¿Qué es el sitio web?

https://www.facebook.com/106679662327778/

Ojie Stories, San Francisco de Dos Ríos (2025)

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...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

06/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER NINE
Nadine’s Decision

The confession was scheduled for Sunday evening.

A national broadcast. Live.

The press secretary looked pale. The communications team was in shambles. And Governor Obinna sat at the head of the long oval table, calm like a man who had finally stopped running.

Nadine sat to his left. Chisom, to his right.

“We’re rewriting decades of narrative,” said the media chief, nervously flipping through cue cards. “If this goes wrong…”

Obinna held up his hand. “It won’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t agreement—it was uncertainty. The kind no rehearsed statement could solve.

Outside, the rain had returned. Nadine stood by the glass, watching it fall.

Her heart was heavy.

She had what she came for: the truth. A name. A sister. A face to place next to the ghost of her mother’s silence.

But she also had a choice now—one that could shape everything ahead.

When she first walked into Government House, she was ambitious. She had wanted a career, a platform, a name that meant something.

> Now she had a name that carried scars.

“You don’t have to stay after this,” Chisom said, approaching her. “You got what you needed. You could leave… clean.”

Nadine turned to her. “What about you?”

Chisom shrugged. “I never got the chance to walk away. I was hidden. Raised like a secret. All I ever wanted was to be seen.”

Nadine paused. “And now that you are?”

Chisom smiled faintly. “Now, I want to choose what I do with it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the storm tapping against the windows like a ticking clock.

Later that evening, as the studio lights were fixed and the Governor’s traditional agbada was ironed smooth, Nadine found herself standing before the office door one last time.

She looked at the desk.

The drawer.

She had never opened it. Not truly. The letter was found elsewhere. The secrets had surfaced by their own force.

She reached for the handle again—not to open it, but to say goodbye to it.

Then, she placed her staff badge on top of the desk. A gentle symbol. Her decision made.

Obinna entered behind her, adjusting his microphone. “You’re leaving.”

She nodded without looking at him. “Yes.”

He came closer. “You’re owed more than I can ever repay.”

“I don’t want repayment,” she said softly. “I just want to heal. I want to stop carrying the weight of a lie I never asked for.”

He placed a hand over the badge.

“You’re strong,” he said. “Like her.”

Nadine swallowed hard. “She was stronger.”

“Will you watch the broadcast?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll watch. But not as your staff. Just… as Nadine.”

He reached into his coat and handed her a small photograph. It was old, cracked at the edges. Her mother—Amarachi—holding twin infants in each arm. One in a pink wrap, the other in blue. Barely born.

“You were both loved,” he said.

Nadine took the photo and left the office.

---

That night, the country watched a sitting governor sit down without notes, look into the camera, and confess:

> “I am not proud of everything I’ve done. But the time for silence is over. Years ago, I had a relationship I never honored properly. I fathered two daughters—one of whom I claimed, and one I didn’t. Both are alive. Both are strong. Both deserve the truth.”

Nadine watched from her apartment.

Her phone buzzed endlessly, but she ignored the world.

She stared at the TV screen.

At the man she had once admired.

At the truth she had unearthed.

At the sister she had just found.

And she smiled.

For the first time, not as a secretary.
Not as a secret.
But simply—

As herself.

To be continued...

Ojie Stories ✅

03/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Blood Test

Governor Obinna did not return home that night.

His convoy was tracked leaving the capital toward a quiet estate near Keffi — a place Nadine had never heard of until now. But she didn’t ask questions. Not yet. She waited.

And by morning, a black Prado Jeep rolled into the Government House gates.

Inside it, behind tinted windows, was a girl.

Nadine stood by the reception when the door opened.

She stepped out slowly — tall, poised, and with the same almond eyes Nadine saw in the mirror every day. Her hair was short, natural curls shaped into a clean cut. She wore a simple blouse, denim jeans, and sandals. No makeup. No performance. Just presence.

> Chisom Amaka Nwachukwu.

They looked at each other like a mirror unsure which version came first.

The Governor stood between them, silent. He had not shaved. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he looked older than he had all year.

