh. Leica, don’t say things like that. It’s just I said what I meant. His voice didn’t rise, but each word struck like iron. A woman who disrespects my mother cannot remain my wife.

Something shattered inside Tolla’s expression. Le, you can’t leave me over this. I’ve been by your side for years. Events, imagebuilding, appearances. I built my company with my mother’s sweat long before you came along, he said coldly. Any image can be rebuilt. But a mother, I only have one. Fear finally replaced her arrogance.

She lunged forward, clutching his arm, crying loudly. Leica, I was wrong. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll treat her well from now on. Don’t leave me. I can’t go back to my parents’ house in shame. I can’t. Leica looked down at her desperate hands.

The same hands that once flaunted his diamond ring on Instagram, now clinging to him like someone drowning. But he was no longer her lifeline. Gently, firmly, he pried each finger off his sleeve. His voice was drained of anger. Only deep exhaustion remained. I should have stopped this the first time you disrespected my mother. My mistake was giving you too many chances. That mistake ends today.

Tola sobbed louder and grabbed for him again, but Leica pushed her hands away. That night, Leica walked into the security room and pulled up every camera recording from the past 14 days. The security room was tucked in the basement behind a steel door that only technicians usually entered. Harsh white neon lights reflected off the wall of monitors.

A grid of screens showing every corner of the mansion, the front gate, living room, kitchen hallways, backyard storage shed, the private elevator. Lake stood before the screens, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. He felt like he had aged 10 years in a single afternoon. “Sir, are you sure you want to watch all of it?” the young guard asked softly.

He had seen the scene behind the trash bins earlier, and the look in Leica’s eyes had haunted him ever since. Play it, Leak said sharply. 14 days. Start from the beginning. The guard nodded and typed rapidly. Timelines scrolled back. The cursor jumped two weeks earlier. The screens sped up. People moving like they were sprinting lights switching on and off. Cars streaking through the driveway like comets.

“Stop,” Leica said when his mother’s silhouette appeared. “Backyard camera. Day one of his business trip.” Mama Remy walked out with a tray of food, her gentle smile still bright. Her lips moved. There was no audio, but Leica knew exactly what she was saying. Eat while it’s hot, my child.

She placed the plate in front of Ta, pushing it forward politely. Tola sat cross-legged on a retan chair, staring at her phone. She didn’t even look up. Then she said something sharp, just one sentence. Mama Remy laughed softly, trying to continue the conversation. Then suddenly, Tola stood up, snatched the plate, and dumped it onto the floor.

The image was so sharp, Leica wanted to smash the screen with his bare hands. His mother bent down in a panic, picking up each piece of food like she was the one at fault. Tola stood over her with folded arms, watching like a judge, watching a criminal clean up her own mess. Leak’s knuckles cracked as his fist tightened. “Next,” he growled. Living room camera.

Three days later, Tola walked down the stairs holding a pair of red stilettos. Mama Remy was dusting the TV cabinet, her curved back visible through her blouse. She turned, smiled, said something kind. She reached to touch the shoes, just admiring them. Tola yanked them away and threw them at her legs. Mama stumbled, almost fell.

She apologized. Leica could see her lips forming the word. Tola pointed at her forehead, scolding her like a misbehaving child. Then Tola gestured slowly, painfully. Mama Remy lowered herself to her knees and began wiping the floor, cleaning every footprint, every speck of dust, while Tola leaned against the railing, filming her with a phone. From the camera angle, Lake saw it clearly.

Yes, clearly. Tolla’s lips curved into a smile as she watched his mother’s hands tremble. Lake felt acid burning in his chest. “Go back another week,” he rasped. “Play it slow. Hallway camera. Rainy morning.” Mama Remy carried a laundry basket, walking slowly. The carpet muffled her shuffling steps. Tola appeared behind her with a large glass of water. The screen showed Tola speaking a long, sharp string of words.

Mama shook her head timidly, placing a hand on her chest. Tola shrugged, smirked, and poured the entire glass of cold water over her head. Her silver hair flattened her blouse soaked. Mama gasped, clutching her chest, coughing. Tola stepped back. Not guilty, not sorry. She laughed.

Even without audio, Leica could hear the sound of that laugh echoing in his skull. The guard beside him nervously handed Leak a tissue. Sir, your hand. Lea hadn’t noticed his fingernails digging into his palm until he saw the blood. Continue. The nightmare continued.

Tola throwing a pillow on the floor and pointing, forcing Mama to sit there instead of on a new fabric chair. Tola pushing her medication tray aside like she was annoyed by her coughing. Tola locking the door to the guest room so Mama had to sleep on the couch the entire night. But the worst part, not her actions, her face, not anger, not loss of control, but delight. A predator enjoying the power to hurt something gentle.

