Chapter 2: The Race to Save Chiamaka

Ifedike hear am, shock catch am. "You wan go back? I go call family now now—make dem rush go save her, just tell dem say you dey come!"

Ifedike eyes wide, he begin scroll phone, thumb dey shake as he dial family group chat. Sweat for him forehead. In that moment, na true brother he be—no care about my disgrace, only wan help. He dey rush, voice high, panic dey him tone.

He begin call people anyhow, then look me, confused, "Why you talk say she don die?"

He no fit understand, eyes still red, phone pressed to ear as he dey shout into call: "Hello, hello! Chinedu dey come! Rush go compound, stop them!"

I wipe my tears. "Eight years ago, her family tell me say she don die. Dem even send me death certificate from the village elders, say she and my parents die together for fire."

My voice shake as I talk. The memory still dey fresh: the brown envelope, the smoky pictures, the cold signature of elders wey I trust. I remember as my heart break, fall for street, almost run mad. For diaspora, with no paper, no fit fly come home, only dey mourn for cold room. I no fit tell anybody, only God know how I take survive.

Ifedike shock, then burst out, "Lie! Dem no die. Eight years ago, your mama dey fear cold, she make your papa change electric blanket wire for secret. Who know say na so fire go start? She no hear anybody, rush enter fire go save your parents, almost die join. I remember now—her brother just join village elders that time. Na him forge the death certificate take deceive you."

His words hit me like slap. People for hall dey murmur. "Ah! Who fit do this kain thing?" For Naija, family wahala deep. Sometimes, na your own blood dey hurt you pass. My legs weak, I grip chair to steady myself. Ifedike dey shake head, eyes full of pity and pain.

My breath come dey fast, I nearly faint. Anger dey boil inside me.

Chest dey tight, blood dey rush for my ear, na so sweat full my palm. My teeth dey grind. I dey remember all those years wey I dey live like ghost for abroad, no family, no closure. I wan shout, but my throat dry. Anger dey burn me like fever, but I force myself hold ground; for our side, na disgrace to collapse for public.

That year, I receive fire photos and death certificate, collapse for street. I never get legal papers that time; even if I wan return come do burial, I no fit buy plane ticket. From that day, I cut off everybody, just dey live alone for abroad, no family, no friend.

That cold winter day for abroad, I remember as I fall, people waka pass me like I no exist. I cry that night till I no fit talk. The immigration wahala, no money for transport, na so I dey survive with menial jobs, hiding from police. No friend, no voice to call home, only Chiamaka memory dey keep me alive, until her 'death' reach me. After that, I build wall around my heart—nobody fit enter.

For the WhatsApp video, she stand for front of the fire, head up. My old in-laws dey beside her, dey curse: "You dey craze? You wan die for man wey don betray you, after you give up all your money and future?"

The voice of her brother loud, spittle dey fly as he shout. Mother-in-law dey curse, hands on hips, eyes red. Other women for background dey shake head, some dey cry softly. For Igbo culture, na taboo to defy elders, but Chiamaka dey stand her ground, tears and blood mix for her face, no fear. Some younger girls dey look her with pity, whispering, "May God help am."

Ifedike explain, "As news of your wedding spread, her family shame catch dem, dem force her make she marry one rich old widower for village. To save your name, today na coffin ghost marriage she dey do—na ritual to marry dead person—and she beg me do one thing."

Ifedike talk low, his voice shake with pity. For our tradition, ghost marriage dey happen when person wan cover shame or fulfill oath. Some elders believe say if woman no marry, her spirit fit roam. But for Chiamaka case, na to protect my name—she dey sacrifice her future, just to save me from disgrace. The elders in the hall dey whisper, some dey nod, some dey look ground, deep in thought.

I ask, "Which thing?"

My voice tremble. The question hang in air, heavy like rain wey never fall. For that moment, even the generator noise from outside seem to pause, waiting for answer.

He talk with pain, "You two bow to heaven and earth before—na our tradition. She hope say I fit bury her ashes for your family grave, make she dey wait for you there."