“This is… your sister,” he said.

Chisom folded her arms. “Half-sister, technically.”

Nadine didn't react to the sting. “Maybe. But we were born the same day.”

Chisom raised a brow. “That supposed to mean something?”

Nadine stepped forward and gently pulled out the photos—the ones she had copied from the ministry. “These do.”

Chisom scanned them. Her grip on the paper tightened. But her voice was steady.

“I’ve never seen these before,” she said. “He told me she died in childbirth. That you died in childbirth.”

“He told me nothing at all,” Nadine replied.

Obinna exhaled, finally breaking the silence. “I failed both of you.”

Chisom didn’t look at him. “That’s not news.”

They sat in his office — Nadine and Chisom on opposite ends of the couch, the Governor behind his desk like a man on trial.

After a long silence, Nadine spoke first. “We need proof.”

“DNA?” Chisom asked. “I’ve done one before.”

“What?”

“With a journalist who claimed to be my uncle,” she explained. “It wasn’t true, but I kept the results to compare if anything like this ever happened.”

She pulled out an envelope from her bag and slid it across the table. “I’ve already sent in Nadine’s toothbrush.”

Obinna looked shocked. “When?”

“Last week. Before the leak.” She turned to Nadine. “I’ve known about you for months. I didn’t know if it was real. But I wanted to be ready if it was.”

Nadine blinked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Chisom gave a crooked smile. “How do you introduce yourself to the sister your father tried to erase?”

The envelope sat between them like a heartbeat.

Obinna stood, took a deep breath, and tore it open.

> RESULT: 99.9% Probability of Shared Paternity
Subject A: Chisom Amaka Nwachukwu
Subject B: Nadine Amarachi Okoye

Silence.

No more guessing.
No more half-truths.
Just proof.

They were sisters.

Nadine looked at Chisom, tears stinging her eyes. “We could’ve grown up together.”

Chisom gave a small, bitter laugh. “We could’ve been anything.”

Obinna sat down again, broken. “I will resign.”

Nadine and Chisom both looked up.

“I’ve lied to my people,” he continued. “I’ve lied to my family. I’ve spent twenty years running from the truth. But this… this is where the running ends.”

Nadine stared at the man who, biologically, was her father.

“You don’t have to resign,” she said.

He looked up, surprised.

“But you do have to confess.”

Chisom nodded. “On camera.”

Obinna winced.

“No more shadows,” Nadine whispered. “No more locked drawers. Tell the people what you did. Tell them about us.”

He looked at both daughters—one raised in silence, the other in shadows.

He nodded slowly.

“I will.”

To be continued...

゚viralシfypシ゚viralシalシ

©️ Ojie Stories

03/07/2025

THE GOVERNOR’S SECRETARY

CHAPTER SEVEN
The News Leak

Monday morning arrived with a storm—not of rain, but of revelation.

Nadine had barely stepped into the Governor’s office when her phone began vibrating uncontrollably. Messages poured in from friends, journalists, and even her old university roommate.

> “Nadine, is this real?”
“Are you in the middle of this?”
“OMG, isn’t that your boss??”

Confused, she opened her browser.

There it was.

A headline stretched across every major Nigerian gossip blog and several reputable news outlets:

> “BREAKING: SECRET LOVECHILD OF GOVERNOR OBINNA NWACHUKWU ALLEGEDLY LOCATED IN ABUJA”

Underneath was a blurred photo—grainy but unmistakable—of her entering the Ministry of Civil Records.

Another image followed, this time of her sitting across from Amaka at the café the night before.

The accompanying article dripped with scandal:

> “Sources close to the Government House suggest that a long-suppressed truth is about to emerge. Governor Nwachukwu, rumored to have had a relationship with a woman named Amarachi Okoye, may have fathered not one, but two children… only one of whom was publicly acknowledged before her mysterious death. Now, a secretary in his office is allegedly tied to this unfolding story.”

Nadine felt the walls close in.

Who leaked it?

Was it someone at the ministry? Or… Amaka?

