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Ojie Stories, San Francisco de Dos Ríos (2025)

13/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Love Finds Us

The heart heals slowly.
Especially when it’s spent years being told not to expect anything soft.

For Nadine and Chisom, love had always been complicated — either absent, conditional, or interrupted by secrets.

But something was changing now.
Their names had been reclaimed.
Their voices had grown loud.
And in the quiet moments… something new crept in.

> Desire.
Curiosity.
The question: Could someone truly see me — and stay?

It began with a bookshop.

Nadine had ducked into a small one on Aminu Kano Crescent to avoid a sudden downpour. The power was out, and the air smelled of dust and old leather.

He was behind the counter, adjusting shelves by flashlight.

Tall. Thoughtful eyes. Dark locs pulled into a short bun.

“Welcome,” he said, not looking up. “We accept cash and courage here.”

Nadine smiled. “What about women with messy pasts?”

He looked up then. “Those are the ones who buy the best books.”

She stayed for nearly two hours.

His name was Tega.
He’d studied philosophy but preferred fiction.
Said he liked books “that made people break their own rules.”

They talked about silence. Power. Memory.
He hadn’t seen her interviews.

> “I like meeting people before their headlines,” he said.

Before she left, he handed her a book: The Art of Coming Undone.

Inside, a note:

> “If you ever want to come undone with company — come back.”

She did.
Again.
And again.

Meanwhile, Chisom was relearning trust in smaller doses.

There was Kelechi — a human rights lawyer she’d met during a panel on gender policy.
Smart. Measured. The kind of man who listened twice before speaking once.

They worked on the same committee for the Amarachukwu Day initiative. Late meetings turned into long walks to the car. Professional emails gave way to little jokes, then check-ins, then:

> “Can I cook for you this weekend?”

It wasn’t perfect. She panicked sometimes when he showed too much care.
Once, she nearly cancelled dinner because he brought flowers — a gesture that triggered memories of promises broken.

But Kelechi never rushed.

> “Healing isn’t linear,” he told her. “I’m not here for your perfection. I’m here for your truth.”

And slowly… she let him in.

One night, both sisters sat on the rooftop of their apartment, sipping fruit juice, bare feet against warm tiles.

“So,” Chisom teased, “how’s the philosopher?”

Nadine rolled her eyes playfully. “He makes me feel like a first draft. But in a good way.”

“And you?”

Chisom smiled. “He made me jollof rice. That’s serious.”

They both laughed.

Then the laughter faded into a soft, sacred quiet.

“I didn’t think love was for girls like us,” Nadine said eventually.

Chisom nodded. “But maybe… love finds us when we finally stop hiding from ourselves.”

They clinked glasses.

Not as survivors anymore.
But as women who had made room for joy.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

12/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Birthday That Wasn’t

October 12th.

It had always come and gone like a regular day.
No cake.
No matching photos.
No sense of shared time.

For years, Nadine had lit a small candle on that date, whispering wishes to the dark — not knowing her sister was doing the exact same thing across the city.

Chisom had once asked her guardians why her birthday never felt special.
They’d blamed busy schedules.
She never asked twice.

But now they knew.

> They had been born on the same day.
To the same woman.
In the same hospital.

And somehow… never celebrated together.

Until now.

The sisters sat on the floor of their apartment, knees tucked beneath a single large blanket, a two-tier cake between them. Pink frosting. Gold initials: C & N.

Candles unlit.

Chisom held a lighter, but hesitated.

Nadine noticed. “What is it?”

Chisom looked at her. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Nadine gave a soft laugh. “Me neither.”

They stared at the candles. Ten of them — not for age, but for each year they had not spent together.

“Remember last year?” Nadine said. “You were on that trip to Ghana and I was sick.”

“I sent a text. You replied two days late.”

They both chuckled.

Then Chisom added more quietly, “That was our last birthday apart.”

A silence stretched between them.

“I kept thinking,” Nadine whispered, “that I would have known… if you were out there. That something would’ve told me.”