Tears dey fall from Ifedike eye, his voice thick. In Igbo tradition, bowing to heaven and earth na sacred—swearing before God and ancestors. To ask for burial in family grave means she dey offer herself as wife forever, even after death. Some of the old women in the hall start to sob quietly, remembering their own youthful pains. The gravity of her wish heavy for the room.

Tears just dey flow, no stop.

I cover my face, sobbing. No man dey proud to cry for public, but today, I no fit hold am. Even some of my uncles nod in understanding. My voice catch, words no come out again.

I think say: ten years of separation, one lonely grave far away, nowhere to cry my pain. But she still dey alive, still dey wait for me, and I don hurt her reach this level.

Inside my chest, memories dey swirl. Ten years lost, only one chance to make am right. I dey imagine grave without name, grass overgrown, nobody to lay flowers. I remember as I dey hug her in my dreams, promise her better life. Guilt dey choke me, pain dey blind me. For Naija, to hurt loyal woman na sin before God and man.

Hand on my chest, I dey watch Chiamaka for the video. E pain me die... my heart just dey break...

My palm press for my heart, chest dey heave. Even Morayo look me with pity, her own eyes red. The crowd for the hall dey quiet, only small sniffles here and there. This kain pain no get medicine. I wish say I fit enter that phone, pull her from fire.

For the video, she no talk, just dey cry, hold our wedding photo.

The way she hug the photo, na like say she dey hold last hope. Her hair don scatter, white lace stained with sweat and ash. Her lips dey tremble. Na so real, some people for hall dey wipe their own tears. I dey imagine how she dey feel—betrayed, alone, yet still dey fight for love wey everybody don write off.

I still remember that photo. Ten years ago, my family poor reach ground, food sef no dey. I wan borrow money travel go abroad illegal, but I dey fear say my parents go suffer. When life hard pass, she bow to heaven and earth with me, give me courage.

The photo na old-school style—orange background, two plastic flowers. I dey wear second-hand suit, she wear borrowed lace. Hunger dey show for my cheek, but she dey shine. For Naija, everybody sabi that 'borrow pose'—stand for photo studio like say you get the world, even when na garri you go chop for house. Chiamaka dey beside me, grip my hand tight. The memory sweet and painful together.

She tell me say real man suppose go hustle. Before I leave, she hold my hand, no wan let go, ask if we fit take wedding photo.

That night, moon dey shine, small breeze dey blow. She whisper, "No fear, you go make am." As she talk, she dey shake, but still dey smile. Some of our friends dey mock, say 'abroad boys no dey come back,' but she no listen. For her, na faith strong like Iroko tree.

That time, photo studio for town dey do wedding photo for one hundred naira, but dem go snap plenty, only give you one for free, try make you buy more. We poor reach, we insist say na only one photo we want, no need extra. Photographer vex, begin insult us say we be beggar.

Photographer na Baba Nwachukwu, him mouth sharp. He talk say, "If una no fit buy photo, why una dey marry?" I hold Chiamaka, whisper, "No mind am." We stand for there, wait our turn, even as children for street dey shout, "Oyibo! Oyibo!" because of my borrowed tie. Shame dey, but Chiamaka just dey smile.

Inside all their insult, we pay one hundred naira, collect that one photo. I feel shame, vow say when I get money, I go buy the studio, snap fine picture for her everyday. But she just hug the photo, dey laugh, talk say even if we take hundred in future, none go sweet reach this one.

She tell me, "Na this one get story. E dey carry our sweat and promise." I swear that day say, if I ever make am, Chiamaka go wear gold, snap photo every week. But time and destiny get another plan. That same photo now dey her hand as she face fire.

For the video, the gate finally break. My brother family rush enter, dey spray fire extinguisher everywhere—everywhere scatter.

Shouts everywhere, smoke full air. My brother dey lead, my cousin dey push people, even the village youths join spray foam, try quench fire. Old men dey shout, "Make una stop! E never reach like this." The whole compound turn war zone. People dey scatter, some dey cry, some dey pray loud, call God to intervene.

Me, I don already start to dey go, dey inside Morayo private jet.