Leica sank into the chair, leaned back, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He remembered their wedding day. Tola standing in the church, fake tears on her cheeks as she vowed, “I will care for Leica’s mother.” as if she were my own. Now that vow sounded like a cruel joke. The guard whispered, “Sir, this was yesterday.” Lea opened his eyes.

kitchen camera. Morning of his flight home. Tola stood at the sink with leftover food. Mama walked in holding her cane. She spoke probably, “Don’t throw it away. Mama can eat it later.” But Tola snapped back with a full rant. Then she opened the trash bin, dumped all the food inside, and turned to look directly at the camera.

Her smile stretched cold, arrogant, triumphant, like she knew someone would one day see this. Leak’s eyes burned. He rarely cried. The world knew him as billionaire Leica Admy calculated sharp decisive. But here he wasn’t a billionaire. He was a son watching his mother being humiliated inside the home he worked his whole life to build.

Fast forward to this afternoon, he whispered, “Backyard camera, the moment of truth.” He watched himself enter the frame bouquet in hand. Exactly when Tola raised the stick toward his kneeling mother. He watched his own face, shock, disbelief, fury. All the lies, all the performances, all the manipulation exposed now frame by frame.

Rewind. Four more days, he said. Find every second my mother was alone with Tola. More clips, more cruelty, more humiliation. And always, always the same detail. Tola smiling when Mama was in pain. Not once, not in a moment of anger. It was a habit, a pleasure. Leak said nothing for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the security machines. Finally, he inhaled deeply and stood.

Export all 14 days, he said calmly. Separate files labeled by date, time, and location. Don’t miss a second. Yes, sir. The guard hurried, copying the footage to an external drive. He handed it over with both hands as if giving Leica a weapon. Leica held the drive heavy like a heart full of bruises.

He pulled out his phone and opened to contact Chief Edawoo Father-in-law, the man who once shook his hand at the wedding and said, “I give you my daughter. Take care of her.” Now Lea stared at that name and tapped video call. After several rings, Chief Idovu’s face appeared half asleep, but still carrying the sternness of a retired official. Lake, “It’s late, son.

What’s I’ll be sending you some videos?” Leica cut in voice flat. “Please watch them alone.” The man frowned. “What videos? Did something happen with Tola? I told you she has a temper, but I have no more words,” Leica said, eyes colder than the neon light above him. “When you finish watching, if you can still look at your daughter the same way, that’s your choice.

As for me,” he tightened his grip on the drive. “I just want you to know before this reaches the court, so you won’t say I hid the truth from you.” Chief Idu froze. For the first time, real fear flickered in the powerful man’s eyes. “Lake, you’re scaring me,” he whispered. “Send it. I’ll watch right now.” Lake ended the call, opened his messaging app, selected every exported clip, and attached them.

His finger hovered over the screen. Was he really going to do this? Then he remembered the image of his mother kneeling in the rain, smiling through humiliation, holding dirty rice in trembling hands. No hesitation remained. He typed one heavy sentence and hit send. This is the truth about your daughter.

Tola was blasted with insults the moment she stepped through the front door. The heavy wooden door of the Idawu family home in Guar Ibadan had barely slammed shut behind her when her mother’s scream hit her like an invisible slap. “What have you done?” her mother shrieked the Ankura scarf on her head, sliding crooked as if even it couldn’t stand the shock. “I raised you, fed you, loved you.

for you to grow into a monster like this. The living room usually calm except for the ticking wall clock instantly turned into a family courtroom. The warm golden chandelier still glowed above, but Tola felt only coldness. On the table, Chief Idaw’s iPad was still open. Frozen on the screen was the frame of Mama Remy kneeling in the backyard, her frail hands picking up grains of rice from beneath Tolla’s shoe.

The white pause button glared like an undeniable verdict. Tola glanced at it and her stomach twisted. She had hoped foolishly that Leica was bluffing, that he wouldn’t actually send the videos to her father, that he would protect the family’s dignity. But now those hopes lay shattered next to an open tissue box on the coffee table.

Chief Idawu stood before the screen, his back straight as a spear, the posture of an old military officer returning for a final inspection. Even in a wrinkled house shirt, he radiated the authority of a man who had spent decades commanding rooms. He turned around slowly, his eyes filled with something Tola had never seen in him before.

“Not disappointment, but disgust. “Do you see yourself in this video?” he asked, voice grally, each word ripping through his throat. Or have you gone blind? Tola’s knees buckled, her designer handbag slipped from her fingers, the metal clasp clattering on the marble floor, and she sank to the ground. “Mom, Dad, please listen to me.” She choked out, her voice, cracking apart.

Her usual polished poise was gone. Mascara smeared down her cheeks in dark streaks. Her mother lunged forward, grabbing Tola by the shoulders and shaking her so hard her gold necklace trembled. Listen. Listen to what her mother cried, tears breaking her voice.

