THE INVADER - CHAPTER ONE

A CRUMBLING EMPIRE

Power had gone out. Again.

Hot, heavy air settled in the Adeyemi's living room like an uninvited guest. The once-charming duplex in GRA Ikeja, with its cream walls and tiled floors imported from Italy, now echoed with silence and sweat. Their old generator groaned in the backyard but refused to come to life—just like the hopes Mr. Adeyemi had kept clinging to for months.

A tray slipped from Mrs Adeyemi’s hands, its ceramic cups clinking loudly against the marble counter. Only one remained upright.

“That’s the last full tin of milk,” she said quietly. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with meaning. “No more money for groceries till—” she stopped herself, her lips folding in as she bit back tears.

Her husband, Akinwale Adeyemi, once a thriving oil and gas contractor, sat slumped on the edge of the velvet armchair that used to cradle business partners and visiting politicians. Now, it cradled defeat. His cotton shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, and damp from the lingering Lagos heat. His once-broad shoulders had shrunk under the weight of unpaid bills and promises he could no longer keep.

He didn’t look at his wife.

“Milk,” he muttered under his breath. “I used to ship containers to Port Harcourt. Now we can’t even buy one tin.”

From the hallway, her ten-year-old peeked in, barefoot, holding a torn exercise book to his chest. “Mum, are you going to the market to get some? Can I come with you?”

Mrs Adeyemi smiled quickly, too quickly. “No, just eat your cornflakes, Fola”

“There’s no milk,” he reminded her, turned and left, then silence returned like a punishment.

Outside, the jacaranda tree rustled in a dry wind. Its purple blossoms had thinned over the months, mirroring the house. Paint peeled on the front gate. The security man had left weeks ago—there was nothing left to guard.
Akinwale rubbed his temples. “We need to start selling things.”

“We’ve already sold the second car,” his wife reminded him, folding her arms tightly across her chest. The hem of her once-neat lounge dress was unraveling—a detail she would have never overlooked before.

“I’m talking about the house,” he said, finally meeting her eyes.

Her hands dropped.

“No.” Her voice cracked. “This house was our beginning. We built this together. Our children were born here. We prayed here—”

“And now we're starving here,” he cut in, harsher than intended. He stood abruptly. “You think I don’t know what this place means to us? You think I don’t see how much this is killing you—killing me?”

The living room had lost its warmth. Once adorned with plush cushions and the constant hum of soft music, it now sat in a strained silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic creak of the standing fan in the corner. The brown curtains hung limply by the window, dulled by age and overexposure to the sun.

Aderinsola pushed open the front door gently, but the sound still echoed louder than she intended. She had been standing outside for nearly a minute, listening to the low, clipped voices of her parents rise and fall behind the walls.

“Good afternoon” she announced, stepping in quickly and forcing a bright smile to break the tension like glass.

Her mother turned from where she sat, arms folded tightly across her stomach like she was holding herself together. “You're back...”

Her father gave a curt nod without lifting his head. “How was your day?”

“Great,” she chirped, swinging her bag to the side and slipping off her shoes. “I had a perfect score in my maths test.”

That got him to look up. Briefly.

“That’s great. Keep it up,” Mr Adeyemi muttered, but his voice was heavy. He’d long used up all his joy and had none left. Even for that moment that used to mean the world to him. His eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where the television used to be. The space still bore the outline of where it had rested, as if mocking them.

Mrs Adeyemi straightened in her seat, pride flickering across her face before worry washed it away. “I'm so proud of you, my dear. I’ll—” she paused, her lips caught halfway through a smile.

The words she used to say — about making grilled chicken...maybe even merely frying plantains — dissolved before they could leave her mouth. She looked down at her lap instead.

“There's still some small garri left in the kitchen,” she said quietly with guilt consuming her soul like the whole situation was her fault, “I have some change you can use to get cold water and...groundnut.”

The ache in her voice made Aderinsola’s heart twist. She walked over and dropped to her knees beside her mother’s chair, laying her head gently on her lap.

“Okay. Thanks, Mom,” she said, lifting her face with a smile so wide it strained her cheeks. “That’s actually perfect. I need something cold for this hot weather.”

Her mother stroked her head absentmindedly, as if trying to convince herself that everything was fine through the motion.