The jet na big one, smell of leather seat, cold AC blowing my skin. Morayo dey beside me, quiet but watching. Her PA dey run up and down, arrange things for pilot, confirm airspace. My hand still dey shake, ring dey my palm, phone dey my other hand, eye glued to screen. Pilot dey announce, "Ready for takeoff." I no even care, my mind still dey for Umuola village.

The flight manager come meet Morayo, bow, "Chairlady, takeoff clearance don come fast, but the place no get airport. We go need land for nearby city."

He dey sweat, kneel slightly—a sign of respect for big madam. He dey explain with fear, knowing say mistake fit cost am job. Morayo nod, wave hand, her voice calm but cold. Everybody dey serious—when Lagos rich people move, nobody dey slack.

Ifedike hear am, shout, "No! Dem wan force her marry tonight. We no go reach on time!"

His voice sharp, panic full am. I feel my own panic double—time dey run, village fit do anything, dem no dey wait for anybody. Some elders for jet dey pray, "God abeg, make we reach on time."

I say, "No need to land. I go jump with parachute."

Everybody shock. Pilot look back, mouth open. In Nigeria, people no dey hear person talk of parachute like film. But my mind dey made up—if na to jump into village, I ready. Morayo look me, respect show for her face, say, "Na man be this." Her PA dey type fast, dey call ground crew.

Morayo talk calm, "Abeg listen to my man. Fly go directly above his village, prepare parachute. Keep satellite connection on so he fit see his wife every time."

Her command na final. No be today she dey give order. All the crew jump, dey set up parachute, adjust wingsuit. For jet, the energy tense—everybody dey serious, nobody dey laugh. My own mind dey sharp like razor, na Chiamaka face dey my heart.

"Yes, madam," the manager answer.

His voice dey quiver small. He rush arrange everything, no wan fall Chairlady hand. In Naija, big madam instruction na law—one mistake, na sack letter or transfer go village.

All the years I think say Chiamaka don die, na extreme sports I dey do: parachute, paraglide, even the dangerous wingsuit flying. Na only that kind life and death wahala dey make me forget my pain. Who know say na today e go help me.

I remember as I dey train, dey chase that adrenaline, try erase Chiamaka memory. People for Europe dey ask, "Why you like danger?" but they no understand Naija pain. Every time I jump, I dey hope say pain go reduce, but e never work. Today, all that training dey pay—God no dey waste experience.

Morayo say softly, "I go jump with you. I wan see the girl wey you dey miss for ten years."

She smile small, her hard face soften. Everybody surprise, but she no fear. She remove her high heel, pull small scarf for her hair. Her respect for me show—she wan see this Chiamaka wey hold my heart for so long. I nod, my heart warm small. For Naija, woman wey fit follow man go war dey rare.

I thank her, "Thank you say you choose Europe for the wedding—if na America, I for no fit rush come back."

She laugh, small one, eyes shining with tears she dey hide. Her voice low, "Na God plan am like this." Even me know say if na U.S. wedding, with all the visa wahala, this matter for don finish before I fit land.

She answer, "You be my person. Now wey she don show say she never die, instead make una two dey suffer, better make the three of us sit down talk am clear. You no betray her—you just think say she don go."

Her words mature. She look me eye to eye, no hate, only understanding. In Naija, to get fiancée wey dey wise like this na blessing. Her voice calm the wahala small. The jet quiet, only hum of engine dey. I feel relief, respect her courage—she no be woman wey dey fight for nothing.

Suddenly, loud cry burst from the video.

The sound pierce the quiet for jet. Everybody turn look my phone. Some of Morayo people cover mouth, one girl shout "Jesu!" under breath. Na village cry, that kind deep wailing wey dey shake soul. My blood run cold.

I see two familiar people rush enter the compound. My body shake.

My phone nearly fall from hand. I stare—na my own papa and mama. For years I believe say I lose dem, yet dem dey alive. My eyes wide, my mouth open, but no word come out.

Na my parents. I think say I no go ever see dem again. Now, my mama dey kneel down, dey hold Chiamaka wey don wound, dey cry loud.

Tears dey flow for my mama face, her wrapper don loose. She hold Chiamaka like pikin, dey rock her, dey beg her, "My daughter, abeg, no leave us." My papa dey shout, voice hoarse, beard full of dust. I feel my heart crack, memory of home strong pass before. For Naija, to see parents kneel for public na sign of deep pain.

