Chapter Four: The Gathering Resolve
The streets swallowed their footsteps as they left the crime district behind. None of them spoke; words felt dangerous, like they might splinter the fragile thread that still held them together.
When they reached the car, Amara fumbled for the keys, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped them. Chima leaned against the hood, head lowered, his body stiff with anger. Ife stood apart, still clutching the photo of Guru, staring into its worn edges like the answers were hidden in the creases.
Amara forced the key into the ignition. The car roared to life, but her chest felt hollow. The neon lights faded behind them as they drove back toward the quiet streets of their neighborhood.
The silence was unbearable. The siblings each sank into it, drowning in their own thoughts.
At home, the house greeted them with silence too. It was the silence of absence — their father's absence. His chair in the living room sat empty, angled toward the corner where he used to read his Bible. His faint cologne still clung to the air like a ghost.
Amara went straight to the kitchen, her safe place. She filled a glass of water but never lifted it to her lips. Instead, she gripped the counter with both hands, lowering her head. Guru's words looped in her mind: "You're chasing an ideal dream that blinds you to the world around you."
Her chest ached. She had always seen her dream — her music, her art, her escape — as a gift. A way to rise above the dirt. But now she saw the cracks. She saw how many times her siblings had suffered because she'd been too lost in her own ambition to notice their burdens.
Her throat tightened. Maybe he was right.
Chima stormed into the living room, unable to contain the fury boiling in his veins. He paced between the coffee table and the wall, his hands balling into fists. His law books lay scattered, abandoned on the shelf. He yanked one down, flipped through pages, then slammed it shut with a growl.
"He doesn't know me," he muttered, pacing faster. "He doesn't know what I've fought for. He doesn't know the nights I studied until my eyes burned. He doesn't know the battles I've fought in silence."
But the louder he spoke, the hollower his voice sounded. Because deep down, Guru did know. With just a glance, Guru had pierced through his armor, seen the pride and anger that Chima had built his identity on. And the truth was: he was afraid Guru had judged him correctly.
"Blind ambition…" Chima spat the words like poison. He wanted to deny them, but they clung to him like tar.
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Ife retreated to his room, the smallest and quietest space in the house. He sat at his desk, placing the photo in front of him. The boy in the picture — Guru — stared back at him with that half-smile that seemed to carry both mischief and sorrow.
Guru's words echoed: "You are a reflection, not a person. A mirror of Father's dream, not your own."
Ife's lips trembled. He had lived his whole life as his father's "shadow-son," the one meant to carry forward everything their father could not. And now, the man in the picture, the brother he barely knew, had called him out on it.
Tears welled in his eyes. He pressed his forehead against the desk, whispering, "Then what am I, if not Father's echo?"
The house seemed to sigh around him, heavy with ghosts.
The night stretched on. Amara sat in the kitchen with her untouched water. Chima eventually collapsed on the couch, exhaustion wrestling with his rage. Ife drifted in and out of restless dreams, waking with tears dried on his cheeks.
None of them spoke. None of them wanted to break the fragile silence that separated them, yet bound them.
Morning came. The sun filtered through the curtains, merciless in its honesty. They gathered at the dining table, their faces pale and eyes rimmed with fatigue.
For a while, the only sound was the scrape of spoons against plates.
Finally, Amara set her spoon down. Her voice was quiet but carried weight.
"We can't leave it like this."
Chima's head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot. "What do you mean? He doesn't want us. Didn't you hear him?"
"I heard," she said firmly. "I heard every word. But that doesn't change who he is. He's our brother. Father's blood runs in him, just like it does in us. We can't walk away."
Chima slammed his hand against the table. "You think I didn't feel it? The way he cut into us like a knife? He doesn't care, Amara. He made it clear."
Amara's jaw tightened. "Maybe he doesn't care. But Father did. His last wish was for us to find him, not just see him. Find him. Bring him home. That has to mean something."
Chima leaned back, breathing heavily. His anger was real, but beneath it, something softer flickered — fear. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of hope.
Then Ife spoke. His voice was soft but steady, carrying a weight that silenced them both.
"He cared enough to know us."
The table fell quiet.
Ife lifted the photo, holding it up for them to see. "No one else ever saw me. Not really. But he did. He looked at me and saw the truth — even if it hurt. That means he's still connected to us, whether he wants to be or not."
Amara reached across the table, placing her hand over his. "Exactly. We don't stop here."
Chima exhaled slowly, staring at both of them. His hand tightened into a fist, then loosened. "Fine. But if he spits in our faces again, don't expect me to just stand there."
Amara allowed herself the smallest smile. "That's why we'll go together. We need each other. If we're going to face him, we face him as one."
Ife nodded, his grip on the photo firm. "We line up. As siblings. For him."
Later that evening, they stood at the edge of their street. The air smelled of dust and smoke, and the city stretched before them like a battlefield.
Amara stood in front, Chima at her side, Ife just behind. Their postures were uneven, their scars still raw — but for the first time since their father's death, they were aligned.
The path ahead was dangerous. Guru might reject them again. He might wound them deeper than before. But this time, they would not arrive as fractured children.
They would arrive as siblings.
And together, they would not let him go.