Presence stood before her family's gate, the last house on Dave Osifo Close, as the Uber melted into the evening like a forgotten dream. She gazed up at the high walls, their thorny roses silhouetted against the sky like a fairytale barrier.

With a sigh that carried the weight of the evening, she approached the gate. It swung open as if welcoming a long-lost traveler, which, in a way, she supposed she was.

Before her stretched a five-minute journey to what could only be described as a modernized castle. Because in Ikoyi, why settle for a house when you can have a mansion?

Presence began her trek along the brick path, feeling like Dorothy on a very different yellow brick road. Instead of lions and tigers and bears, she was surrounded by grass trimmed with military precision, bushes sculpted like green artwork, and roses that seemed to glow in the dim light. Their perfume hung in the air, a scented reminder that she was, indeed, home.

As she neared the house, familiar sounds reached her ears - the dulcet tones of family discord. Her mom and Charm's voices carried on the evening breeze, their argument as much a part of home as the roses and manicured lawns.

Presence couldn't help but smile. Because that's the thing about family - sometimes the chaos is comforting. And right now, as she walked towards the crescendo of familiar voices, Presence realized that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly the kind of complication she needed.

Presence finally reached the front door, feeling like she'd just completed a quest in a very domestic fantasy novel. Through the barrier of wood and security systems, her family's voices reached her with crystal clarity.

"...he's a what? A musician?" Her mom's voice rang out, dripping with the kind of horror usually reserved for announcements of impending alien invasions.

"Yes, Mom," Charm replied, her tone suggesting this wasn't the first lap of this particular argument track.

"Are you crazy?" Their mother's voice rose an octave, entering dog-whistle territory. "Musicians are nothing but trouble! Lazy, good-for-nothing dreamers who can't hold down a real job!"

"Mom, it's not like that!" Charm protested, her words a valiant defense against the onslaught of parental disapproval. "Deji is different. He's not some penniless rascal playing in dingy bars. He has a degree in Music Production from—"

Presence stood frozen, her hand on the doorknob, as the argument unfolded like a very loud, very Nigerian soap opera.

"Oh, wonderful!" Their mother's sarcasm could have peeled paint. "So he has a fancy piece of paper to go with his guitar. That'll pay the bills!"

"He's very successful, Mom!" Charm's voice rose in pitch, a desperate climb up the mountain of maternal disapproval. "He's composed jingles for major brands and even scored a film last year."

"Jingles? Films?" Their mother scoffed. "Charm, darling, this isn't Hollywood. This is Lagos. What respectable family will want their daughter marrying a man who strums a guitar for a living?"

"Mom, it's the 21st century!" Charm's exasperation was palpable. "And he doesn't just 'strum a guitar.' He's a multi-instrumentalist and--"

"Multi-in-what?" Their mother interrupted, her tone suggesting Charm had just announced her boyfriend was secretly an alien. "Is that supposed to impress me? I bet he can't even afford a decent suit!"

"He owns three tailored suits, Mom! And he drives a--"

Presence grinned. Mothers and daughters often argue like two people having a sword fight on different planets.

She took a deep breath, realizing that in this moment, with this gloriously familiar chaos unfolding beyond the door, she felt more at home than she had in weeks. With that thought, she turned the knob, ready to add her voice to the symphony of familial discord.

"Let me guess, a rickety van with his band's name painted on the side?"

"A Mercedes, Mom! A brand new Mercedes!"

"Probably rented for the day he met you. Charm, these musician types are crafty, you know. They know how to impress naive girls like—"

At that moment, Presence pushed open the door, stepping into the familiar chaos of her family home. For a few seconds, she stood there, regarding the scene before her: her mother, hands on hips, face flushed with righteous indignation; Charm, her sister, gesticulating wildly as she defended her boyfriend's honor.

Neither of them noticed Presence at first, too engrossed in their heated debate. Finally, Presence cleared her throat and spoke.

"Hi, Mom," she said softly, her smile a fragile thing, held together by memories and need.