What did I teach you your whole life? How many times did I tell you to respect your elders? Respect your mother-in-law. Do you remember how I used to work as a maid? how I was insulted, humiliated, and still I taught you never shame an older woman no matter what. And now look at you. Tola sobbed, tears falling onto the polished floor. I just I just wanted my mother-in-law to respect me, she said, clutching her mother’s sleeve like a frightened child.

You don’t know. She always criticized me. Said I wasted money. Said I dressed like a nightclub girl. Said I didn’t deserve Lea. That I married up by luck. Chief Idawu slammed his hand on the table hard. The TV remote jumped, then slid off and hit the tile. “You wanted respect, so you forced an old woman to kneel and scrub the floor,” he roared. “You wanted respect, so you poured cold water on her head.

You wanted respect, so you made her eat trash behind the bins. That’s the way a daughter of the Idawoo family earns respect. Tola whimpered, unable to lift her head. Dad, I lost my temper. I I didn’t think it would go that far. Didn’t think he sneered a cold metallic laugh scraping out of him.

He lifted the iPad and hit play again. The slow motion footage rolled water dripping from Tla’s hand onto Mama Remy’s hair. Look, he said, “You’re smiling. Do you see that? Every time she suffers, you smile. That is not thinking. That is cruelty.” Her mother pressed a hand to her forehead, shoulders shaking. She turned away, unable to watch another second. Tola, she whispered through tears.

You’re destroying yourself. Not because Leica is a billionaire, not because of name or status, but because you forgot who you are. You forgot where we came from. You forgot how poor I was, how I picked leftovers from my employer’s table. You forgot every lesson I taught you. The words stabbed deeper than any shouting. Tola remembered.

She remembered her mother’s scarred hands, the stories of humiliation, the nights they shared stale bread. Her mother had once wept and said, “I don’t want you to grow up and suffer as a daughter-in-law. I want you to be respected.” Tola had listened.

But somewhere between the cramped rented apartment and the luxurious villa in Ecoy, somewhere between champagne nights and Instagram compliments, she had thrown those lessons away. Dad. Tola lifted her swollen eyes. I was afraid of losing Leica. I was afraid his mother would ruin my marriage. In Logos, everyone says a mother-in-law can turn a wife’s life into hell.

I just wanted to control things before they controlled me. Control, Chief Idawu repeated, tasting the word like poison. You call torturing a heart-d diseased old woman control. He stepped closer until he towered over her. When I approved your marriage, I held my head high. I believed you would be a graceful wife, a grateful wife.

And now, now you’ve turned the Idawu name into a joke. Tola broke into a loud, wounded cry. I don’t want a divorce, Dad. Mom, I don’t want it. I love him. I’ll apologize. I’ll kneel before her. Her mother grabbed her husband’s arm. Please call Lea. He used to call you Baba. He respected you. Talk to him. Maybe. Maybe he’ll give her one last chance.

Chief Idawu remained still for a long, heavy moment. The entire house seemed to hold its breath. He looked at his daughter, the girl he once held on his knee, now kneeling in disgrace, tears streaking her face. Finally, he turned away, picked up his phone. “Stand up,” he said coldly. You don’t deserve to kneel before us.

The person you owe your knees to is someone else. He dialed Leica’s number saved in his phone as son-in-law with a small crown emoji. A foolish symbol of pride from the day Lea appeared on the cover of Forbes Africa. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Tola held her breath, hands clasped tightly as if praying. Finally, the call connected.

Leak’s voice came through low, rough, stripped of all warmth. Yes, sir. Chief Idawu swallowed hard. For the first time in years, words felt heavy on his tongue. Leica, he began trying to keep his voice steady. I I watched the videos you sent. Silence on the other end, then a soft cold. Yes. Tola. He glanced at his daughter, shaking. Tola is my child.

I cannot pretend she is a stranger. I won’t deny that what she did is unforgivable. I have scolded her. I shouted at her like I’ve never shouted at anyone in my life. He paused, drawing a long breath. Son, I apologize. as her father, as the head of this family, I’m truly sorry for what she did to you and your mother. Maybe I spoiled her.

Maybe I failed to teach her where the boundaries are. But still, she’s just a girl. She has her fears, her insecurities. She was wrong. Very wrong. But my son, his voice wavered. He turned away so Tola wouldn’t see his eyes well up. Please give her a chance, he said quietly, sounding suddenly older. One last chance.

I promise you, if she ever repeats such behavior, I will stand with you in court myself. But just this once, let me see. Not the billionaire on magazine covers, but the young man who ate Epho Riro in my house, who sat at my table, who called me Baba after your engagement. The room fell silent again. Tola lifted her head, staring at the phone like she could see Leica through the signal.

