The morning after the DNA test, Terra’s small house buzzed with a fragile hope. The sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor where Eunice, Florence, and Terra sat around a modest kitchen table. The DNA report lay between them like a sacred relic, its 99.9% match a beacon of truth in a world that had tried to erase Florence’s existence. Eunice traced the edges of the paper with her fingers, her heart swelling with a mix of vindication and fear. Florence, dressed in a simple blue dress Terra had given her, looked almost ordinary—no longer the ragged figure wandering the streets, but a woman reclaiming her identity. Yet her eyes, still haunted, darted to the windows as if expecting danger to burst through.
Terra, a sturdy woman in her late forties with a no-nonsense demeanor, sipped her tea and broke the silence. “We’ve got the DNA. That’s our anchor. But we’re not just fighting for custody, Eunice. We’re fighting for Florence’s life—her dignity, her freedom. Your father and that woman…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “They’ve got money, influence, and a story they’ve sold to the world. We need to be smarter, faster, and unbreakable.”Eunice nodded, her throat tight. “I’ll do anything, Aunt Terra. I just want my mom back. I want her safe.” She glanced at Florence, who was staring at the table, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress. “Mom, are you okay?”
Florence’s lips trembled. “I… I still hear their voices sometimes. In my head. Telling me you were gone. That I failed you.” Her voice cracked, and Eunice reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly.“You didn’t fail me,” Eunice said fiercely. “They lied. They hurt you. But we’re together now, and we’re going to make them pay.”
Terra leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “First things first. I’ve contacted a lawyer—Mr. Okeke. He’s good, discreet, and he owes me a favor from years back when I helped his sister. He’s meeting us this afternoon at his office in Ikeja. We’ll file for custody, but also for criminal charges: attempted murder, harassment, parental alienation, and whatever else sticks. The DNA is our weapon, but we need more—witnesses, records, anything to prove what they did to Florence.”
Florence’s head snapped up. “They’ll deny it. They’ll say I’m crazy. They’ve always said that.”
“Let them,” Terra said, her voice steel. “People have seen you on the streets for years, Florence. They know you weren’t always like this. And Eunice’s testimony—she’s a minor, but her story carries weight. We’ll build a case they can’t bury.”
Eunice’s phone, which she’d kept switched off since Terra’s warning, sat on the table like a ticking bomb. She glanced at it, then at Terra. “What if they’re tracking me? Dad’s got people everywhere. He’s probably got the police looking for me already.”
Terra’s expression darkened. “He does. I heard from a friend at the market this morning—your father was at the station, throwing his weight around. He’s claiming you’re a runaway, maybe even kidnapped. The police are circulating your picture. That’s why you stay inside, Eunice. No outings, no phone, no mistakes. Florence, you too. You’re not safe until we’ve got protection in place.”
Florence nodded slowly, but her eyes were distant, lost in memories. Eunice squeezed her hand again, grounding her. “We’ll be okay, Mom. We have each other now.”
At Mr. Okeke’s office, the air was thick with the scent of old books and coffee. The lawyer, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, listened intently as Terra laid out the story. Eunice sat beside Florence, who fidgeted nervously, her new dress a stark contrast to the wild figure she’d been days ago. The DNA report was spread across the desk, alongside a notebook where Mr. Okeke scribbled furiously.
“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “we have a clear case for custody. Eunice is a minor, and Florence is her biological mother, wrongfully deprived of her rights. The DNA is irrefutable. But the criminal charges…” He tapped his pen against the desk. “Attempted murder is a stretch without physical evidence or witnesses from nine years ago. Harassment and parental alienation, though—those we can build. Eunice’s testimony about her stepmother’s behavior, Florence’s condition, and the circumstances of her abandonment will help. We’ll need to dig into medical records, police reports from back then, anything to show Florence was forcibly removed from Eunice’s life.”
“What about the police?” Eunice asked, her voice small. “My dad’s got them in his pocket. He told them to arrest anyone with me.”
Mr. Okeke’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a problem, but not insurmountable. Your father’s influence is strong, but it’s not absolute. We’ll file a counter-report, claiming you’re with your biological mother and seeking protection from your father and stepmother. We’ll also request a restraining order. The DNA gives us legitimacy, and I know a judge who doesn’t bow to pressure. But we need to move fast—before your father spins this into a kidnapping narrative.”
Florence spoke for the first time, her voice shaky but determined. “They tried to kill me. I remember… water. A river. They pushed me in. I woke up on the bank, half-dead. People thought I was mad because I kept screaming about my baby. But I wasn’t mad. I was grieving.”
Mr. Okeke’s pen stopped moving. He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Florence, do you remember where this happened? Any details? Witnesses?”
She shook her head, tears welling. “It was dark. I was drugged, I think. I just… I remember the cold. And their voices. Her voice.” She glanced at Eunice, then away, as if ashamed.
Eunice’s heart ached. She reached for Florence’s hand again. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll prove it. We’ll find a way.”