My papa shout, "In-laws, we don do everything wey una ask these years! Una say my son spoil una daughter, ask for two million naira bride price—we work die to give una. Now, why una wan force her marry another person?"

His voice loud, shaking with anger and pride. His shirt tear, sweat full his face. For our custom, to pay bride price na sign of honour, but to extort family like this na wickedness. The elders for village dey look ground, some dey whisper, "Two million! Kilode?" My papa voice dey break, but he still dey stand for his family.

My mother-in-law put hand for waist, spit for my papa face. She hiss, "God forbid! Na your son first break promise—he marry another woman for abroad. So my daughter fit marry again!"

She spit land for ground, people hiss. Her own voice na like stone, hard and sharp. Some old women for corner dey nod, others dey whisper, "Na wah o!" For Naija, to spit for person face na heavy insult—disgrace of the highest order.

Morayo frown as she hear 'ashawo'.

Her brow crease, lips purse. She shake her head, mutter, "Some people no dey get respect." Even in her own high society, na big insult to call woman that name. Some of her friends dey whisper, "Na real village drama be this."

Then, person wey I no expect talk—my own uncle, Baba Nnamdi. He sigh, "Brother, na our fault. This your pikin go abroad, forget him parents. Now he dey marry another person—our family just get bad luck to born this kain pikin."

Baba Nnamdi voice deep, face long. He shake head, pretending to be pained, but I know the kind sly smile he dey hide. The elders dey murmur, some dey agree, others dey look away. For our place, elder word dey carry weight, but I dey smell betrayal.

I no believe am. That time, na this same uncle give me the so-called village evidence. Because he be my uncle, I trust am.

Flash of memory: Baba Nnamdi with his stick, coming to our small house, always carrying bad news, always asking for money. My trust for him deep that year, I no fit suspect anything. Now, I dey see am clear—snake for grass.

Ifedike suddenly ask, "You say you get news say your family die, but you ever receive the money wey your wife dey send all these years?"

Ifedike eye dey sharp, voice hard. The question hit me for chest, because na truth wey I never think of. The people in jet shift, waiting for answer. For Naija, family money matter dey cause war—many fit kill for small kobo.

My head begin ring. I never receive any. I no get paper, no bank card. In the beginning, na Baba Nnamdi dey carry me do illegal work. Any time I need money, Chiamaka go send to my uncle, then he go give me.

Na so I dey depend on Baba Nnamdi, believe say him dey help me. But every time Chiamaka send, na excuse or story I go hear: "Money no reach, Western Union get wahala." I dey trust blindly, never suspect say na my own family dey chop me dry. In abroad, I dey work, dey suffer, dey hope say my people for home dey manage.

I ask, "She send me money for ten whole years?"

My voice small, almost whisper. My heart dey pound, fear dey mix with shame. If true say she dey send, wetin Baba Nnamdi do with all that money? Na this kain matter dey scatter family for Nigeria.

Ifedike nod, "Yes! Baba Nnamdi dey always tell your wife say you dey suffer for abroad, always dey ask her for money. To support you, she dey work laundry every morning, tailoring factory every afternoon. But..."

Ifedike voice crack. For jet, people dey shake head, some dey hiss. For Naija, to use woman sweat buy land or car dey happen steady, but to chop her dry na abomination. The pain for my chest heavy, regret dey swallow me.

Ifedike eye don red too.

He dey squeeze his fist, eyes misty. Brothers for Naija dey bond strong—when betrayal enter, the pain deep. Ifedike dey hold his phone tight, like say he fit break am with grip.

But last last, na news of my wedding reach her.

That single announcement na like knife for Chiamaka heart. For village, news dey spread fast—once people hear, na gossip go fly, phone go ring, elders go gather. Her world collapse, hope die small small.

I break down, clench my fist. "Baba Nnamdi travel go South Africa go work eight years ago. E no dey with me again. If no be say you help me recover my old Facebook account, I for no fit contact anybody for home."