Across town, Leica looked down at his bandaged hands, the same hands scraped and bloody after watching 14 days of horror in the security room. In front of him, Mama Remy slept on a recliner, breathing shallowly under a thin blanket. He remembered every frame, every drop of water on her head, every laugh from Tola, every moment of cruelty.

He also remembered the first dinner at the Adobu home, the laughter, the warm handshake, the proud son. This house is yours, too. But home he now knew had never been walls or chandeliers. Home was the sleeping woman on that chair. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them with the clarity of a blade. Sir, Leica said softly. I respect you. I know how hard it is for you to apologize.

I know Tola is your only child, but there is something you must understand. His gaze drifted to his mother. For my mother, there is no second chance. He did not wait for an answer. He pulled the phone away from his ear and with the same calm finality as ending a war, he hung up. Tola hired lawyers pleaded, threatened, begged, but Leica never changed his mind.

Ever since that final phone call with Chief Adohu, everything moved like a storm. No one had time to hide from the divorce papers were filed just 3 days later. Leica didn’t wait, didn’t delay, didn’t allow time to soften a single bruise on his mother’s body. And he certainly didn’t allow it to soften his own memory. At first, Tola thought it was just a scare tactic. She even scoffed when she received the court summons, “He won’t dare.

” The press investors his public image. Leaken needs me. But when her personal attorney walked into the house and calmly told her to prepare her financial disclosures, asset statements, and get ready for trial, the cold crept into her bones from the soles of her feet all the way to her neck. She panicked and started calling everyone. She called Lea.

He didn’t pick up. She called her mother-in-law. No answer. She called her father. He only sighed. You’ll carry the consequences yourself. Then came the next stage. Lawyers threats desperate bargaining. At her desk sat a lineup of men in black suits speaking the cold, sharp language of the law clauses, entitlements, asset division shares, properties, vehicles, cash, portfolios.

If you want to preserve your public image, we should pursue mediation, one lawyer suggested. If you want to intimidate, we can counter sue for defamation. Another whispered ambition flashing in his eyes. But what Tola wanted went far beyond either of those strategies. She wanted Leak back. Those sleepless nights in her childhood bedroom at her parents’ house felt like punishment.

She sat by the window staring at the distant street lights, remembering every moment from the Acoy mansion. The sound of Leica’s engine pulling into the driveway. The way he’d walk in, loosen his tie, slip off his suit jacket, and kiss her cheek without thinking. The fancy events, the champagne nights, the people greeting her with admiration. Mrs. Admy.

That title had felt like a crown. Now that crown was being ripped off. Tola couldn’t handle it. She texted, she called, she emailed. Leica, please just meet me once. I’ll kneel before your mother before all of Nigeria if I have to. Don’t let the press find out. We can settle quietly. If you divorce me, I won’t stay silent.

I’ll talk to the media. I’ll expose your mother, your past. That last message was sent in a moment of unhinged panic. Even Tola felt a chill when she reread it. She had crossed a line. Leak read each message, watching them pop up on his screen, then disappear when she deleted them, then reappear with even more desperation. He didn’t reply.

He simply took screenshots and sent them to his lawyer. This is why I want everything finalized as soon as possible. The courtroom. The first hearing took place on a gray February morning. The Lago sky was smudged with thin clouds, neither bright nor dark, just heavy, tired, undecided. Exactly like everyone involved.

Outside the family court, a handful of reporters lingered with cameras and microphones ready. But Lea’s legal team had done an impeccable job keeping the case quiet. Private conferences restricted access guards, blocking any unauthorized recording. Inside the hallway, the air smelled of paper sweat and floor cleaner. Leica arrived first with his lawyer.

He wore a simple dark suit, no tie, no pocket square, no luxury branding. He didn’t want to be a billionaire today, just a man ending a hollow marriage. Tola arrived minutes later. She wore a tasteful dress and light makeup, but it couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes.

She scanned the hallway for Leica, but he never turned his head. On the family bench, Mama Remy sat quietly with a thin shawl around her shoulders. The bruises on her arm and near her temple had faded, leaving faint shadows, ghosts of the nightmare she endured. But her eyes remembered everything. Chief Idawoo and his wife were there too stiff and pale, caught between shame and heartbreak.

The trial stretched on for two months, hearing after hearing, testimony after testimony, negotiation after negotiation. Lawyers fought with precision with clauses that cut like blades. Sometimes Tola snapped. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she sat statue still, stunned into silence.

Some days she overdressed, hoping that if Leica saw her the way she used to be, he might hesitate. But every time their eyes met, Leak held a cold, impenetrable distance. It felt like an ocean had grown between them. In closed sessions away from the public, certain videos were shown again. The water being dumped over Mama’s head, the food thrown on the ground, the laughter. Each time the footage played, Tolla’s head dropped lower.