Mr. Okeke nodded. “We’ll start with what we have. Terra, can you get statements from anyone who knew Florence before she was… displaced? Neighbors, friends, anyone who saw her with Eunice as a baby?”
“I’ll try,” Terra said. “It’s been years, and people move on. But there’s a woman, Mama Tolu, who used to sell peppers near Florence’s old compound. She might remember something.”
“Good,” Mr. Okeke said. “Eunice, I’ll need you to write down everything you remember about your stepmother’s treatment of you and any mention of Florence. Every detail, no matter how small. And Florence, we’ll get you evaluated by a psychiatrist—not to prove you’re ‘mad,’ but to show your condition is a result of trauma. That’ll strengthen our case for harassment and alienation.”
As they left the office, Terra pulled Eunice aside. “You’re brave, you know that? Most girls your age wouldn’t have the guts to do this.”
Eunice shrugged, but her eyes were fierce. “I’m not doing it for me. I’m doing it for her.” She glanced at Florence, who was trailing behind, clutching the DNA report like a lifeline.
—
Back at the police station, Eunice’s father, Mr. Adebayo, paced impatiently. His wife, Chioma, sat rigidly in a plastic chair, her manicured nails tapping against her phone. The officer in charge, Inspector Musa, was a burly man with a no-nonsense attitude, but even he seemed wary of Adebayo’s influence.
“We’ve circulated her picture,” Musa said, handing Adebayo a flyer with Eunice’s face on it. “Every patrol unit has it. If she’s in Lagos, we’ll find her.”
“She’s my daughter,” Adebayo snapped. “She’s been manipulated, probably by some lowlife who’s heard about my money. I want her home, and I want whoever’s with her locked up.”
Chioma’s eyes narrowed. “What if it’s… her?” She didn’t say Florence’s name, but the implication hung in the air.
Adebayo laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Florence is dead, Chioma. We made sure of that. Stop letting your guilt talk.”
Chioma’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. She’d always been the planner, the one who’d orchestrated Florence’s removal all those years ago. A rival for her husband’s affection, a threat to her perfect family—Florence had to go. But now, with Eunice gone, doubt gnawed at her. What if Florence had survived? What if Eunice had found her?
Inspector Musa cleared his throat. “Sir, we’ll need more to go on. Any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt you through your daughter?”
Adebayo hesitated, then shook his head. “Just find her. Money’s no object.”
As they left the station, Chioma grabbed his arm. “We need to be careful, Femi. If Eunice is with someone who knows… about before… we could be in trouble.”
He yanked his arm away. “Trouble? We’re untouchable. Nobody’s going to believe a madwoman over us. Just keep your nerve.”
But Chioma’s nerve was fraying. She’d seen the way Eunice looked at her lately—defiant, knowing. The girl was no longer the obedient child she’d raised. And if Eunice was with Florence… Chioma shuddered. They’d have to find her first.
—
Days passed in a tense stalemate. Eunice, Florence, and Terra stayed holed up in Terra’s house, venturing out only for meetings with Mr. Okeke. The lawyer had filed the custody petition and a request for a restraining order, but the criminal charges were slower to build. Mama Tolu, the pepper seller, had provided a statement, recalling how Florence had been a devoted mother before disappearing overnight. “Everybody said she ran mad,” Mama Tolu told Mr. Okeke, “but I saw her with that baby. She was happy. Then one day, poof, she’s gone, and the husband’s got a new wife.”
Another witness, a former neighbor named Bose, remembered hearing screams the night Florence vanished. “I thought it was a fight,” she said. “But the next day, they said she tried to kill herself. I never believed it. Florence loved that child too much.”
Bit by bit, the case grew stronger. Mr. Okeke also arranged for Florence to see Dr. Afolabi, a psychiatrist who specialized in trauma. After several sessions, Dr. Afolabi’s report was damning: Florence’s condition was consistent with prolonged grief and post-traumatic stress, likely triggered by the loss of her child and a violent incident. “She’s not ‘mad,’” the doctor wrote. “She’s a survivor of profound injustice.”
Eunice, meanwhile, poured her heart into her statement. She wrote about Chioma’s cruelty—the slaps, the insults, the constant reminders that she was “lucky” to have a mother like Chioma. She wrote about her father’s indifference, his refusal to talk about Florence, and the way he’d dismissed her questions as childish. And she wrote about finding Florence, half-staranged on the street, and the instant connection that told her this was her real mother.
But the police were closing in. Terra’s friend at the market warned her that officers were asking questions in the neighborhood, showing Eunice’s picture. “They’re saying she’s in danger,” the friend said. “Your father’s offering a reward.”
Terra’s face hardened. “We need to move. If they find us here, it’s over.”
That night, they packed light and left for a safe house Mr. Okeke had arranged—a small flat in Surulere, owned by a cousin who asked no questions. Florence was nervous, clutching Eunice’s hand as they slipped out under cover of darkness. “What if they find us?” she whispered.