“I think it did,” Chisom said. “It just took years to listen.”

They lit the candles together.

And this time, no silent wishes.

> “Say it out loud,” Nadine said. “Whatever you want for this year.”

Chisom took a breath.

> “I want to never feel like a half again. I want wholeness. In love, in family, in purpose.”

She nodded to Nadine.

Nadine looked into the flame.

> “I want peace. And I want a life where my name never has to be explained or defended again.”

They looked at each other.

Then, in unison:

> “Happy birthday.”

They blew out the candles together.

The next day, they received an unexpected email — from a small, rural orphanage in Abia State. One of the girls there had watched their BBC interview and written a letter.

It read:

> Dear Nadine and Chisom,
I don’t know my real birthday.
But after hearing your story, I’ve decided to give myself one.
Today. Because today I decided I’m worth remembering.
Thank you for reminding me I exist.
Love,
Blessing (Age: maybe 11… but also forever starting today)

Nadine showed it to Chisom, tears rising in her eyes.

“She gave herself a birthday,” she whispered.

Chisom smiled. “Then maybe next year, we invite her. And others like her.”

“Create something… bigger.”

“A day for the forgotten girls,” Chisom said. “One day — all over the country.”

Nadine grinned. “And we’ll call it... Amarachukwu Day.”

They both sat in silence, the weight of legacy beginning to take root as something even more powerful than a name.

That night, Chisom updated the Legacy Fund website. A new section appeared:

> Coming Soon: Amarachukwu Day — A National Celebration of Remembered Daughters
Every October 12th.

And for the first time, the birthday that once wasn’t…

> became a day for everyone who never had one.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

11/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Mango Tree

The road to Nsukka felt longer this time.

Not because of distance, but because of what waited at the end:
A man. A tree. A wound they never fully closed.

They drove without music. Just the hum of tires on earth and the occasional glance between two sisters trying to prepare their hearts for the unexpected.

“Do you think he’ll actually be there?” Chisom asked quietly.

“If he wrote that letter, then yes,” Nadine replied. “And if he’s not… maybe that’s our answer too.”

By the time they arrived, the sun was just beginning to dip — golden and soft, like an old memory.

The tree was exactly as described.

A wide mango tree behind a rusted gate near the edge of town. Its roots coiled out of the ground like old hands. Its branches dripped low with fruit, green turning gold.

And under it… he sat.

Alone.

No security. No aide. Just Obinna — not the governor, not the public figure — just the man who once chose silence and had nothing left to hide behind.

He looked up as they approached.

For a second, no one moved.

Then Nadine stepped forward. Slowly.
Chisom followed.

Obinna stood.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said softly.

“We didn’t either,” Nadine replied.

Chisom folded her arms. “We read your letter.”

He nodded. “Thank you for that mercy.”

There was a long, suspended pause — three lives caught between apology and acceptance.

Then Obinna reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph — old and worn.

He held it out with both hands.

> Their mother. Amarachi.
Smiling, wind in her hair, standing barefoot beside the same mango tree. Young. Radiant. Free.

“I planted this tree with her,” he said. “Before everything. Before politics. She used to say the fruit from this tree would one day feed the children we raised together.”

The girls looked up at the branches.

Dozens of ripe mangoes hung like golden truths waiting to fall.

Chisom stepped closer. “You waited here often?”

“Every Sunday,” he said. “I didn’t know what I hoped for. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just to feel close to her.”

Nadine finally asked, “What do you feel now?”

Obinna looked up at them, eyes glistening. “Like I’m still her greatest mistake… and somehow, also her answered prayer.”

Nadine sat down beneath the tree first, brushing dry leaves aside.

Chisom hesitated… then joined her.

Obinna remained standing.

But Nadine patted the ground beside her. “You said you don’t ask for a relationship,” she said. “We’re not offering one. Not today.”

Chisom added, “But we’re here. And so are you.”

He sat.

And for a moment, there was no blame. No past.