Her nails dug into her palm until they drew blood. Her father covered his forehead with his hand. Her mother cried silently into her scarf. The judge, an exhausted middle-aged man who had seen too many marriages fall apart, kept a mostly neutral expression. But by the third showing of the video, even he paused longer than usual, staring at Tola as if silently asking why Leak asked for very little, no public smear campaign, no retaliation, no compensation. I only want a clean separation, his lawyer repeated again and again. He

wants to leave peacefully. Two long months passed, signed documents, revisions, counter revisions. Two months where Tola lived between fragile hope and brutal reality, hoping Leica would change his mind, but watching him drift further away each day. The final day.

On the final morning, the room was so quiet that even a pen tapping paper sounded loud. The judge sat down his thick file, removed his glasses, and looked at the couple before him. “I have reviewed all evidence, all statements, all arguments from both sides,” he said steadily. “This is not simply a case about property or assets. It is a case about respect or the absence of it in a home.” He turned to Tolla.

Mrs. Tollah, do you have anything you wish to say before I issue the final ruling? Tola swallowed hard. She lifted her head. For the first time in many hearings, she truly looked at Leica. I Her voice cracked. I know what I did was unforgivable. I watched the videos again and I hated myself.

I don’t know where the human part of me went during those days. I was scared, weak in the worst possible way. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Lake. I’m sorry, she whispered, forgetting the courtroom, forgetting her lawyers, forgetting her parents. Just a broken woman speaking to the man she lost. I know this apology comes too late, but if someday you think of me, please don’t remember me as a monster.

Remember that once, at least once, we laughed together. Silence swallowed the room. The judge turned to Leak. Mr. Admy, would you like to say anything before I ask my final question? Leica inhaled deeply. He looked at Tola, then at his mother. Mama Remy sat clutching her prayer beads, her lips moving silently. Your honor, Leica began calmly.

I won’t deny that I once loved Tola, and I won’t deny we had beautiful memories. But he shifted his gaze fully toward her. Those memories cannot erase what I saw in those videos, and they cannot erase what my mother suffered. He clenched his hand, gently, reminding himself, “I don’t want to smear her name. I don’t want prolonged bitterness.

I just want the truth acknowledged and for both of us to walk separate paths.” The judge nodded, then asked the question the courtroom was waiting for. Are you certain you want to end this marriage? The air thickened. Lake looked at his mother again. The faint bruise near her temple. The bruise on her arm.

The invisible wounds beneath them. Wounds left by someone who should have called her mom. He looked back at the judge and answered clearly without a tremble. Yes. Any man who cannot protect his mother doesn’t deserve to be called a man. Tola collapsed into sobs.

Her grief echoed through the courtroom like a wound splitting open. Even in a room accustomed to heartbreak, the sound chilled everyone. Chief Idawu closed his eyes and leaned back as if something precious had shattered in his hands. Not the status of being father-in-law to a billionaire, but the image of the daughter he once believed had a gentle heart. Her mother covered her mouth to muffle her sobs.

Mama Remy bowed her head, a single tear landing on her rosary. Not from satisfaction, from sorrow for a soul that had lost its way. The judge lifted the final document, signed his name, and stamped it with a decisive red seal. The divorce was official. Leica moved back in with his mother into the old childhood house in Suruer.

The little home sat at the end of a narrow alley, its yellow paint peeling its rust stained tin roof bearing the marks of years of rain and sun. On the porch, the hibiscus plant Mama had nurtured for years was still alive, its leaves a bit wilted from neglect, but standing tall.

The morning air carried all the familiar scents of logos dried fish from the market. Exhaust fumes, a goosey soup drifting from a neighbor’s window. Strange, chaotic, comforting. Lake’s luxury SUV stopped at the mouth of the alley. He didn’t drive in. He stepped out, pulled in a long breath, and let the city’s memories wash over him. Children kicking a football, a Yoraba radio blaring from next door, the Accara cellar shouting from the street corner.

Mama Remy was already standing at the doorway, one hand gripping the wooden frame as if afraid the boy she saw in her dreams had finally stepped out of them. “My son,” she whispered, voice trembling with relief. “Lake walked toward her with a smile he hadn’t felt on his face in years.” “I’m home, Mom,” he said, pulling her into his arms. to the world.

He was still billionaire Leica Admi, the man who could move millions with a phone call. But in his mother’s embrace, he became the little boy who hid behind her whenever thunder cracked across the sky. The first few days were clumsy.

Leica wasn’t used to flickering electricity to running water that stopped and started whenever it pleased. He wasn’t used to no private chef, no housekeeper, no chauffeur waiting outside. But every time he almost complained, he saw his mother, small, slow, but glowing simply because he was sitting beside her on that old wooden chair. The first morning, he woke up before mama did. He stumbled around the tiny kitchen opening cupboards, searching for rice oil eggs.

The pan mama used was worn to its last layer, but he set it on the stove anyway and carefully fried eggs the way he’d seen chefs do in those fancy homes he used to live in. Mama walked in prayer beads still in her hands.