I choke as I talk, tears full my eyes. Social media na my only bridge to home. Na so many abroad boys dey lost—no connection, only hustle. My voice tremble as I remember how Ifedike help me recover old photos, find family again. If not, my story for end different.

Ifedike shout, "No wonder your brother-in-law buy new house, your cousin get car. Dem join hand chop your wife sweat."

Anger full his voice. For our place, family wey chop person sweat dey face shame, even curse, for generations. Some old men for jet dey mutter prayer for me: "Make God punish wicked people." My own anger dey boil, sweat dey run my back.

I glare Baba Nnamdi face, teeth dey grind. That old thief—he join my wife family chop her dry.

I dey imagine him face now, that fake sorrow, those quick hands. If I see am, only God fit hold me. My teeth dey shake with anger. Even Morayo dey frown, her own body tense. In Naija, family betrayal dey pain pass stranger wahala.

For the video, my parents dey hold Chiamaka. My mama dey cry, "My son no try, I agree. But this our daughter-in-law—we don treat her like our own since."

Her voice loud, pain dey show. She dey stroke Chiamaka hair, blood dey stain her wrapper. My papa hold her hand, dey nod. People for background dey sniffle, some dey clap softly. For our side, once daughter-in-law enter family well, even death no fit break am.

My papa nod, "True, when we old, all our property go be her own."

He speak with pride, but small shame dey his voice. Even though property no reach plenty, na heart matter he dey talk. In Igbo land, to promise all you get to woman na final seal of love.

Chiamaka elder brother tire, kick my papa, shout, "Which property una get! All una property for ten years na the one wey una son dey collect for abroad."

He kick my papa shin, voice loud, spit fly from mouth. Some people dey gasp, elders dey shout, "Ahn ahn! E no reach so!" But my papa just bow head, endure. Family shame dey heavy, but my people dey try stand ground.

My papa beg, "I still fit work, whether na keke or I dey pick scrap."

His voice small, shaking. For Naija, old man wey still dey work dey command respect, but poverty fit humble anybody. My papa dey plead, but pride still dey his eye. Some young men for background dey nod, knowing the struggle.

Mother-in-law hiss, "How much you wan make? My new son-in-law ready—old like you, but get factory, dey make over five million a year, big oga."

Her voice sharp, chest push out. She count her fingers, announce figure like say na market price. Village people dey look her, some dey envy, some dey judge. For Nigeria, to marry daughter to big man na achievement, but to sell her soul, people dey talk.

See as dem chop my family money finish, now wan give Chiamaka to old man like my papa.

I dey vex. My chest dey burn. Even some elders for video dey shake head, whisper, "Money no be everything." Chiamaka stand, eyes swollen, blood trickle down her face. She dey hold photo, knuckles white.

As dem dey drag, dem begin push my family. Baba Nnamdi pretend say he dey beg, but still help drag my parents. My father-in-law bring dog leash, put am for my papa neck. Dem pull am hard, drag my papa for ground.

Tears gather for my eyes. Dog leash for neck na disgrace for old man—na insult pass beating. My papa dey cough, dust dey rise, Chiamaka dey scream, "Leave him! Leave him!" Some youths for background dey shout, but fear no let dem intervene.

Father-in-law curse, "Your son break promise first—now you wan do anyhow? Make we see who go tire first."

He dey boast, voice high, chest push out. He stand like king, crowd dey circle. My mama dey cry, beg, but nobody dey hear. For our side, once elders vex, everybody dey fear.

Dem tie rope for mango tree, force my papa to stand on tiptoe, just dey manage breathe. If him leg touch ground, na suffocate be that.

Village boys dey tie the rope, one dey count, "If e no reach ground, e no go die." My papa dey struggle, veins pop for neck. My mama dey scream, try untie am. Na true shame, because for our tradition, elder no suppose see this kind disgrace for public.

Elder Okafor raise hand, try beg, "Make una calm down, abeg, no let village spirit vex."

Father-in-law stand for gate, shout, "You wan cause wahala? Make everybody see—your son carry woman for abroad, but no wan let my daughter marry!"

His voice echo, everybody dey gather. Some dey record with small phone, others dey shout, "Justice! Justice!" The scene don turn to public drama—village gist for many years.