Before she could even gather her thoughts, the Governor’s door flew open.

He stood there, robe slightly wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, phone in hand.

“You,” he said sharply. “Inside. Now.”

She entered. The door slammed shut behind her.

He threw the phone on the desk. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t leak anything.”

“You were seen meeting that woman. Amaka.”

“And you were seen covering up a child’s death.”

A thick silence filled the room.

His voice dropped. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I think I do,” she said evenly. “You lied to the public. You erased my mother. You erased me.”

He stared at her for a long moment. The façade began to crumble.

“You’re her daughter,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught.

“So you knew.”

“I suspected. The moment you said your mother’s name. Amarachi. I didn’t want to believe it… but your eyes…”

He trailed off.

“You abandoned her,” Nadine whispered. “And you left me to grow up without a name. Without answers.”

“She told me to stay away,” he said defensively. “She didn’t want money. She wanted pride. And I… I was a coward.”

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “You were a powerful man who chose silence over truth.”

He looked away, ashamed.

Then his voice softened. “And now what? You want revenge? You want to destroy my career?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I do want the truth. And I want Chisom. I want to know her. We were born the same day. We were sisters. And you… you took her away.”

A knock came at the door.

It was his press secretary.

“Sir,” the aide said urgently, “we need to issue a statement. Channels and AIT are already requesting interviews.”

Obinna waved him away.

When the door shut again, he looked at Nadine. His shoulders were heavy now. Defeated.

“Let me find her,” he said. “Let me bring her back. Then you can decide what to do with the truth. Just… don’t ruin us before we have the chance to heal.”

She looked at him long and hard.

Then, finally, she said:

> “You have 48 hours.
Bring her. Or I will.”

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

30/06/2025

THE GOVERNOR'S SECRETARY

CHAPTER SIX
A Birthday She Never Had

The morning was quiet, but Nadine’s mind wasn’t.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Amaka’s note.

> “You’re not the only one.”

She stared at it all night. Folded. Unfolded. Read again. It was cryptic, but undeniable. There were others. And maybe — just maybe — Chisom, the little girl in the hallway portrait, wasn’t the only child the Governor had erased from his life.

Nadine needed facts.

She needed to know the truth — not the whispered versions, not the fragments Mama Tochi dared to mutter. She needed documentation.

And so, that Friday morning, instead of heading straight to the Governor’s office, Nadine took a detour to the Ministry of Civil Records, tucked behind a dusty government complex downtown.

The receptionist barely looked up as she entered. “What do you want?”

“I’m here for a file search,” Nadine said. “Birth record.”

“Whose?”

“Myself.”

She filled out a form. Then added: “And one more.”

The receptionist looked at her sideways. “What’s your business with someone else’s birth record?”

“I believe… we were born in the same household. I just need to confirm.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, but with enough ‘urgent assistant to the Governor’ energy, Nadine got what she needed.

The clerk disappeared into the archives.

Twenty minutes later, she returned with two brown files — one marked OKOYE, NADINE AMARACHI, and the other NWACHUKWU, CHISOM AMAKA.

Nadine’s pulse raced.

She opened hers first.

Name: Nadine Amarachi Okoye
Date of Birth: May 14, 1998
Mother: Amarachi Okoye
Father: Not listed
Place of Birth: Holy Cross Maternity Centre, Nsukka

She flipped through it. No signature from a father. No visitation notes. Just her mother’s name, clean and alone.

Then she opened Chisom’s.

Name: Chisom Amaka Nwachukwu
Date of Birth: May 14, 1998
Mother: Unknown
Father: Obinna Anthony Nwachukwu
Place of Birth: Private Home (recorded by midwife)

She stared.

Same birthday. Same year. Same day.

May 14.

She nearly dropped the file.

> Could they be twins?

But her file didn’t list any sibling. And Chisom’s… had a blank under “Twin Status.”

> Did they separate them?

> Did he keep one and abandon the other?

Nadine took photos of both files and returned them, hands trembling.