She stood there for nearly a full minute just watching his silhouette in her kitchen, an image she thought she would never see again. Le She laughed softly. Are you really cooking Logos might snow today? He turned with a plate of slightly burned eggs. No criticism allowed. This is a special menu for one person only, he joked. She accepted the plate with both hands as though he had brought her gold.

She closed her eyes at the first bite, not because the food tasted great, but because buried in that burnt flavor was the answer to years of prayers. Her son came home. Every day Leica tried to take her to the clinic. He rented a simple car, no special plates, no chauffeur. They returned to the old surer clinic where they used to wait for hours when he was a child.

But this time he couldn’t bear to see his mother sit in a crowded hallway. So he quietly donated money, upgraded equipment, funded renovations, and gave one condition. Don’t give her special treatment. Just don’t let her wait in the sun. The old doctor nearly didn’t recognize Lea. He used to call him the skinny boy who coughed too much.

Now he was a man on magazine covers. But the way Leica pulled out a chair for his mother bowed his head respectfully. That hadn’t changed at all. Her heart is improving, the doctor said. But the best medicine is peace. Stress kills faster than disease. Leica squeezed his mother’s hand gently, a silent promise. From now on, no one will stress you again, not even me.

On Sundays, he took her to their old church. The gate was still painted green, the wooden pews still creaked. The choir looked just the same, only with more gray hairs. When Leica walked in, faces turned. Some whispered, “Is that Leica Ady?” Others simply stared, recognizing the silhouette of success.

But when he held his mother’s hand, guiding her to the third row, then knelt to pray beside her, the whispers faded. Before God, there were no billionaires or poor folks, just tired souls seeking comfort. Mama Remy listened to the sermon with tears in her eyes, not because the message was special, but because for the first time in years, she felt her son’s warmth beside her heard him softly whisper, “Amen.” After service, the church mothers gathered around Remy.

“Your boy is back. Is that the Leica from TV?” “Uh, he’s so tall now.” I carried him when he was a baby. Son, rich or not, make sure you buy a few raffle tickets to support the women’s ministry. Leak laughed, bought 10 packs of tickets without blinking, then leaned toward Mama. See mom. Your fan club is still alive.

She burst out laughing, her face glowing like a girl again. In the afternoons, they sat on the porch together. The wind carried afro beats from a neighbor’s speaker. Kids kicked a ball up and down the alley. Leica sat barefoot on a plastic chair, feeling the cool cement under his feet. something no marble floor in Ecoy could ever replace.

He told Mama stories about contracts, flights, meetings that newspapers loved to praise. She nodded, listening, but asked only the simple questions. So, did you eat on time? Are you sleeping enough? Does someone remind you to take your stomach medicine? He laughed. No one at work dares ask me things like that. only you? Well, I gave birth to you,” she shrugged.

“You may be the world’s billionaire, but you’re still my little boy.” There were nights when the power went out. Something he had nearly forgotten could happen. The whole neighborhood dropped into blackness, lit only by phone, flashlights, and candles. At first, Leica was frustrated, ready to call someone, ready to turn on the generator he’d just installed. But mama touched his arm. Neit.

Blackouts are beautiful in their own way. Beautiful? He asked, surprised. Yes, she smiled. When you were small, every time the lights went out, we’d lie outside and count stars. Remember what you said? What did I say? He asked, though he remembered vaguely.

You pointed at the sky and said, “Mom, one day I’ll buy you a house with more lights than the whole sky.” She laughed softly. “And you did. Now, let me ask for just one thing. Let me have a few nights again with just the stars and my son.” So they turned the lights off, laid a mat outside, watched the Lego sky where stars fought to shine through dust and city glow. Leica lay back hands behind his head, feeling a piece he had forgotten existed.

No contracts, no courtrooms, no screaming headlines, just the soft sound of his mother breathing beside him. And he realized something priceless. He’d lost parts of himself chasing lights far away. A year passed like that. No lavish parties, no private jets. But there were mornings he carried buckets of water to help Mama water her plants.

Afternoons he waited outside the market holding shopping bags while vendors teased him. A husband material. We need 10 daughters for this one. Mama leaned in and whispered, “You hear that?” “You’re still single, Leica.” He laughed. “I’m not single. I’m on sabbatical.” The newspapers buzzed. Logos billionaire sells Ecoy mansion downsizing life.

Some praised him, some mocked him, some claimed he was broke, others insisted his mother was controlling him. Leica read everything, smirked, and flipped his phone over. Outside, Mama called, “Lika, come taste this mu moa our neighbor just brought.” He got up and walked out, knowing he’d chosen right.