My mama panic, rush go save my papa, but my mother-in-law don carry hoe, swing am for my mama. Chiamaka rush cover my mama with her body. The hoe land for her head—even as mother-in-law try control am, blood still dey flow from Chiamaka head. As I dey watch, anger dey burn me. And this one sef na because she try hold herself; she for kill my mama.

Chiamaka blood stain her face, she dey shake but still hold my mama tight. Some women dey shout, "Stop! She go die!" Even elders dey look away. For Naija, to hit woman with hoe na taboo—spirits fit vex, bad luck fit enter family. My heart dey race, my hand dey shake, I dey curse all of them.

Everybody shock. Chiamaka hug wedding photo, wipe blood from her face, talk small, "Make una kill me. Even if I die today, I no go marry another person."

Her voice weak but strong, tears mix with blood. For village, this kind statement dey carry spiritual weight—people dey fear say her spirit fit haunt those wey force her. Some old women for background dey cry louder, "Ewu! Ewu!"

Mother-in-law hold hoe, teeth dey grind. "You think say I no fit? Na me born you, yet you dey support outsider. Maybe na today I go finish you!"

Her eyes red, spit for corner mouth. She raise hoe again, but some men grab her, hold her back. For Naija, to threaten own pikin na heavy curse—people dey fear for their own children.

My mama break, cry 'in-law' as she kneel down. She bow, dey sob: "Na all our fault. We raise pikin wey no get sense. But these ten years, we treat your daughter like our own. Abeg, no force her marry, I go pay you back, even if na as cow or goat."

My mama voice dey shake, she kneel proper, forehead touch ground. In Igbo culture, to kneel for in-law dey show true humility. Some elders for background dey nod, respect her humility. She dey beg with all her heart, voice hoarse from cry.

Brother-in-law laugh, "Poor people! Una no even fit buy motorcycle—wetin your payback go do?"

He dey sneer, arms folded. Some village youths dey laugh, others dey shake head. For their mind, money na everything. But elders dey whisper, "Poverty no be crime."

Baba Nnamdi pretend beg, "Brother, sister-in-law, make una leave am. After all, na another person daughter. Na only bow to heaven and earth una do—no get marriage certificate. If you really love your daughter-in-law, you go wan make she waste her life?"

He talk soft, try form peacemaker, but his eyes dey shift. Some women dey clap, say, "Elder talk well." But I know say his own be to cover his tracks, not to help anybody. My mama just dey cry, voice lost in the noise.

My mama cry, "That man old reach sixty—if she marry am, na suffer she go suffer!"

She wail, tears full face. Some old women dey chorus, "Na true! No send pikin marry old man!" The pain for her voice deep, everybody dey feel am. For village, to marry old widower dey common, but the suffering dey real.

Brother-in-law waka go my mama, mother-in-law rush hold am. "No try am! You no fit bear elder kneel—na bad luck."

Mother-in-law drag her son back, fear dey her eyes. Village belief strong—if pikin disrespect elder, spirit fit punish family. Some people dey pray under breath.

But brother-in-law still stand for my mama front, collect her kneeling. He grab her hair, shout, "Ten years! Because of your son, my sister waste the best part of her life. Una old people! You dey talk say na for my sister good, but na because you want make she stay care for una."

He yank her hair, voice like thunder. My mama dey shout, "No! No!" but he no hear. Neighbours dey shout, but nobody fit enter the fight. For Naija, family drama dey get boundaries.

My mama try stand, explain. Brother-in-law kick her knee, shout, "Shameless old woman! Who tell you make you stand? Kneel well!"

She collapse, pain etched for her face. Some women rush hold her, but brother-in-law still dey shout, voice breaking. The humiliation dey too much; even small children dey cry.

My mama kneel again, pain dey show for her face.

She grit her teeth, sweat and tears mix for face. Some women for background dey pray, call Holy Spirit to enter the compound. The elders dey shake head, talk say, "Disgrace no be small."

Brother-in-law talk cold, "No think say I no sabi your plan. Your son run leave una, no care. Without my sister, una no get anybody to look after una."