Just three people under a tree planted in love… now flowering again in truth.

---

They stayed for hours — talking, crying, laughing in whispers.

And as dusk fell and fireflies flickered through the branches, Nadine plucked the first ripe mango from the tree.

She handed it to him.

“For Mama,” she said.

Obinna took it in both hands and held it to his heart.

And they sat together, eating mangoes from the tree Amarachi once stood beside — rebuilding not a perfect family, but something real.

> Something human.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

11/07/2025

The Governor’s Secretary.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Letter from Him

They had just returned from London. The buzz of applause still rang faintly in their ears, but home was quieter now — almost sacred.

Nadine was unpacking her suitcase when she saw it.

An envelope.

Cream-colored. Unmarked. Slipped beneath her door.

She bent, picked it up, and immediately recognized the handwriting.

> Obinna.

She froze.

He hadn’t spoken publicly since resigning from office weeks earlier. No interviews. No press appearances. No public apologies beyond the televised confession. It was like he had vanished.

Until now.

She carried the envelope into the kitchen, where Chisom was reheating yam porridge. Nadine held it out wordlessly.

Chisom looked at the handwriting, her eyes narrowing.

“You going to read it?” she asked.

Nadine hesitated. “Together.”

They sat at the table. Nadine broke the seal. The letter was handwritten — three pages long, slightly shaky in penmanship.

She began to read aloud.

My Daughters,

Forgive me. I do not use that word lightly anymore.

Every day since I spoke your names publicly, I have been trying to remember what it meant to be a man of integrity — not by title, but by truth.

I watch your interviews. I listen to your speeches. And each time, I feel both proud… and ashamed.

Proud because you are everything I failed to be.
Ashamed because you had to become that without me.

I have no excuses. I could say I was young. Or scared. Or bound by politics. But the truth is simpler:

> I chose silence.

And silence, when wielded by a man in power, is violence.

Amarachi was the only person who ever made me confront my reflection. When she died, I buried the truth with her — and with it, both of you.

I never expected to be found.

But you found yourselves.
And you found each other.
And that… is grace.

I am not asking for a relationship. I would not dare.
But I am asking for permission.

> Permission to grieve.
Permission to love you quietly.
Permission to tell my grandchildren someday that I once knew two girls who saved me from my own cowardice

You don’t have to write back.

But if you ever walk past a man sitting alone under a mango tree outside Nsukka, holding a photograph of a woman in a white blouse and two newborns in her arms — that’s me.

And I will always be waiting.

With love,
Your father,
Obinna

The kitchen was quiet.

Chisom’s lips trembled slightly, but her eyes didn’t blink. Nadine folded the letter slowly.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Chisom whispered:

> “Do we forgive him?”

Nadine looked at her sister, her mirror, her other half.

“I think,” she said slowly, “we start by meeting him under that mango tree.”

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

09/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Interview That Changed Everything

The invitation came in a pale blue envelope, hand-delivered by a woman in a blazer with a British accent and a badge that read: BBC World Service – Women’s Voices Project.

Nadine opened the envelope with trembling fingers.

> “You are hereby invited as a keynote guest to the Global Women of Courage Forum in London. Your story has moved nations. Now, let it move the world.”

It was surreal.
And terrifying.

Three weeks later, Nadine stood on the set of BBC HardTalk, sitting opposite a seasoned journalist whose sharp blue eyes missed nothing. Cameras were in position. The red ON AIR light blinked.

“Miss Amarachukwu,” the journalist began, “millions admire what you and your sister have done. But I must ask — how do you respond to critics who say you are profiting off pain?”

Nadine took a breath.

“I don’t profit off pain,” she said evenly. “I process pain — publicly — so that no other girl will be buried in silence like I was.”

“But you have become an icon. Speaking gigs, media tours, major sponsorships… isn’t there a danger of turning advocacy into celebrity?”

Nadine leaned forward.

“I did not ask for the spotlight,” she said. “I asked for my name back. And if being visible helps one girl speak her truth, then I’ll stand in that light without apology.”