One quiet evening, as he sliced fruit for his mother, listening to her tell stories of her youth selling coal on the streets, Leica suddenly realized for the first time in years, when he thought of the future, he didn’t think of money. He thought, “What should I cook for mom tomorrow? When should I book her next medical checkup? Maybe we should take a trip to the beach this Sunday.” These thoughts wouldn’t raise stock prices.

They wouldn’t make headlines, but they healed something deeper than wealth ever could. One night, Mama looked at him and whispered, “My son has finally come home.” Simple words. But to Lea, they felt like a seal on his soul. confirmation of a decision he should have made long ago. He hadn’t come back to a house. He had come back to the role he nearly lost, a son.

They lived quietly and Leak felt a kind of happiness money had never been able to buy. 12 months later, Logos slipped back into its dry season. The sky was a high clear blue trees along the road, casting hard shadows on the hot asphalt. But inside the little church compound in Suruer, the air felt strangely cool, as if the whole city had decided to soften itself for this one day.

The wedding day of Leica Ady and Amara Okoy. There were no supercars lined up at the gate, no parade of bridesmaids and groomsmen dressed like runway models, no camera crews live streaming every step of the bride and groom for all of Nigeria to see. Just a few ordinary cars parked neatly on both sides of the street. Kids from the neighborhood ran around with balloons laughing as they chased each other.

The mothers in the area wore their best ankora gathering in little clusters to fan themselves and gossip happily. Inside the church, the wooden pews were full. People from Suriler, people from Anugu, a few of Leica’s closest business partners, some longtime employees from the company.

Not the billionaire’s wedding the press used to fantasize about, but a wedding that actually had family. Leica stood at the front in a simple dark blue suit. No tie, just a crisp white shirt collar slightly open enough for him to breathe without feeling trapped the way he used to at fancy events. He glanced back toward the church doors where the light from outside streamed in like a glowing path.

At his right side stood Mama Remy. She wore a brand new Ankura outfit, the kind of fabric she used to only touch at the market, before carefully putting it back, murmuring, “This is for people with money.” Now her son had been the one to pick it out for her, saying, “Wear this, Mom. You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the church.

” Her silver hair was wrapped neatly in a light purple headscarf. Around her neck hung an old necklace, the only gift her late husband had left her. But the brightest thing she wore that day, was her smile. A year of living with her son had slowly erased the tired shadows from her eyes. Her heart troubles had eased, not because of expensive medicine, but because of mornings where her son made ginger tea with his own hands, and nights where they sat on the porch counting stars.

My son,” she whispered gently, squeezing his hand. “Are you all right?” He turned to her and chuckled. “I’m the luckiest man in Logos today. How could I not be all right?” But when the organ began to play, signaling the bride’s entrance, his heart still skipped a beat.

Amara appeared at the doorway, the wooden doors opening behind her and turning the sunlight into a halo around her. She wore a very simple white dress, no long trains sweeping across the aisle, no glittering stones, no towering tiara. The fabric fell softly around her figure. The body of a woman who had carried sacks of yams, lifted tubs of fish, and walked long distances from village to main road.

In her hands was a bouquet of wild flowers, some gathered from friends gardens, some bought at the market. She had arranged them herself, tied with a green ribbon, the color of Anugu’s fields. Amara’s mother walked beside her, holding her daughter’s hand. The woman who had stood behind a fish stall all her life was now wrapped in her best traditional outfit.

Her eyes were shining with pride and brimming with tears at the same time. For her, this wasn’t just the day she gave her daughter away. It was proof that every dawn she woke before the roosters, every insult she endured about smelling like fish, every aching night counting school fees had been worth it.

Every step Amara took down the aisle closed one chapter and opened another. Lake watched her, and for a moment all sound faded away. Only his heartbeat remained. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Amara. He’d seen her in boardrooms, on farms, on work trips with the Greenroots team in his small surer home cooking with his mother. But today, something was different.

This wasn’t Amara the founder, not Amara, the partner, not Amara, the friend. This was Amara, the woman he was about to call his wife. The ceremony was simple without spectacle. The priest read the familiar vows, but to leak each word carried a new weight in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in joy and in sorrow. He had heard those same words at his first wedding to Tollah. Back then, they were just lines to repeat and get through.

Today they came back as a lesson a test he’d once failed and was being invited to answer properly this time. When it was time for personal vows, the priest smiled and stepped aside, allowing them to speak in their own words. Leica turned to Amara and took her hands. His voice wasn’t dramatic or theatrical like a movie speech, but it was real, a little rough, like someone who had stayed up late many nights thinking about what to say. Amara, he began.

I’ve walked through a lot of fancy rooms, signed a lot of deals, shaken a lot of important hands. But it wasn’t until I was sitting on the porch in Suriler next to my mother, listening to her talk about selling coal that I finally understood something. No success is worth it if you lose your family in the process. He took a steady breath. I’ve made mistakes.

