š Main Clearing, Oore-ofe Cooperative
š 11:08 AM
The air crackled, thick with the aftermath of Folake's demand. It was as if she had thrown a stone into a still pond, and the ripples were still vibrating through the very dust motes in the air. Tunde's polished facade, that mask of Lagosian invincibility, had fractured. For three long heartbeats, she watched him truly see herānot as a pawn from his past, not as a means to an end, but as a challenger who had just redrawn the lines of their war entirely.
Then, as if a steel shutter had slammed down behind his eyes, the vulnerability vanished. It was replaced by a chilling, calculated calm that was somehow more terrifying than his initial shock.
"A public kneeling," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft, almost a whisper that carried nonetheless. He could feel the farmworkers' silent judgment like a physical pressure against his skin. "You would make my inheritance contingent on a spectacle."
He stepped closer, his expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne invading the earthy air, a scent that now felt like a weapon. "Very well. You want a performance? Then we'll have a full production. The apology is yoursāat the end of the contract. Consider it your final bonus, payable only upon satisfactory completion."
He had done it again. Just like at UNILAG, he had taken her deepest wound āher demand for dignity āand made it transactional. He had boxed her emotion into a clause.
"And to ensure yourā¦ unwavering commitment," he continued, his gaze locking with hers, refusing to let her look away, "the first 250 million naira is deferred. You'll receive it after six months. Walk away before then, and you get nothing. The land sells to the Dubai conglomerate the next day. Your father's legacy becomes a chemical runoff ditch."
He turned to his lawyer, who had been standing as still as a statue. "Draw up the addendum. Now."
Right there, in the red dust, surrounded by her people, the new terms appeared on the lawyer's tablet screen. The words were cold, legal, and absolute. Tunde signed with a flourish, his signature a sharp, aggressive slash, and held the tablet out to her.
It was no longer a choice. It was an ultimatum wrapped in a contract. A gilded cage, with the door wide open and a gun to the head of everything she loved, inviting her to step inside.
Her fingers trembled as she took the stylus. The weight of the cooperative, of Papa Tunde's quiet pride, of her father's ghost, pressed down on her. Her gaze fell on the white cocoa pod in her office window, a symbol of what could be, of partnership before betrayal. Her hand steadied. He thinks this will break me. He thinks he can buy and sell my will like a commodity. She would not break. She would adapt. She would turn his own weapons against him. She would win.
She signed. Folake Adekunle. The name looked small and defiant on the digital line.
"Good," Tunde said, the word final, like the click of a lock. "Pack a bag. You're coming to Lagos. Now."
As he strode back to his SUV without a backward glance, Folake's mind raced. She had moments. Slipping into her office, she ignored the small, pre-packed overnight bag she kept for emergencies. Her fingers went instead to the preserved white cocoa pod under its glass dome. With careful precision, she pried it open and retrieved a single, precious seed. It was pale and looked fragile, but she knew the life it contained was resilient. She tucked it into the hidden inner pocket of her brassiere, a secret against her skin, a piece of her soul to carry into the beast's belly.
š The Road to Lagos
š 12:30 PM
The SUV was a capsule of chilled, recycled air, a world away from the vibrant, humid warmth of Ijebu-Ode. It carried her from everything she knewāthe scent of the earth, the familiar faces, the sound of her own name spoken with affection. The single seed burned like a tiny ember against her heart, the only warmth in the vehicle's artificial chill.
The signed contract in her leather bag felt less like a weapon and more like a chain, each clause a heavy link. Tunde's final "Now" echoed in the tense silenceānot an invitation, but an arrest. He sat across from her, already absorbed in his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his sharp profile. The war for her land had moved to his territory, and she entered as both soldier and prisoner, the lines between the two already blurring.
š 7:00 AM, The Next Day
š Tunde's Ikoyi Penthouse
The penthouse's silence was nothing like her farm's. At the cooperative, silence was a living thing, filled with the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the earth breathing. This was a cold, manufactured quietājust the low, relentless hum of air conditioning and the muted, perpetual growl of traffic twenty floors below. It was the sound of being utterly alone in a city of twenty million people.
She woke disoriented, the satin sheets alien and slippery against her skin. The room was a minimalist showpieceāall sharp angles, muted greys, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed an intimidating, postcard-perfect view of the Lagos lagoon. This wasn't a home; it was a showroom, a stage set. And she, in this oversized bed, was the latest acquisition, put on display.
A walk-in closet larger than her first apartment overflowed with curated clothes, all tags still on, all in her size. He'd had her researched, measured, and purchased for. As she ran her hand along a drawer, her fingers brushed against something cold and sharp. She pulled out a single, stunning diamond earring, elegant and utterly alien in this context. It was a whisper from a ghost, testimony to a woman who'd occupied this space before her. The seed felt heavier, more vital against her skināa living anchor in this sterile sea of someone else's life.