The clip aired worldwide.

It was bold. Unapologetic. Powerful.

But not everyone clapped.

Back home in Abuja, Chisom watched the broadcast from their apartment. Her expression tightened.

The following morning, she sent a message:

> “We need to talk. Now.”

At the Legacy Fund office, they sat across from each other, tension humming between them like a low drumbeat.

“You didn’t mention the fund once,” Chisom said.

Nadine blinked. “What?”

“In the interview. You said I, me, my journey. Not we. Not our story. Not even Mama’s name. Just you.”

Nadine stiffened. “It was a solo interview.”

“But this isn’t a solo mission.”

The silence stretched.

Nadine stood and crossed to the window. “I’m not trying to take credit, Chisom.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re becoming the face of something we built together. I don’t want to fade into your shadow.”

Nadine turned slowly. “Do you think I want to overshadow you?”

Chisom looked away. “I think… I’m scared of being forgotten again.”

The words landed like a soft, sharp stone.

Nadine walked back and gently sat beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Truly. You’re right. I’ve been pulled into the whirlwind, and I forgot that this platform belongs to both of us.”

Chisom didn’t respond immediately.

Then she said, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“No more solo interviews without mentioning the fund. Or Mama.”

Nadine smiled. “Deal. And… I have something else to ask.”

“What?”

“Come with me. To London. The next talk is at Oxford. I want you beside me — on stage. As my sister. As Chisom Amarachukwu.”

Chisom’s eyes shimmered.

“You mean it?”

“Always.”

A week later, two Nigerian sisters stood before a hall of international leaders, activists, and scholars.

They spoke not as orphans.

Not as victims.

But as daughters who had turned silence into a legacy.

And together, for the first time on a world stage, they said:

> “We were the forgotten girls.
Now we are the ones who remember for everyone else.”

The standing ovation lasted five full minutes.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

08/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Legacy Fund

It began with one letter.
Then twenty.
Then hundreds.

Messages from across Nigeria — from young women in Katsina, mothers in Enugu, girls in Port Harcourt, and university students in Jos.

> “Your story gave me the courage to ask my father who my real mother is.”
“For the first time, I don’t feel ashamed of being born out of wedlock.”
“I thought I was alone. I’m not.”

Chisom read them out loud as Nadine poured through pages of handwritten notes, emails, and tagged posts.

“These are more than fan messages,” Chisom said. “They’re calls for help. For recognition.”

“For justice,” Nadine added quietly.

They both looked at the same moment, a thought forming between them — wordless but mutual.

> It was time to build something permanent.
Not just memory.
Not just headlines.

Something that breathed.

---

A month later, they stood in a modest conference room in Abuja, filled with journalists, educators, donors, and survivors.

Behind them, a tall white banner read:

> “The Amarachukwu Legacy Fund”
Empowering Forgotten Daughters to Rewrite Their Futures

Nadine took the mic first.

> “This fund isn’t about charity,” she began. “It’s about recognition. For every girl who was hidden, every child told they were a mistake, every woman who was denied an identity—this is for you.”

Chisom followed, her voice firm and clear.

> “We are not rewriting shame. We are planting stories in light. Education grants. Legal aid. Mental health resources. ID reclamation support. Everything they used to deny us — we’re giving back in full.”

The applause thundered.

The press swarmed them after.
CNN Africa. Arise News. The BBC.

One journalist asked: “Will the Governor be involved?”

Nadine smiled politely. “No. This fund belongs to our mother’s name, not his.”

Chisom added, “But if he chooses to donate, we won’t reject redemption.”

That line went viral.

---

Within weeks, the Amarachukwu Legacy Fund had raised over ₦37 million in local and international donations.

A Lagos-based law firm offered pro bono legal support for paternity and identity cases.

A tech startup offered to develop an app where girls could anonymously access help.

And most importantly—

The very first recipient was a 19-year-old girl named Blessing from Owerri.