I once allowed my mother to be hurt in the very house I built. I once thought love was about intensity, about flashbulbs, attention, and people’s praise. I’ve already paid the price for that way of thinking. A shadow flickered through his eyes, but it disappeared when he looked at her again. But you, you came into my life so quietly.

In the way you always asked how my mother was feeling before you asked about any contract. In the way you wiped down a chair for her before you sat. In the way you treated everyone in my company with respect, even the security guards. He squeezed her hands tighter. Today, in front of God, in front of my mother, your mother, and everyone who has seen both my good and my ugly sides, I just want to promise one thing.

I will spend the rest of my life making sure that your heart and my mother’s heart never have to suffer because of me again. The church was completely still. Amara bit her lower lip as tears ran down her cheeks.

But they were warm tears, not born of pain, but of knowing that the man standing before her had actually learned something from life instead of hiding from it. Then it was her turn. Through her tears, she smiled and spoke Lea. I come from a piece of land people always describe as there’s nothing there. But that land raised me. It taught me that what you don’t have, you build. What breaks you pick up. The people you love. You don’t humiliate them in front of the world.

She glanced at Mama Remy, then back at him. I won’t promise to always have the right words, she said. I’ll only promise that when you’re tired, I won’t push you into the trash heap. The entire church burst into gentle laughter, relieved. Amara laughed too, wiping her tears.

I promise that if we ever argue, I’ll remember that you’re the son of a woman who walked through hell to get you here. I will never do anything that makes her bow her head in shame because of me.” Mama Remy covered her face, laughing and crying at the same time. Even she hadn’t expected that after everything she would end up with a daughter-in-law who said out loud the exact things she’d quietly begged God for in her prayers.

When the priest finally said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife before God.” The whole church erupted into applause. Leica kissed Amara. Not a long dramatic made for Instagram kiss, but a soft, respectful one. the kind that says, “I know what it took to get here. I won’t treat this lightly.” After the ceremony, there was a small reception in the church courtyard.

There was hot jolof rice steaming in big trays. Muam wrapped in leaves, smoky grilled meat, bottles of soda chilling in buckets of ice. Children ran in circles around the tables, shrieking with laughter. The women from the church’s mother’s group ate while still managing to discuss the future. So when are we getting grandchildren for Mama Remy to carry May? God bless Amara with many children. This house needs the sound of babies.

Leica stood off to the side holding a drink watching it all. At his other wedding years ago, he’d been surrounded by reporters, cameras, and famous guests. Back then, he’d thought he’d hit the peak of happiness. But in the storm of flashing cameras, he’d missed someone standing quietly in the corner.

His mother with a small smile and a storm of worry no one bothered to ask about this time. He didn’t miss it. He walked over and sat beside Mama on a plastic chair. “Tired,” he asked. Tired of what she laughed, fanning him instead of herself. I’m the happiest person here today. My son finally chose a woman who loves him in a way that doesn’t make me afraid.

God was kind that afternoon. Logos wasn’t too hot. Golden sunlight poured over the church roof, slipped through leaves, and sprinkled across Mama’s silver hair and the edge of Amara’s veil. When it was time for speeches, Lake stood up with a mic. There was no professional MC, just a close friend joking. Let the groom speak.

If he can talk to shareholders, he can talk to us. Everyone laughed and clapped. Leica looked around the small courtyard. At his mother in the front row, fingers never leaving her rosary. At Amara’s mother glowing with pride, at Solah, the security officer from the old CCTV room now here as family.

at neighbors from Suriller people who’d watched him come back home this past year. He raised the microphone and spoke in a steady warm voice. I thank God for showing me. He paused, took a breath, then continued that a mother is the most precious gift and that real love never destroys a family. He didn’t need to say anything more. The courtyard went quiet for a moment.

Then applause rolled through. Not the loud, forced clapping of a big event, but the honest kind that comes when someone has finally said what everyone’s heart believes. Mama wiped her tears, chuckling. See, you finally sound like someone who actually goes to church. Amara looked at her husband, and in her eyes, there wasn’t just love, but deep respect.

She knew this man wasn’t perfect. He had stumbled, failed, misunderstood love before. But he had done something rare for someone in his position he had learned instead of hiding. As the sun began to set, Logos put on its familiar orange red glow. From the churchyard, you could see distant buildings, bridges, and endless streams of cars. The city that never really sleeps.

In the middle of all that beautiful chaos, Leak felt a stillness inside he hadn’t known in years. He turned to his mother, the woman who had walked with him from a narrow alley to glass towers, from charcoal stoves to boardrooms. He turned to his wife, the girl from poor Anugu soil, carrying the scent of earth, of sweat, of kindness that didn’t need an audience.

And in that logos sunset, Leica knew from the pain of betrayal, God had not only led him to real love, he had led him back to where he truly belonged. In the middle of a family, surrounded by hearts that didn’t need him to be rich, only to be