His words like knife, cut deep. My mama cry, "No be true! We fit work, we fit survive." But nobody dey hear her.

She wave hand, dey cry, "No! I know say my son no deserve her. But we fit work, save money for her dowry. Even if she must marry again, at least let am marry young man."

Her voice plead, eyes search the crowd for help. For Naija, dowry and bride price dey sacred—no woman suppose marry by force. My mama dey beg, but pride still dey show.

Mother-in-law mutter, "Which money young person get..."

She dey talk under breath, count small change for palm. Some women dey hiss, say, "No be money matter be this."

Father-in-law quick cover her mouth, make she no talk pass herself.

He drag her back, whisper for ear. His face tight, fear dey show. He dey try avoid more disgrace for family. For Naija, once woman pass her boundary, elders dey quick correct am for public.

Chiamaka wipe tears and blood, cry to my mama, "Mama, I no go marry another person. I don marry enter your family. Alive, I be your own; if I die, I go be your family spirit."

She stretch hand, voice strong, blood drip for chin. My mama dey sob, hold her hand tight. For our custom, this kain promise no be ordinary talk—na oath. Some elders dey nod, say, "Spirit go guide am."

Brother-in-law turn, shout, "Shut up! You still get family for your eye?"

He glare at her, veins bulge for neck. Chiamaka eyes red, but she no flinch. People dey whisper, "See stubborn woman—true love dey hard."

Chiamaka cry, "I never do enough for una? After una collect bride price, una no give me one kobo for dowry, true?"

Her voice full of pain. She dey shout for justice. For village, dowry suppose be sign of value, but her own turn to curse. Women dey sigh, "God go fight for you."

Brother-in-law laugh, "You follow man without our blessing, still dey find dowry? Shameless woman!"

He spit for ground, voice full of scorn. Elders dey shake head, some dey warn their daughters, "No follow man run o!"

He grab Chiamaka hair, drag her enter house. My mama try follow, he kick her down, talk cold, "Hang these two old people. Tell makeup artist no wait for house—come here do makeup. Wedding na today."

Chiamaka dey drag, scream, voice crack. My mama dey crawl, tears dey flow. Village boys dey pull rope, set chair for makeup artist, prepare everything like say na normal wedding. The air thick with fear, dust dey fly everywhere.

Chiamaka dey struggle, try break free. Brother-in-law shout, "I no care if you wound today! We don collect bride price—wedding must happen!"

She dey kick, fight, scream. Some women dey try hold her, others dey shake head. The old men dey sigh, say, "Na wah o! Where elders dey?"

People rush, drag my mama too. My papa dey stand on tiptoe, dey beg, dey shout, but dem no look his side.

His voice hoarse, "Abeg! Abeg!" My mama dey scream, but nobody dey answer. The village full of confusion, noise, pain.

I just dey watch as dem drag Chiamaka inside, my parents dey hang for tree, dey struggle to breathe.

The pain for my chest dey too much. My knuckles white, I dey bite my lip, my body dey shake. For jet, Morayo grip my hand, whisper, "Courage, you go reach in time."

Ifedike ask, worried, "Dem don too pass their boundary—fit reach before wedding start?"

His voice desperate. Some of Morayo people dey pray, others dey check phone for weather, try time the jump. Na so everybody dey tension.

Morayo talk cold, "We don almost reach. Prepare to jump—plane dey go down. I don call our people for Naija; dem go land soon."

Her voice cold, focused. She dey arrange everything like commander. The crew dey nod, ready, some dey mumble prayers. I look Morayo, gratitude full my eyes. Even in pain, I see strength for her.

I stand, wear wingsuit, strap parachute. Plane begin descend. We stand for back door as e open. Wind just dey blow anyhow, I look down, see ground far, then jump. Morayo follow me jump.

I cross myself, whisper, "God abeg, hold my parachute for me."

The roar of wind loud for my ear. I spread my arms, body cut through air. Morayo close behind, her face set, scarf flapping wild. For that moment, I dey feel alive, every sense dey sharp. My eyes dey scan for compound, heart dey race. I pray, "God, no let me fail."

Wind dey slap my face, but hope dey rush me like ogbono soup for hungry man.