She had been disowned for getting pregnant by a man who later denied her.

When she received her scholarship and accommodation stipend, she cried through her phone screen.

> “I never thought anyone would believe me,” she said.
“But you did.”
“You made me feel seen.”

Nadine and Chisom watched in silence.
Then hugged.

---

That night, Nadine stood on the balcony of her new apartment. Abuja glittered beneath her — a city that once tried to forget her, now lit by her name.

Chisom joined her with two mugs of warm ginger tea.

“What do you think Mama would say if she could see all this?” Nadine asked.

Chisom smiled. “She’d probably say, ‘Finally. My daughters learned how to make noise.’”

They both laughed.

But beneath the laughter was something even stronger.

> Healing.
Purpose.
Legacy.

Not the kind written in gold plaques or political titles.

But the kind etched in the lives of every girl who would now grow up knowing:

> They are not invisible.
They matter.
And their names — every single one — deserve to be spoken.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

07/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Name We Share

It started as a casual suggestion over breakfast.

Nadine stirred her tea slowly, watching the steam rise as Chisom flipped through a copy of The Nation that featured them both on the front page:

> “The Governor’s Daughters: Sisters of a New Era”

They’d been making headlines since the truth went public. But now, something deeper lingered — beyond politics, beyond publicity.

Identity.

Legacy.

“What name do you use on official documents?” Nadine asked suddenly.

Chisom looked up, eyebrow raised. “You mean… surname?”

Nadine nodded. “Yes. I mean… we were born with different names. Yours is Nwachukwu. Mine is Okoye. I’ve never known what it meant to share a family name. Now I wonder if… maybe we should decide what we want to be called.”

Chisom exhaled. “I used to hate it.”

“Hate what?”

“The name Nwachukwu,” she said. “Not because it didn’t sound good. But because it felt like a lie. A name given out of guilt, then wrapped in silence.”

Nadine nodded slowly. “I used to wish for it. As a child, I remember scribbling it behind my notebooks. Nadine Nwachukwu. It felt powerful. Like a name that would open doors.”

“And did it?” Chisom asked.

“No,” Nadine said. “Turns out, you have to open your own doors.”

They were quiet for a while. The tea grew cold. The paper sat unread.

Then Chisom said softly, “What if we chose a new name? One that connects us… but honors where we came from?”

Nadine blinked. “You mean… not his name?”

“I mean not just his name.”

They spent the rest of the morning drafting ideas, cross-referencing meanings from Igbo, Yoruba, and even their mother’s ancestral line.

Eventually, one name felt… right.

> “Amarachukwu”
Meaning: “The grace of God”

It was a fusion — of Amarachi, their mother’s name, and Chukwu, meaning God.

A tribute to her.

To their survival.

To their truth.

That evening, they visited the civil court with their lawyers and submitted a name-change affidavit:

> From:

Nadine Amarachi Okoye

Chisom Amaka Nwachukwu

To:

Nadine Amarachukwu

Chisom Amarachukwu

The court official smiled as he stamped the papers.

“Sisters, yes?” he asked.

Nadine and Chisom nodded.

“Then go live as one.”

---

Later that night, Governor Obinna received a single envelope at his doorstep.

Inside were copies of the official documents. No note. Just signatures and a name he didn’t choose — but one he could never erase.

He read the name over and over:

> Amarachukwu.

Tears welled in his eyes.

They had not just rewritten their history.

> They had redeemed it.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

06/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Letters to Amarachi

The morning after the forum, the world felt softer.

Nadine sat at her small desk by the window. Sunlight draped across the table, illuminating the photo that had come to mean everything — the one of her mother, holding both daughters before the world pulled them apart.

She opened a fresh page in her journal. No plans. No bullet points. Just memory and feeling.

And then… she began to write.

---

Dear Mama,

I never got to hear your voice say my name.

I never saw you brush my hair or tie my school uniform. But I felt your love — in the quiet resilience of my spirit, in the stubborn way I walk into rooms that say I don’t belong.