Their heads whipped around so fast Presence was surprised she didn't hear sonic booms. The sudden attention made her want to check if she'd accidentally walked in wearing a clown suit.

Ruth, their aged help, appeared like a gentle specter, silently relieving Presence of her jacket. Because even in the midst of family drama, some routines never change.

"Why are you home?" Their mom's British-Nigerian accent cut through the air like a perfectly sharpened knife.

Presence rolled her eyes, because what else do you do when your homecoming feels like an interrogation? "I'm fine, Mommy, nice to see you too!"

Charm, seizing the moment like a true older sibling, often treated like the nonexistent middle child, threw her hands up dramatically. "Oh great! Presence is home. Now Mom can shift into full Mother Hen mode and forget all about my 'hooligan musician boyfriend.' Thanks a lot, sis!" With an eye roll that could've won Olympic gold, she stomped up the stairs like a one-woman parade of indignation.

Their mom, not to be outdone in the drama department, called after Charm, "We are not done with this conversation, young lady!" Then, with the kind of mood swing that would give a meteorologist whiplash, she turned to Presence, all soft edges and maternal concern.

She kissed Presence on both cheeks, a ritual as familiar as breathing. "Hey, baby," she said, her voice now coated in honey rather than vinegar. "I'm sorry, how are you?"

Presence nodded and murmured, 'I'm fine.'

Her mom's eyes narrowed, scanning her face like a human lie detector. 'Are you sure?' Concern crept into her voice. Then, with blunt honesty, she added, 'You look terrible, debilitated even."

And there it was. Because that's the thing about mothers - they have this uncanny ability to see right through you, even when you're trying your hardest to be opaque. In that moment, Presence realized that coming home wasn't just about escaping her problems. It was about facing a whole new set of complications - the kind that come wrapped in love and seasoned with brutal honesty.

"I'm fine, mom," Presence said, with all the conviction of someone trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else.

Her mom, Poppy Okafor, a walking contradiction of British poise and Nigerian warmth, led her to the visitors' living room. At 5'8", she was Presence's height twin, her short blonde hair framing a face that laughed in the face of age. Her hazel eyes could probably see through walls, let alone her daughter's flimsy defenses. She was dressed like she'd just stepped out of a "How to Look Effortlessly Chic While Running a Multinational Corporation" magazine spread.

Settling into the room, her mom called out to Ruth with the casual authority of someone used to being obeyed, "Bring us some Mulu, please."

Presence's objection was immediate and vehement. "I'm not drinking that goat's blood, Mom." Because nothing says 'welcome home' quite like being offered a glass of malted milk mixed with goat's blood.

Her mom's eyes narrowed, transforming into hazel laser beams of maternal concern. "You need it, sweetheart."

"We're not vampires, Mom," Presence retorted, her exasperation palpable.

Her mother's voice took on that special tone reserved for 'because I said so' moments. "Goat's blood and malted milk has been the seer's refreshment and replenishment for centuries. You know this."

Presence sighed, feeling too drained to argue. Instead, she pivoted like a politician avoiding a tough question. "Do we have cookies?"

Her mother's face softened, transforming from stern guardian to doting baker in the blink of an eye. "I made your favorite last night. Ginger cookies."

And just like that, Presence remembered why she'd come home. Because sometimes, in the midst of blood-drinking debates and mystical legacies, there's the simple comfort of a mother who bakes your favorite cookies. Even when the world feels like it's falling apart, there's always ginger cookies.

"Thank God," Presence breathed, a small bit of relief washing over her. At least there would be something comforting to go with the Mulu.

As Ruth bustled in with a tray bearing the traditional drink and a plate of cookies, Presence settled deeper into her seat. The familiar scent of ginger wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the metallic sweet cream she knew would come from the Mulu. She reached for a cookie, grateful for this small taste of normalcy in her increasingly complicated life.

Presence eyed her mother's polished attire and asked, "Are you headed out?"

Her mom glanced down at her outfit and replied, "I just got home, but yes, I'm about to leave again. Had a grueling case in court today. My clients are on the verge of conviction."