Outside, the sun had begun to dip, casting a dull orange glow across the chipped walls of the sitting room.
And in the midst of it all, Aderinsola silently wished she could trade her perfect score for a perfect evening — one where her parents laughed again, where their fridge hummed with promise, and where garri wasn’t a backup plan, but a choice.

But for now, she would smile. For them.

Always for them.

That evening, Mrs. Adeyemi eventually called her first daughter, a final-year student who, despite her physical absence from home, remained emotionally tethered to the crumbling walls of their family life. When she asked Aderinsola to join her behind closed doors, her tone was gentle—almost casual—but her eyes betrayed the weight of unspoken grief. Aderinsola followed, heart thudding with a mix of dread and hope.
She knew it wasn't just to say hello, not really. It was never just that. Her mother’s words, though carefully measured, carried the heaviness of someone who had held back tears for too long. It was a quiet surrender—a way of saying, “I can’t carry this alone anymore.”

And yet, even as she stood there, so near she could touch her, Aderinsola felt a piercing distance. Her mother was sharing the burden, yes—but only what she chose to share. The rest, the deeper cracks, the raw terror of helplessness, remained sealed behind weary eyes and half-finished sentences.
It hurt.

It hurt to know that her mother, her pillar, saw her more as a comforting presence than a confidant. That she was being entrusted with fragments, not the whole. But Aderinsola didn’t push. She couldn't. She knew that prying too hard might shatter the fragile courage her mother had gathered to speak at all. So she swallowed her ache and listened, quietly holding space for the pain her mother didn’t have the strength to name.

Despite the horrors of the evening before—her parents’ muffled argument bleeding through the thin walls, the painful silence that followed, and the growing fear that things might never be the same—Aderinsola managed a smile the next morning. It was faint at first, almost reluctant, like a flower opening under reluctant sun. But it widened the moment her eyes found him at the school gate.

There he was.

In his perfectly ironed school uniform, shirt tucked in the way senior students were always told to do but rarely obeyed, badge gleaming just above his heart. He stood a few feet away, pretending to scroll through his phone like he hadn’t been waiting for her for the past ten minutes. She noticed the way his lips tilted when he saw her approaching—the slight curl of amusement that always gave him away.

The only boy who had been looking at her for the past twelve months and wasn’t tired…just yet.

The most loyal boyfriend in Rosemount College, they’d all say, half in admiration, half in teasing disbelief. And sometimes, on nights she cried into her pillow and swore she wouldn’t come to school the next day, it felt like he was the only reason she kept on breathing.

She had barely crossed the paved entrance when he took a step forward and pulled something from behind his back—a single stem of hibiscus, freshly plucked from the school garden at the back of the senior block. Tied to it with a short green ribbon was a torn piece of his Chemistry note, folded into a tiny heart, the edges uneven and smudged with blue ink. She blinked at it, unsure whether to laugh or melt.

“Are you crazy?” she asked in a whisper, the corners of her lips fighting a grin. “You went to the back of the garden? Mr. Bode literally gave a punishment last week for that.”

He shrugged, the grin on his face now full-blown. “Worth it.”

“Awwn… God when?” her friends chorused, almost in unison. They had gathered around like they were watching a show, clutching their textbooks to their chests and bumping shoulders with one another in mock envy.

“Are you ever going to stop?” Aderinsola asked, her voice barely hiding the affection laced within it. She took the flower with trembling fingers, eyes flitting quickly from it to his face. “It’s really embarrassing,” she added, even though her heart was swelling in the most inconvenient way.

“No,” he replied with a mock bow, stepping even closer. His voice dropped slightly, meant only for her now. “The plan is to make you even more embarrassed from now on.”

Aderinsola let out a helpless laugh, one hand brushing a loose strand of her weave behind her ear. Her cheeks burned, and though she tried to hide it, she didn’t really want to. Something about his presence made the weight of home easier to carry—like he was a patch of warm sunlight in the cold hallway of her life.

He opened her locker for her like he always did and walked with her to the assembly ground, their fingers almost touching. And even though they weren’t allowed to hold hands in uniform, they didn’t really need to.

Everyone already knew.

The flower was still in her hand.

