It read, “You don’t know the real Monica? Ask her about Nsuka. Ask her about the night her father died.” Donald hadn’t told her, “Not yet. But he would because he needed to know who his wife truly was. and if her past could destroy their future. Thunder rolled softly in the distance as Monica stood at the edge of the garden, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
The wind picked up, rustling the flowers Donald had planted for her months ago. She stared out into the darkening sky, but her thoughts were far away back in Nusuka, back to a night she had tried hard to forget. Inside the mansion, Donald paced his study restlessly. He had not confronted Monica yet. Not directly.
The message from the anonymous number still burned in his mind. You don’t know the real Monica. Ask her about Nusuka. Ask her about the night her father died. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. But he also couldn’t shake the guilt of not trusting the woman who gave his son a miracle and gave him a second chance at love. Still, he had to know.
That night, after the twins had been tucked into bed and Jerry retreated to his room, Donald found Monica still sitting outside, her face pale under the garden lights. Monica, he said gently, pulling a chair beside her. She didn’t turn. I’ve been thinking, she murmured, about New Suka, about my dad, about the accident. Donald paused.
Monica turned to him slowly. Do you believe people can bury pain so deep that even they forget it ever happened? He looked into her eyes. Yes, I do. There was silence. Then she spoke again. Her voice was barely a whisper. I don’t think it was an accident. Donald sat up. What do you mean? My father’s death, she said. I think someone planned it.
Or at least someone caused it. Donald’s chest tightened. Why do you think that? Monica stared ahead. Because the day he died, he wasn’t supposed to be in that car. Flashback. 14 years ago, 15-year-old Monica, sat on the front step of their small compound, hugging her backpack. Her father, Chief Obi Chuki, had just walked back into the house to grab his Bible.
He was late for service, but he didn’t like going alone. I’ll wait, he had said. Get ready fast. But Monica had a stomach ache that morning. She told him to go ahead that she would come later with her mother. He kissed her forehead and smiled. “Okay, my love. I’ll see you in church.” She waved. 15 minutes later, a loud crash rang through the streets.
Then the screams, then silence. By the time neighbors brought her to the scene, her father’s car was wrapped around a tree. His driver was gone. Her father lifeless. No witnesses, no explanation, only that he had swerved off the road. I always believed the driver ran, Monica said, her voice breaking. But something about that day never made sense.
Later that year, I found out my father had been arguing with his brother, me, uncle, over some land documents. A large sum was involved. And after my dad’s death, everything disappeared. The property, the documents, the cash, even the house was taken from us. Donald listened quietly. My uncle vanished. My aunt if pretended to help but slowly pushed us away. Then mom died and I was alone.
She turned to him. Donald, what if my father’s death wasn’t an accident? What if the people who left me to suffer also made me suffer? He reached for her hand. Then we find out the truth. But why now? She asked. Why is Iffy suddenly back? Why are these threats coming now? Donald exhaled deeply.
Because someone has something to lose now. You’re not a forgotten orphan anymore. You’re my wife. You manage my accounts. You’re powerful. And someone feels threatened by that. He stood. We’re going to Nuka tomorrow. You and me. We’ll find out everything. The next morning, they boarded Donald’s private jet. Jerry, now in high school, waved from the runway with the twins in his arms.
Monica held Donald’s hand tightly as the plane rose into the clouds. 2 hours later, they landed in Enyugu and a black SUV drove them through the quiet countryside to the old town of Nsuka. It hadn’t changed much. Dusty roads, old signboards, memories hiding behind every corner. They pulled up to the compound where Monica had grown up.
It was now a mechanic shop, repainted and rebranded. No trace of her family’s history remained except for the rusted gate and the mango tree she once climbed as a child. Donald stepped out first. Are you ready? Monica nodded. Inside the compound, an elderly man named Baba Kunlay, former neighbor, recognized her immediately. Ah, Monica. Monica Chukuy.
My God, look at you, he said, hugging her tight. Tears welled in Monica’s eyes. Uncle Kuni, you remember me. Who could forget you after everything that happened? Your father was a good man, a very good man. It broke us when he died. Donald stepped forward. Sir, do you remember anything about his accident? Baba Kunlay went quiet.
Then he said, “You should speak to Mama Niketchi. She saw something that day, but no one ever listened to her. They found Mama Niki seated under a tree in front of her house. She was blind now, but her memory was sharp. “You say you’re Obie’s daughter?” she asked, her voice thin. “Yes, Ma,” Monica said, kneeling. “Please, I need to know what happened.
” The old woman took a deep breath. “I saw them,” she said. The night before the accident, your father’s brother, Chief Okazi, and that Ephoma woman. They came to your house after you had gone to bed. I was outside across the road. They argued. Okzi was shouting about land. Your father refused to sell.