Presence raised an eyebrow, her face a perfect mix of confusion and 'wait, what?'. "Didn't you predict the client's future before taking the case?"

Her mother sighed, her hazel eyes clouding over like a sudden storm on a sunny day. "I did. The client is innocent, but they'll be convicted regardless. I'm just trying to control the damage a little bit."

And there it was. The bizarre reality of being raised by a seer who was also a high-powered attorney. Where most kids grew up wondering if their mom could see through their lies about homework, Presence grew up knowing her mom could literally see the future. And yet, here they were, stuck in the same frustrating present as everyone else.

In that moment, Presence realized that even seers couldn't change fate. They could only try to soften its blows, like her mom was doing for her client. And maybe, just maybe, that's what her mom was trying to do for her too, with her concern and her goat's blood and her ginger cookies.

Because that's the thing about mothers, seer or not - they're always trying to protect you from a future they can sense, even if they can't always see it clearly.

Poppy's phone rang, cutting through the room like a reminder that the outside world still existed. She answered, her voice dropping into what Presence mentally dubbed her 'Lawyer Mode'. As her mom paced the room, Presence sipped her Mulu (because apparently, when in Rome, drink like the vampires do) and nibbled on a ginger cookie, watching her mother's animated gestures like a one-woman interpretive dance of legal jargon.

"...okay, I'm on my way there," her mother said finally, ending the call. She turned to Presence, already gathering her things like a whirlwind in designer clothes. "I'm headed out, sweetheart. Ask Ruth to make dinner. I might be late, so don't wait up."

Presence nodded, "Okay, Mom." Two words that somehow managed to convey both understanding and a lifetime of getting used to her mother's comings and goings.

She watched as her mother strode out of the room, the click-clack of her heels creating a staccato rhythm that echoed through the house like a departing drumroll. The front door opened and closed, a final punctuation mark on their brief interaction.

As the sound of her mother's car faded into the distance, Presence sank deeper into her seat, feeling like she was being swallowed by the suddenly vast and empty house. Even with Ruth's presence somewhere in the kitchen (probably whipping up something that would make Gordon Ramsay weep with joy), the silence felt oppressive.

She reached for another cookie, grateful for this small, sugary life raft in the sea of her thoughts. As she savored the gingery goodness, Presence pondered the complexities of her family's unique gifts. Because that's the thing about being part of a family of seers - your problems never seem to stay in the present. They stretch out behind you like a shadow at sunset, and loom ahead of you like storm clouds on the horizon. And in a family like Presence's, those shadows and storms come in all shapes and sizes.

Her mom, with her ability to glimpse the future, was always three steps ahead in a game no one else knew they were playing. She'd peer into tomorrow's courtroom dramas while everyone else was still stuck on today's opening statements.

Then there was Presence herself, forever caught between the world of the living and the dead with wonderful annoyances like Kel.

Her cousin could dive into the past like it was a pool in their backyard, watching history unfold in real-time. Family reunions were a riot, with him casually dropping bombs like, "Hey, did you know Great-Grandpa once wrestled a lion?" (He hadn't, but the story was too good to correct.)

And let's not forget her aunt, the thought-reader, who made family game night a nightmare. Try playing poker when your opponent can literally read your mind. Talk about an unfair advantage.

Each gift was unique, a different lens through which to view the tapestry of time and consciousness. Some peered forward, some backward, some sideways into the realm of spirits or the labyrinth of thoughts.

And sometimes, all you can do is sit in your mother's living room, eating ginger cookies and drinking goat's blood, wondering how on earth you're supposed to navigate a future that feels both predetermined and terrifyingly uncertain. Because when your family tree is less '23 and Me' and more 'Psychic Hotline', life becomes a constant balancing act between what you know, what you see, and what you hope might still be changeable.

In the end, maybe that's the real gift - and the real curse - of being a seer. You're forever caught between multiple realities, trying to find your footing in a world that's always shifting beneath your feet. And sometimes, the only thing you can do is take another bite of cookie, another sip of Mulu, and hope that somewhere in the tangle of past, present, and future, you'll find your way.

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