“They won’t,” Eunice said, though her own heart raced. “We’re smarter than them.”
At the safe house, the stakes grew higher. Mr. Okeke called with news: the court had granted a temporary restraining order against Adebayo and Chioma, pending the custody hearing. But the police were still treating Eunice as a missing person, and Adebayo’s reward had stirred up informants. “We’ve got a week before the hearing,” Mr. Okeke said. “If we can keep you hidden until then, we’re golden. The judge is fair, and the DNA plus the witnesses will sway her.”
But Chioma wasn’t sitting idle. Desperate to regain control, she hired a private investigator, a shady man named Segun who specialized in “discreet” jobs. “Find my stepdaughter,” she told him, sliding an envelope of cash across the table. “And if she’s with anyone… deal with them.”
Segun took the money with a grin. He had contacts in the police, on the streets, everywhere. It wouldn’t take long.
—
The night before the hearing, Eunice couldn’t sleep. She sat on the balcony of the safe house, staring at the city lights. Florence joined her, her face calm for the first time in days. “You’re scared,” Florence said softly.
Eunice nodded. “What if we lose? What if they take me back?”
Florence pulled her close. “They won’t. You’re my daughter. I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”
Inside, Terra was on the phone with Mr. Okeke, finalizing their strategy. But outside, a shadow moved in the alley below. Segun had found them. He snapped a photo of Eunice and Florence on the balcony and sent it to Chioma with a message: *Found her. What now?*
Chioma’s reply was immediate: *Bring her to me. Quietly.*
—
The hearing was chaos. Adebayo and Chioma arrived with a high-powered lawyer, Mr. Balogun, who painted Eunice as a rebellious teen brainwashed by a deranged woman. “My client’s daughter has been kidnapped by a mentally unstable vagrant,” he argued, gesturing to Florence, who sat trembling beside Mr. Okeke. “This woman abandoned her child years ago. She’s unfit, dangerous.”
Mr. Okeke countered with the DNA report, Dr. Afolabi’s evaluation, and the witnesses’ statements. Eunice took the stand, her voice steady despite the packed courtroom. “Chioma hit me. She told me my real mother was dead. She made me feel like I didn’t belong. But Florence—she’s my mom. She never stopped loving me, even when they tried to erase her.”
The judge, a stern woman with a reputation for fairness, listened intently. Adebayo’s influence was palpable—reporters whispered about his donations to the police fund—but the evidence was overwhelming. When Florence took the stand, her testimony was raw, heartbreaking. “They took my baby,” she said, tears streaming. “They told me she was dead. I believed them. I broke. But she’s here now. She’s my heart.”
As the hearing adjourned for deliberation, Segun made his move. He’d bribed a court clerk to slip him the safe house address. That night, as Eunice, Florence, and Terra prepared for the judge’s ruling, a knock came at the door.
Terra peered through the peephole and froze. “It’s a man. I don’t know him.”
Eunice’s heart pounded. “Don’t open it.”
But Segun wasn’t alone. Two policemen, bought by Adebayo’s reward, stood behind him. “Open up!” one shouted. “We’re here for the missing girl!”
Terra grabbed a kitchen knife, her eyes wild. “Eunice, Florence, back window—go!”
Chaos erupted. Eunice and Florence scrambled toward the window as the door splintered under a battering ram. Segun burst in, grinning. “Got you now, princess.”
But Terra wasn’t done. She lunged at Segun, knife flashing, and he stumbled back, cursing. The policemen hesitated, unsure whose side to take. In the confusion, Eunice and Florence slipped out the window, dropping into the alley below.
“Run!” Eunice screamed, pulling Florence along. They darted through the maze of Surulere’s backstreets, Florence’s breath ragged but determined. Behind them, shouts and footsteps echoed.
They didn’t stop until they reached a small church, its doors open for evening prayer. Eunice pulled Florence inside, collapsing in a pew. The pastor, an elderly man, approached. “Are you okay?”
“Please,” Eunice gasped. “We need help. They’re after us.”
The pastor didn’t ask questions. He led them to a back room and locked the door. “Stay here. I’ll call someone.”
—
Hours later, Mr. Okeke arrived with Terra, who’d escaped the raid by blending into the crowd. The judge had ruled in their favor: temporary custody to Florence, with a full hearing to follow. The police, embarrassed by the botched raid, backed off under public scrutiny. Segun vanished, and Chioma’s perfect facade began to crack as reporters dug into Adebayo’s past.
Eunice and Florence, safe at last, hugged in the church’s dim light. “We did it, Mom,” Eunice whispered.
Florence smiled, her eyes clear for the first time in years. “No, my love. You did it. You brought me back.”
But the war wasn’t over. Adebayo and Chioma, cornered and desperate, plotted their next move. And in the shadows, secrets from nine years ago waited to surface—secrets that could destroy them all.