A tiny hibiscus bud—bright red, dew-fresh, and slightly trembling in her grip like it knew it didn’t belong in a world this heavy. Now, as they walked behind the row of junior classrooms toward the less-patrolled part of the compound, the silence between them was gentler, almost intimate. The sun had barely climbed high, and the school was still bathed in the cool gold of early light. Somewhere nearby, the janitor's broom scraped against the floor tiles, but here, it was quiet enough to hear their footsteps and the occasional rustle of birds in the mango trees.

Bode’s eyes flicked to her hand, then to her face. She hadn't let go of the flower. That had to mean something. Still, there were things weighing on him too deeply to ignore.

“How are things at home?” he asked softly, trying to keep his voice neutral.

It was a question he dreaded himself, one he never liked asking. But this morning, it felt necessary. Not because he needed an answer—but because she needed to know he cared enough to ask.

Aderinsola didn’t respond immediately. She slowed her steps, her thumb absently brushing the petals of the flower. Her eyes stayed ahead, trained on a broken tile in the walkway like it might give her the words she didn’t have.

“Fine,” she said at last, the word clipped and far too rehearsed.

He turned his head slightly, studying her. “You know you can always talk to me,” he said gently. “No matter how ugly things seem…”

She let out a dry laugh—soft, but heavy. “That’s not going to change anything, will it?” she said, still not looking at him.

Bode sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry my dad couldn’t be of help…”

“No.” Her voice was firmer now. She finally turned to him. “Please don’t blame yourself. And don’t blame him either. Everyone’s had their fair share.”

He nodded, but the crease in his brow didn’t soften. “Still… I’ll keep trying. I promise. I’m already talking to my godmother.”

Aderinsola blinked at him. The harsh edge in her expression melted. “You’re serious?”

“I’d do more if I knew how,” Bode said, voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t be carrying all this alone.”

For a second, the flower in her hand trembled again. Then she looked at him—really looked—and something inside her gave way.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she said, voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

She took a step closer, overcome with the urge to just fall into him. Not romantically. Not yet. Just... to feel held, for once. Her arms began to lift.

Aderinsola was literally going to hug him before the prying eye of  Mr Obadina, the stern civic education teacher got in the way.

The living room was dimly lit, though not from lack of electricity. The standing lamp in the corner flickered softly, casting long, tired shadows across the beige rug that had seen better years. Linda had always kept a neat home, even now when everything around them seemed to be falling apart.

Titilayo sat stiffly on the edge of a throw-pillow-cushioned couch, her hands locked together on her lap. She hadn’t taken off her scarf since she arrived. Her handbag rested beside her like a nervous child, barely touched. Across from her, Linda moved with a kind of sharp, restless energy, pacing a little before she finally dropped into the armchair beside the old bookshelf, arms crossed.

Titilayo’s voice broke the silence. “I’m losing it, Linda. I really don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”

Linda snapped her head up. “Then why are you sitting around doing nothing?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Are you going to wait till you go nuts? It’s not like you’re some illiterate who can’t even spell their name. You’re a f*cking doctor", Titilayo.”

Her words sliced through the room like a whip. Harsh. Unapologetic. But real.

Titilayo didn’t flinch. Not visibly. She stared down at her intertwined fingers as if they were the only thing holding her together. She let out a long, shaky breath before replying, her voice quieter now, more measured. “What are you talking about?”

Linda leaned forward, her voice softer but no less intense. “It’s no news anymore. This—” she gestured toward the half-closed window, where the sounds of a generator buzzed faintly from a neighbour’s compound, “—this is no longer the country we grew up in. It’s our new reality as Nigerians in an economy that’s bleeding out. Doctors are fleeing. Engineers are doing Uber. People are selling their furniture to pay rent.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Outside, the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds. Children’s laughter rang out from a compound nearby, but even that sounded distant to Titilayo. She thought of her daughter, Jadesola. Thought of the careful way she now spoke, as though every word had to be measured so as not to tip the scales between both parents.

“You’re talking about travelling out, aren’t you?” she asked, lifting her eyes slowly to meet Linda’s.

“Of course.” Linda didn’t blink. “You need to leave before this country before it sucks life out of you. I'm making my move already”.

Titilayo swallowed, her lips trembling slightly before she forced them into stillness. “I’ve actually thought of it but…” she hesitated, her voice faltering. “My husband…he’s…”

Linda’s chair creaked as she leaned forward again, voice sharpened by urgency. “Who cares what he thinks? Your life is on the line, Titi. Your kids’ lives too...Are you really willing to risk it all?"