Chapter 2

I sat cross-legged on my bed, sunlight spilling through the curtains. It was seven in Lagos, probably three in Busan. I tapped video call.

"Grace!" my mother exclaimed. "You're alive!"

"Morning, Eomma."

"Afternoon, actually. Some of us are hardworking citizens."

"You work in an office, contributing with spreadsheets."

Her narrowed eyes. "Have you eaten?"

"Yea, coffee".

"Grace Chisom Hwang!"

"Kidding, I had breakfast."

"How're the twins?"

"Oh, your sisters are plotting world domination. Hana and Ha-eun discovered they can switch places during class."

"I miss them."

Mom's expression softened. "They miss you too."

For a moment neither of us spoke. Thousands of kilometres away suddenly felt very real.

"You'll be home soon. And eat real food. Not just coffee."

"I will," the call ended.

Two weeks had passed. Another schedule was drafted. I got stationed at the South-East Zone, Enugu headquarters.The editing team was disbanded, Kenji and I got deployed to the East, while the rest remained at the West. The internship begun.

I stepped out of the project van with my camera bag. The humid morning wrapped around us. Motorcycles buzzed, traders called. Enugu was alive.

We stopped near a small market. An aroma reached me. Beside the road sat an elderly woman behind a cooler and steaming pot.

"Good morning, ma."

"Morning, my daughter."

"This?" I pointed.

"Okpa," she replied."Fresh one".

"I wan buy one." I attempted pidgin.

She laughed gently, and served me.

I ate, memories flooded. Hobakbeom, a sweet pumpkin rice cake, had the same golden colour. But Okpa was softer, richer, slightly sweeter, with a natural nutty flavour.

"Omo! It's sweet o!"

The woman laughed. "Ò dị gị ụtọ?"

"Nke oma!" I stammered.

"Ah! You speak Igbo?"

"Little." My British accent slipped out. "Your tongue still dey abroad," she chuckled.

As I ate, schoolchildren hurried past in uniforms, women bargained loudly, highlife played. Despite growing up thousands of kilometres away, the environment didn't feel foreign. It belonged to me.

After one month into the programme, things got interesting, curious, perhaps dangerous.

The sun hung low, the village square almost empty. My assignment had brought me to Awugu to document life stories. Most interviews followed the same pattern, childhood memories, lost traditions. But Madam Ireke was different. At nearly eighty, she had a sharp memory and a tongue that moved faster than most people half her age.

"What did you say your surname was?"

"Hwang. Chisom Hwang."

"And your father?"

"Uwaezuoke James Ekwunife."

The smile vanished from her face. "Ekwunife? Did you know him?"

"I knew a man by that name many years ago."

I froze. My father had been declared dead when I was seven. No Nigerian had recognised his name before.

"What was he like?" I asked.

"Smart. Too smart for his own good".

"He worked for an international pharmaceutical company. He discovered something he wasn't supposed to discover."

Chills ran through me. Bits of memory surfaced.

She explained he uncovered evidence linking shell companies to secret funding operations. On paper, money were used for research. In reality, dangerous experiments and counterfeit medicine were distributed across countries.

"He told someone close to me that powerful people wanted access to something."

"A key. Financial codes, information. Hundreds of millions of dollars."

"Then?"

"He disappeared." She folded her hands. "Three years ago, my nephew schooling in Johannesburg." She watched me. "He swore he met a man who looked exactly like your father."

My breath caught.

"He had a different name, beard, accent. But he carried the same scar above his eyebrow."

A scar from a bicycle accident in London. The one detail no stranger have known.

"Did he say where the man was going?"

No.

For twelve years I'd believed my father dead. Now, for the first time, I wasn't so sure. That possibility frightened me more than death had.

I closed my eyes to remember him. Tall, brown eyes, full-bearded, low-cut hair, the scar. His laugh, droopy ears like an anime character. I remembered him, carrying me home. The car chase, the gunshots, the dripping blood.

I felt seven again.

The final school bell rang. Children poured through the gates.

"Daddy!" I squealed, spotting him leaning against his Range Rover, arms folded.

"There she is," he laughed, catching me before I collided into him. "How was my princess today?"

"I got ten over ten in spelling!"

"Daddy..."

"What is it?"

"Ice cream. Can we stop at Mr. Rossi's? I want giant chocolate cones?"

"You've spent my entire salary."

"I can help." I held up three pound coins.

He stared, then burst into laughter. "I think this can buy... one sprinkle."

"It can buy more."

"Since when did you become an economist?"

He started the engine. Music played softly. I watched raindrops race down the window. Then everything changed.

His smile faded. His eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror. Once. Twice. A third time. His fingers tightened around the wheel.

"Grace, I need you to listen carefully."

"I want you to tighten your seatbelt."

"But it's already on."

"Tighter." He pulled the strap. "No matter what happens... don't unbuckle".

The first gunshot frightened me.

BANG! The rear windshield exploded.

"DADDY!"

"Head down!"

Another shot. BANG! The driver's window shattered. My father cried out as a bullet tore through his left hand.

"I'm okay." His sleeve was red. He pushed the accelerator to the floor.

Three black SUVs had turned onto our street. Every turn we made, they made too.

One hundred kilometres. One twenty. One forty. We weaved between buses, taxis. One SUV tried to cut us off. He slammed brakes for a second before spinning around it. Another burst of gunfire. One struck the side mirror. Another hit the boot.

I covered my ears, tears streamed down my face.

"Daddy, I'm scared!"

"I won't let them."

A truck blocked the road. He threaded the car through a gap barely wider than the mirrors.

CRASH! One SUV slammed into the truck.

We sped into narrow streets. Left. Right. Through a tunnel. One overshot a corner. The last was trapped behind a city bus.

He turned into a warehouse side street. Killed the engine. Silence.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. The SUVs thundered past without seeing us.

He wrapped his bleeding hand with a handkerchief. Drove slowly. Stopped outside a familiar house, my teacher's.

"Miss Emily's?"

He nodded. He knocked urgently. The door opened almost immediately.

"Please take Grace to her mother."

"What about you?"

"I have to go."

"No." I threw my arms around him.

He kissed my forehead. "If I stay, they'll find you."

"When will you come back?"

"Soon." He smiled through tears. "Pinky promise."

"When you come back... ice cream?"

"The biggest ice cream in London. With all the sprinkles in the world."

He slipped my coins back into my hand. "Keep these for me."

"I love you, Nkpuru mma."

"Love you too, Daddy."

He walked back to the car. Never looked back. Perhaps because he knew, if he did, wouldn't be able to leave.

One day. One week. One year. That was the last time I ever saw him. So I believed.

About two years later, a black Range Rover was dug out of water. A decayed body inside. The car was his, proved by certificate. The corpse wore the same green shirt he wore that day. The case was simple, hence officially declared dead.

He's alive, and I'm going to find him. That meant asking questions not worth as

king, maybe encountering the very danger that hunted him.

"Be careful who you trust," Madam Okonkwo adviced