š 9:00 AM
At exactly 9 AM, the silence was broken by the arrival of three stylists, led by a sharp-eyed woman named Amaka, who assessed Folake with a single, sweeping glance that felt like being priced at an auction.
"Let's see what we're working with," Amaka said, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth.
The session was a quiet, systematic humiliation. They criticised her sun-kissed skin ("will need brightening treatments"), her capable, strong hands ("these calluses will take weeks to soften"), her posture ("too rigid, too defensive"). Folake endured it, a statue in the storm, each critique sanding away another layer of her identity, another connection to the capable businesswoman she was.
"Good, you're closer to his usual type," Amaka said absently, while a stylist worked on Folake's hair. "The last one had a difficult skin texture. A constant battle." She stopped abruptly, her face smoothing into a neutral mask. "Never mind. Focus on the present."
The damage was doneāthe last one. The ghost now had a precedent. Folake closed her eyes, feeling the reassuring pressure of the seed against her skin. I am more than what you see. I am not her. I am the land that grew this seed. I cannot be remade by your lotions and your judgments.
As they prepared to leave, Amaka handed her a slim tablet. "Your social calendar and briefing documents. Memorise the engagement backstory by this afternoon. Your first public appearance is being finalised."
š 11:00 AM
Alone on the massive balcony, the city sprawled below her like a circuit board of cold ambition. Folake scrolled through the tablet, reading the elegant lies that were to become her new truth.
The Official Story: They had reconnected six months ago at an agricultural charity auction. A "whirlwind romance," kept deliberately private out of respect for his late grandfather. The document specified approved topics (her "passion for farming," his "vision for sustainable agriculture"), banned subjects (their actual history, the terms of their arrangement), and prescribed behaviours (a light hand on his arm, a gaze filled with "admiration").
The complete erasure of their real history was a devastation deeper than the stylists' criticisms. The apology she'd fought for, the kneeling she had demanded, was now buried under a mountain of pretty, marketable lies.
He isn't just buying my time, she realised with a sickening jolt. He's buying my past and rewriting it. The seed pressed against her skināa secret truth, a hidden weapon. They could rewrite her past on paper, but not what she carried next to her heart. The diamond earring in the drawer was a stark warning of what happened to those who failed to perform, who were no longer useful.
š 6:00 PM
š A Rooftop Lounge, Victoria Island
Tunde met her at the sleek, open-air lounge, transformed from the cold strategist of the morning into a man of polished, effortless charm. He introduced her to his circleāa rapid-fire exchange of names and brands and insider jargon that made her head spin.
A stunning woman in designer silk, whom Folake recognised as Bisola from the briefing documents, gave a slow, predatory smile. "So, Folake, Tunde says you're aā¦ farmer? How quaint." She let the word hang in the air, dripping with condescension. "Do tell us about village life. It must be soā¦ simple."
The group's chatter dipped, all eyes turning to her. Folake felt their collective judgment, the ghost of the "last one" at her back. She met Bisola's gaze, her own voice calm and clear, carrying just enough to be heard by the listeners.
"I run an agricultural export business that feeds thousands and employs an entire community," she corrected gently, a small, polite smile on her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "The economics of sustainable farming are quite complex, actually. I'd be happy to explain the models we use if you're considering diversifying your portfolio."
A surprised silence, then a few appreciative chuckles from others in the group. Bisola's smile tightened. Tunde watched the exchange, something unreadable flickering in his eyesānot quite approval, not quite annoyance, but a spark of reassessment.
š 8:30 PM
š The Penthouse
Back in the penthouse, the masks came off. The opulent space felt more like a prison than ever. Tunde went straight to the minimalist bar, pouring himself a generous measure of amber liquid, his back to her.
"Your pride display was unnecessary," he said, his voice cold and flat, echoing in the vast room. "The goal is to blend in, not to prove you're the smartest person in the room. Remember why you're here."
Blend in with what? she wanted to scream. Your expectations? The memory of her? He didn't wait for a reply, simply walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the marbled floor. The message was clear: in this world, her greatest strengthsāher intelligence, her pride, her resilienceāwere liabilities.
Alone at the massive window, the glittering city stretched below, a vast, artificial constellation of ambition. She retrieved the single white cocoa seed from her hidden pocket, holding it up between her fingers. It was a small, pale thing against the giant, glowing skyscrapers, yet it contained the power of an entire forest, the memory of a legacy. He thought he was remaking her, that she was just another temporary occupant in this sterile apartment. He didn't realise she'd brought her own soil for a revolution.