I swear the ring light makes me look like a whole goddess.
"Hi guys! Welcome back to my channel!"
My voice pops like soda as I tilt the phone slightly and adjust my ring light. Fairy lights sparkle behind me against pink walls, and my posters—Ayra Starr, Burna Boy, and Tems—watch like they're part of my squad.
"Okay, so... look at THIS!"
I twirl, the black leather jacket on my shoulders catching the glow like a red-carpet moment. "Can you believe Dad got me this? Just... out of nowhere! Like—boom, surprise gift alert!"
I strike a pose, flipping imaginary braids like I'm walking the Lagos Fashion Week runway. "You all better watch out for the next lookbook video. It's gonna be fire!"
I grin at the camera because right now, life feels good. No—life feels perfect.
Until it doesn't.
It starts small. A sound—sharp, quick, like glass cracking in the dark.
Crash.
Something slams downstairs. Hard. Then voices. Low, urgent.
I freeze, my smile slipping. "What the—"
Another sound—footsteps. Heavy. Fast. And then—crying.
The kind of crying that makes your stomach twist because you know it's bad.
What the hell?
My hands fumble as I hit STOP on the recording. The phone nearly slips. The jacket slides off my shoulders, hitting the bed like dead weight. My heart pounds as I bolt for the door.
"Mom?" My voice echoes down the stairs as I race two steps at a time. "Mom, what's—"
And then I stop.
Freeze.
Tunde is on the floor. My little brother. Controller still in his hand like it can shield him. His cheeks are wet, his small chest jerking as he cries.
"Tunde?" My voice cracks. "What happened? Where's Mom?"
He looks up, lips trembling. "Ella..."
Before he can finish, the scream tears through the house.
"Ani Nife Sisi Oluyemi! Mo padanu omo mi! Rara o! Ko le see se!"
("I, Nife Sisi Oluyemi! I have lost my son! No! It cannot be!")
Grandma.
Her voice slices through the walls like a blade, raw and wild, dragging the world down with it.
"What..." My throat closes. "What's going on?"
And then I see her.
Mom.
She's standing by the couch, phone lying face down on the floor like it fainted. Her hands shake like a loose ceiling fan. Her lips move, but all that comes out are broken sobs.
I stumble toward her. "Mom?"
She lifts her face. One look. That's all it takes.
"No..." My voice splinters. "No, no, no, no—"
Her knees collapse as the cry bursts from her chest:
"Jesu mi! Mo padanu oko mi! Mi o le di iyawo alakunlekun o! Olorun, rara o!"
("My Jesus! I have lost my husband! I cannot become a widow! God, no!")
The words hit like a moving bus. My lungs burn. My knees slam the floor before I even know I'm falling.
Dad is... dead?
No.
Not Dad. Not the man who calls me Ella the Star every morning. Not the man who kissed my forehead today before leaving and said, "After this election, everything will change. We'll be safe. We'll be happy."
Safe? Happy? What a joke.
They killed him.
Someone killed my dad.
The room spins. Grandma wails louder, rocking back and forth, clutching her wrapper so tight the seams groan. Tunde's crying harder now, small hiccuping sobs. And Mom? She's gone, lost in a flood of screams and prayers nobody answers.
And me? I just sit there. Frozen. Waiting for someone to wake me up.
But no one does.
Flashback - The Last Call
My phone buzzed this morning. I remember it so clearly now, like it's on replay.
"Ella, my girl," his warm voice filled the line. "Keep shining. You hear me? You're strong. You can do anything."
I laughed. "Daddy, stop hyping me like I'm Beyonce."
"You're better than Beyonce," he said, chuckling. "Listen, after this election, life will be different. Brighter. Promise me you'll keep chasing your dreams?"
"Promise," I whispered.
Now those words stab like glass in my chest.
Tunde's POV
I don't get it.
One second, I'm scoring goals. Next second, everyone's screaming like the world ended.
Grandma's shouting words I don't understand. Mom's face looks wrong. Like when NEPA takes light in the middle of a movie—sudden and scary. Ella's eyes are huge, like the TV when it freezes.
I want to ask what happened. I really do. But something says don't. So I just whisper to my controller, "Daddy will come back, right?"
But nobody answers.
Mom's POV
The phone is still on the floor. Shattered screen. Like my life.
"Madam... there was an ambush... Senator Oluyemi didn't make it."
Didn't make it.
The words tear through me like a blade.
My chest heaves as I clutch my wrapper, screaming into my hands, into the air, into nothing.
"Jesu mi! Mo ti di opo! Olorun, e gba mi!"
("My Jesus! I am now a widow! God, help me!")
I see my children. Ella's face empty like someone stole her soul. Tunde curled on the floor, hugging plastic like it can save him.
I want to hold them. Tell them it'll be okay. But how do you lie when the truth is eating you alive?
Two Months Later...
The house is quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that screams.
Black ribbons hang on the gate. Posters with his smiling face everywhere: Forever in our hearts.
Ella hasn't filmed a single video since that day. She hasn't laughed either.
I stopped eating. Sleeping. Answering texts. My phone became a graveyard of unread messages:
"Ella, are you okay?"
"We miss you."
"Come back online."
But how do you come back when the old you is gone?
Mom started working again—late nights, double shifts. Grandma stays with us now. Tunde... Tunde doesn't smile anymore.
And me? I just exist.
The Journey to Ife
One week after the burial in Lagos, we traveled to Ife for the Iwe—the final rites to honor Dad's spirit.
The bus ride is endless. Red dust coats the windows. Goats wander across the road like they own it. My head leans against the glass, watching villages blur past. I don't speak. Nobody does.
When we arrive, the air is heavy with smoke and drumbeats that thump in my chest like a second heartbeat. The courtyard is filled with elders in white wrappers, their bare feet slapping the earth as they chant:
"Egungun Baba wa, e gba omo yin!"
("Ancestors, receive your child!")
Mom kneels, pouring palm wine on the soil, whispering prayers. Grandma sprinkles herbs into a clay pot, calling names that sound like echoes. The smell of roasted yam and palm oil clings to the air.
Women dance in raffia skirts, spinning, their beads rattling like rain. Men beat the gangan drum, voices rising and falling like waves.
I just stand there, staring. Life is moving—bright, loud, unstoppable—but inside me? Silence.
Ophelia—my older sister—squeezes my hand. "Ella... it's okay to cry."
So I do.
And when I look through the cracked window of the hut we're staying in, the sunset bleeds across shards of broken glass.
Shattered windows. Just like my heart.
Back Home
Weeks later, I'm in my room again. Same fairy lights. Same posters. Same me—except not the same.
The jacket Dad gave me lies on the bed. I grab it, press it to my face, and breathe him in until it hurts.
The sobs hit fast. No warning. No mercy.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.
A message:
"Ella, we miss you. The world misses your light."
I stare for the longest time. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Could I? Could I pick up the pieces? Could I step back into a world that feels so far away now?
I don't know.
But I know this—I'm still breathing.
And for the first time in forever, something tiny and fragile flickers inside me.
Before the darkness came, I was Ella the Star. Maybe... just maybe, I can find her again.
The journey starts now.