They say you were soft-spoken. Gentle. That you didn’t fight with fists, but with silence too powerful to ignore. I used to wonder if you regretted not screaming louder. If you would’ve stayed if he asked you to.

But now I know — you didn’t leave because you were weak.
You walked away because you were strong enough to raise me without begging for a name that should’ve been mine.

Mama… I found her.
My sister.
Your other daughter.
She is fierce and bright, just like I imagined.

We’re rebuilding what they tried to erase.
We’re telling your story now — not as victims, but as legacy.

I carry you with me.
In every speech.
In every truth.

I love you.

—Nadine

---

Across town, Chisom sat alone on a balcony with a warm cup of tea in hand. Her journal lay open on her lap.

She had never met Amarachi.
Never heard her laugh.
Never felt her arms.

But somehow… she missed her.

And so, she too began to write.

---

Dear Amarachi,

I don’t know what to call you.
Mother? Stranger? Savior?

You gave birth to me, and then… you disappeared.
Or so I was told.

They said you died.
That I was the only child.
That I had nothing to question.

But that was a lie.

The truth is, I lived my life wondering why I felt incomplete. Why mirrors never made sense. Why birthdays never felt whole.

Now I know.
You were missing.
And so was she — my sister.

I used to blame you, until I realized…

You were silenced too.

They took your voice. Hid your children. Carried your name like a stain to be scrubbed off the page of history.

But you left pieces of yourself in both of us.

I am not angry anymore.

I am grateful.

Because the parts of me that survived — my stubbornness, my softness, my fire — they were you.

I will live so loudly now. For both of us.

—Chisom

---

That night, Nadine and Chisom met at their mother’s unmarked grave in Nsukka — a quiet patch of earth beneath a pawpaw tree, where time had stood still.

They placed fresh flowers in the soil.
Nadine tucked her letter beneath the bouquet.
Chisom did the same.

Then they knelt.

No tears. No wailing.

Just two women.
Two daughters.
Two voices, risen from silence.

“Rest now, Mama,” Nadine whispered.

“We’ll finish your story,” Chisom added. “Together.”

And the wind rustled through the leaves like an answer.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

06/07/2025

I should continue now or later?

06/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY

CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Reunion Stage

The auditorium at Unity Hall, Abuja, was filled to the brim.

Rows upon rows of young women, civil servants, journalists, and survivors of silence sat shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the wide stage framed by soft gold lights and a banner overhead:

> “Rising from the Shadows: A National Forum for Forgotten Daughters”

It was a historic event — organized in just three weeks by a coalition of women’s organizations and human rights advocates. But what made it truly electric wasn’t the decor or the buzz.

It was the headliners.

> Nadine Amarachi Okoye.
Chisom Amaka Nwachukwu.

Sisters. Hidden from each other for twenty-seven years.

And now… side by side.

Nadine adjusted her microphone and looked out into the sea of expectant faces. Her voice, when it came, was calm but powerful.

> “They said I wasn’t supposed to be here.
They said my name wasn’t valid.
That my story had no space in the records of power.
But I’m here.
And every woman who has ever been silenced deserves to be here too.”

Applause rippled across the room like a wave.

Chisom leaned into her own mic, her eyes sharp. Her tone, quieter — but no less commanding.

> “They told me I had everything.
A house. A name. A future.
But I didn’t have the one thing I needed—truth.
And truth is not a luxury.
It’s a right.”

They stood.

The applause swelled.

But Nadine wasn’t finished. She reached into her notebook and pulled out a photo — the same one the Governor had given her: her mother, smiling with two newborns in her arms.

She held it up.

“This is our mother. Amarachi Okoye. She was never a headline. Never a wife of a man in office. But she was more powerful than any of them. Because she chose truth… even when it cost her everything.”

There were sniffles across the room. Women wiped their eyes. One rose. Then another.

Soon, a dozen stood in silent solidarity.

Then Chisom stepped forward.