She stepped outside and sat on a concrete bench near a rusted government car. Her phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

> “You’re asking dangerous questions.
But you deserve the truth.
She lived. And so did you.
Meet me tonight.
—Amaka”

That night, under the cloak of darkness, Nadine stood at a quiet café on the edge of Asokoro, waiting.

Amaka appeared, dressed in a shawl and sunglasses.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, sliding into the chair.

“Are we twins?” Nadine asked directly.

Amaka’s lips curled slightly. “You and Chisom? That’s what they’ll never admit.”

“Is she dead?”

Amaka stirred her tea. “That’s what he wanted people to believe. He faked her death after she became inconvenient. But no—she’s not dead.”

Nadine’s heart stopped.

“She’s alive?”

“Very much. Hidden. Raised in silence. You were the one they let go because your mother refused to surrender you. That’s why he left her. That’s why he buried her memory.”

Nadine whispered, “Where is she now? Chisom?”

Amaka leaned forward, lowering her voice.

> “She’s waiting.
And she knows you exist.
But she doesn’t know…
that you're her sister.”

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

30/06/2025

THE GOVERNOR'S SECRETARY.

CHAPTER FIVE
Madam’s Ghost

The rain came down heavy that Thursday afternoon—fat droplets slapping against the glass of the Governor’s office windows. Abuja was wrapped in a dull grey sky, and the usual buzz of Government House felt strangely subdued.

Nadine was reviewing a draft of a public education initiative when her office intercom buzzed.

> “Miss Nadine,” the front desk said. “There’s a woman here… she says she doesn’t have an appointment, but she insists His Excellency will want to see her.”

“Name?”

“She just said, Tell him Amaka is here.”

Nadine paused, pen frozen mid-note.

Amaka?

The name sounded familiar. Like something overheard in an old phone call or whispered in a hallway.

She glanced through the glass door toward the Governor’s private chambers. He was inside, pacing slowly and speaking on his private line.

“I’ll check with him,” she said.

She knocked gently on his door. “Sir?”

He waved her in without looking up. “What is it?”

“There’s a visitor… someone named Amaka. She says you’ll want to see her.”

Dead silence.

He froze mid-stride, phone still at his ear.

Nadine could almost hear the tension fill the room.

“Send her away,” he said sharply. “Tell her I’m in a national security briefing.”

“She said she’ll wait.”

“She’ll wait forever then,” he snapped.

Nadine nodded and turned, but before she could exit, he added more quietly:

“Did she come alone?”

“I think so.”

He grunted. “No one sees her. Not staff. Not media. Make sure.”

When Nadine returned to the lobby, the woman was still there—tall, striking, dressed in a fitted navy dress and low heels. She carried herself like someone used to power but long denied it. Her eyes were dark and calculating.

She gave Nadine a long, assessing look.

“You’re the new secretary?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmm. You look like her.”

Nadine blinked. “Like who?”

She smiled faintly, without answering. “Tell him I’ll be in the garden. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked through the open glass doors toward the private courtyard behind the estate.

Nadine stared after her, unsettled.

Back in the office, Governor Obinna hadn’t moved. He stood by the window now, his back to the door, as if staring into some invisible storm.

> Who was Amaka?

> Why was he afraid of her?

> And why did she say Nadine looked like someone?

Later that night, Nadine sat in her room with her mother’s letter on the table, replaying the encounter in her mind. The look in Amaka’s eyes. The way she had said it — not with curiosity, but certainty.

> “You look like her.”

> Her.

Her mother?

Or someone else entirely?

There was only one way to find out.

The next day, Nadine returned to the garden before dawn. The estate was quiet, birds just beginning to stir. She found the bench where Amaka had sat.

There, tucked under the armrest, was a folded note. It had only five words.

> “You’re not the only one.”

Her breath caught.

Not the only what?

Not the only child?

Not the only secret?

To be continued...

©️ Ojie Stories ✅

Ojie Stories

08/07/2025

07/07/2025

06/07/2025

06/07/2025

06/07/2025

06/07/2025

06/07/2025

03/07/2025

03/07/2025

30/06/2025

30/06/2025

Dirección

Página web

Notificaciones

Atajos

Compartir