The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and sorrow. Machines hummed faintly, but none could keep death away. On the bed lay Obi Yakosobi, a man whose eyes carried the weight of secrets too heavy for one lifetime. His children stood around him—three young souls about to inherit truths that would change everything.
Amara Yakosobi, the eldest daughter at twenty-one, gripped her father's hand, her strong spirit trembling for the first time. Beside her stood Chima, nineteen, sharp-eyed but restless, torn between anger and grief. The youngest, Ife, only sixteen, clutched a folded childhood photograph their father had pressed into his palm minutes before.
Obi's voice rasped, each word costing him precious air.
"Listen… my children. There is one more of you. An elder brother… my firstborn. I could not tell you before. I failed him, and I failed you."
The siblings exchanged startled looks.
"He is alive," Obi whispered. "Out there. He did not stay with us because of your mother. She… she came from a high family. A family obsessed with genius, with prodigy. To them, love was worthless without brilliance. They called him ordinary, not worthy. She grew cold, and in her pride, she left. But before she did, she poured all her family's demands into one child—" His fading eyes shifted to Ife. "—into you, my son."
Tears welled in Ife's eyes. He had always wondered why his mother's love felt more like pressure than warmth.
"Your brother," Obi continued, voice weaker, "was cast aside. He walked a different road. You will find him. When you do, you'll understand everything. This picture… it is your key. Anyone who knows him will know this face."
His hand trembled as he pointed to the photo: a boy smiling, innocent, unscarred by the world.
"Remember… his name is Guru."
The heart monitor beeped once—then silence.
Their father was gone.
Three weeks later, grief had not dulled their resolve. The Yakosobi siblings followed their father's last clue into the heart of the city's underworld: the crime district.
Their car crept through streets broken by poverty and violence, neon lights flickering against walls covered in graffiti. When they stopped at a crowded alley, Amara stepped out, clutching the photograph. Dozens of eyes turned toward them—curious, hungry, suspicious.
She raised her voice. "Please! We are looking for this man. Do you know him?"
The crowd shuffled closer. Murmurs began. Then someone gasped.
"It's him… It's Guru!"
Another voice echoed: "Guru!" Then another. Soon the alley buzzed like a hive: "Guru! Guru! Guru!"
The siblings froze. Everyone knew him.
A man with a scar across his cheek pointed down the street. "He's there. At the school. You'll find him."
Confused, the siblings followed. And what they saw left them speechless.
In the middle of the crime district stood a rundown building, its walls patched with rusted sheets of metal. Yet from its yard came the sound of children—dozens of them, wild-eyed, hardened too young by the streets. They gathered not to fight, but to listen.
At the center stood a man. His clothes were torn, his body weak, yet the children looked at him with reverence. Beside him stood two figures: one in a fine suit, polished and commanding, the other ragged and broken.
The siblings hesitated. They had to be sure. Amara stepped forward and addressed the well-dressed man. "Please… we're looking for our brother. Our father said his name is Guru."
The man studied them, his sharp eyes betraying nothing. Then, with a quiet motion, he pointed at the ragged figure—the one who looked half-dead, eyes dim but burning with hidden fire.
"This," the man said, "is Guru. Your brother. The teacher of these children."
The world seemed to tilt.
Amara's breath caught. Chima's fists tightened. Ife gripped the photograph as if it might vanish.
And for the first time, the siblings came face-to-face with the brother their father had hidden… the brother their mother had forsaken.