> “To every girl born in the margins…
To every woman erased by shame…
To every daughter they pretended never existed—
We see you now.”

The room erupted.

Not just in applause.

In freedom.

Later that evening, behind the stage, Nadine and Chisom sat side-by-side, heels off, sipping water and catching their breath.

“You were amazing,” Chisom said.

“So were you.”

A quiet laugh passed between them.

Then Nadine reached out and gently touched her sister’s hand.

“Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we grew up together?” she asked.

“All the time,” Chisom whispered.

There was a pause.

“But maybe,” Nadine said, “we were meant to find each other like this. Not as girls. But as women ready to speak.”

Chisom nodded. “Sisters in timing, not just in blood.”

---

That night, somewhere far away, Governor Obinna watched the entire conference livestreamed from his quiet estate.

No title. No crown. No power left.

But as he listened to the voices of the two women he had once silenced now echo across the country, he whispered to himself:

> “They are stronger than I ever was.”

And for the first time…

He smiled.

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

06/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY

CHAPTER TEN
The Campaign Collapse

The confession aired at 7:00 p.m.
By 7:47 p.m., half the country had watched it.
By midnight, it had gone viral.

Hashtags flooded social media:

>

Some praised the honesty.
Most demanded accountability.

By morning, political enemies were circling like vultures.

Obinna’s press secretary burst into the Governor’s office holding a stack of front pages.

“Sir, The Tribune is calling for your immediate resignation. The Vanguard says the confession is a ‘historic embarrassment to the state.’ Channels is preparing a panel discussion about moral fitness to govern…”

Obinna barely blinked.

“I expected worse,” he muttered.

“What do we tell the party?” the aide demanded.

Obinna didn’t answer. He turned to Chisom, who sat calmly in one of the chairs beside his desk.

“You haven’t said much,” he told her.

“I’m watching,” she said. “That’s what daughters of politicians do, isn’t it? Watch.”

He looked tired. “I’ll be stripped of my ticket before the month ends. The party’s scrambling.”

“And what are you scrambling for?” she asked.

He gave a bitter smile. “Not power. Not anymore. Just peace.”

There was a silence.

Then his aide spoke again, eyes darting. “Sir, the First Lady is requesting a meeting. In private.”

Obinna sighed. “She’s not the First Lady anymore. She left two months before Nadine arrived.”

“What should I tell her?”

Obinna waved a hand. “Tell her the house is no longer filled with ghosts. If she wants to return, she can. But I won’t be pretending anymore.”

The aide left, confused and flustered.

Chisom rose.

“You’ll lose everything,” she said.

“I already lost what mattered,” he replied. “Years ago.”

“You could still fix something,” she said softly.

He looked at her. “What?”

She stepped closer. “Use your fall to raise us.”

---

Meanwhile, across the city, Nadine stood in front of a national press building. She wore a dark blouse, simple trousers, and no makeup. Not because she was hiding — but because this time, she was the one stepping into the light.

An editor at The Morning Post had called her the night before:

> “You’re the most talked about name in the country. Come tell your version before someone else does.”

And so she did.

She sat before the cameras, not as a victim, not as a staff member — but as herself.

“I never asked to be hidden,” she said to the nation. “But I will not continue to live in someone else’s silence. Yes, I am the Governor’s daughter. And yes, I was denied. But I am also a woman who earned her degree, worked for what she has, and refused to be erased.”

The interview trended within hours. But the real surprise came the next day—

> A coalition of women leaders, journalists, and youth activists nominated Chisom Nwachukwu for a public service initiative.

Not a campaign.
Not an office.

But a voice.

A panelist. A speaker. A youth leader for forgotten daughters.

And when they asked her why she agreed, she gave a simple reply:

> “Because the daughters they bury in silence are the ones who rise the loudest.”

---

That night, Obinna watched both girls — now women — speaking, rising, owning their own space.

He sat alone in his garden, hands folded, watching the daughters he once hid now carry more power than he ever did.

And for the first time in decades…

He wept.

To be continued...

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