The landscape familiar—red earth, green farm, narrow river. My mind dey flash memory: Chiamaka laughter, evening song, mama's call from kitchen. The cold for air dey bite, but my own pain dey hotter. I close eyes, picture her face.

That mountain—I climb am with Chiamaka, watch sunset, hold her for cold. That river—I dive reach bottom, come out behind her, make her cry, make me promise say I no go play like that again. That farm—harvest time, she stand for golden maize, breeze dey blow her hair, she turn smile for me.

All these places hold our story. I dey see children for farm, women for stream, men dey shout for palm wine joint. Everything familiar, everything painful now. I dey grip parachute cord, mouth dey pray, "God abeg, keep my family safe."

All those memories dey flash for my eye. Wingsuit flying na the most dangerous sport, but as Chiamaka dey suffer, nobody fit stop me.

I dey dive lower, fear no dey my body again. Only Chiamaka dey my mind. I dey ready to fight anybody, even spirit, for her sake. Village people go wonder when they see man fall from sky, but I no care.

Morayo point express road, convoy full ground dey go my house. Her people don land. I look her, thank her, then open my parachute.

Her gesture sharp, her eyes bright. I nod, pull cord, parachute open wide.

The sound of talking drum and ogene—our traditional wedding trumpet—break through the sky. Wedding party don reach my house. Fireworks dey burst, white smoke full everywhere. For village entrance, red wedding car dey drive enter.

Drummers dey beat fast, children dey dance, some dey chase masquerade. Fireworks dey boom for afternoon sky, birds scatter from trees. Wedding car—old Peugeot, ribbon tie for bonnet, girls dey wave from window. The air thick with dust, song, and chaos. Some elders dey wear agbada, others tie red cap, everybody dey rush to see spectacle.

I see am with my own eye, for yard below, my parents dey hang for tree, Chiamaka dey drag out of house. She hold wedding photo, cry, "I no go marry!"

Her voice weak, tears full face, dress stained red. My parents dey struggle for tree, rope tight for neck. Neighbours dey shout, "Release them! Release them!" but nobody fit challenge elders. My heart dey race, sweat dey my palm, I dey ready to fight.

Brother-in-law vex. He remove belt, curse, "I be your brother! If you no get shame, I go show you family discipline!"

He wave belt, slap ground. Some women dey beg, "No flog am!" but he no hear. His own anger don pass boundary, his face dey twist like person wey dey mad. Children dey cry, elders dey shake head.

He grab wedding photo, break am for ground. Chiamaka panic, no mind the broken glass, bend pick the photo. Brother-in-law use belt flog her back.

The glass scatter, small shards cut her hand. She bend, hug photo, tears dey fall. Belt sound dey loud, each stroke mark her back. Some villagers dey scream, "Stop!" but brother-in-law eyes red, he no dey reason anybody.

As she scream, brother-in-law shout, "You no get marriage certificate—na only bow to heaven and earth. You no get shame!"

His voice echo, crowd dey hush. The insult cut deep—no certificate mean no right, na so him dey reason. For village, elders dey respect tradition, but new law dey demand paper. Chiamaka just dey shake, voice gone, hope low.

Chiamaka kneel, dey cry, "I bow to heaven and earth!"

Her voice hoarse, head bowed. She hug photo tight, blood for her palm. She dey call on ancestors, hope say God go see her pain. The whole yard quiet, only drumbeat low for background.

Brother-in-law spit, "Since olden days, na parents dey decide marriage, na elders dey talk. If parents no agree, which right you get to bow to heaven and earth!"

He raise head, voice like thunder. Elders dey nod, some dey shake head. He point at her, spit land for dust. His own pain mix with pride and greed. For crowd, some dey agree, others dey hiss. Na war of old and new, love and tradition, money and blood.

Chiamaka cry dey pain me. For sky, I roar, "Today, no bow to heaven and earth—na to bow to your whole family burial!"

My shout shake the sky, wingsuit fluttering as I land. Villagers dey look up, fear catch them. Some children run, some elders shout, "Spirit!" My anger dey boil, my voice echo for compound. Today, even ancestors go hear my cry—if love no win, make thunder strike this village.