The evening air was heavy with the scent of egusi soup bubbling over the fire, where Chisa stirred with practiced ease. Her movements were graceful now, so different from the wild thing that had crashed into me at the market moons ago. The bruises had long since faded, leaving behind a quiet strength that reminded me more of Mairo with each passing day.

"Look at her," I said softly to Amadi, who sat beside me on the wooden bench Ikem had carved a year ago. "Everything she does, even the way she tilts her head when she's concentrating – it's like seeing a ghost."

Amadi grunted, watching Chisa add fresh uziza leaves to the pot. "At least this ghost knows how to cook." He cleared his throat, a habit that had worsened with age. "Better than that boy of mine. Still up in his palm trees, that one."

A cough rippled through my chest, deeper than usual. Chisa's head turned slightly at the sound, but she knew better than to fuss. She'd learned that much about me.

"I'm getting weaker, Amadi," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Each day, I feel it more. The poison... I think it's finally winning."

Amadi laughed, the sound rough and forced. "Always so dramatic. Remember when we were young, and you claimed that scratch from Ekene's machete would surely kill you?"

"I'm serious, my friend."

The laughter died in his throat as he turned to look at me properly. The setting sun cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the years we'd carried between us. His hand, calloused from years of work despite the poison's effects, found my shoulder.

"How long?" he asked, his voice thick.

"The last time I coughed blood, it was different. Darker. More." I watched Chisa add dried fish to the soup, her movements precise and measured. "Nne Ogwu taught me enough about herbs to know what that means."

"And the girl?" Amadi's eyes flickered to Chisa. "Does she know?"

"She suspects. She's skilled with herbs, that one." I smiled faintly. "Sometimes I catch her watching me, mixing remedies when she thinks I'm not looking."

"Has she ever told you where she's from?"

"I never asked."

Amadi's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"She'll tell me when she's ready," I replied, my voice steady. "Her past isn't mine to unearth. She came looking for work, and I gave her that. I have enough on my plate without prying into her secrets, Amadi."

"Don't—" Amadi's grip on my shoulder tightened. His next words came out gruff, fighting past emotion. "You have lived a good life, my friend. A long one, a beautiful one. Even if you didn't end up with the love of your life..." He paused, swallowing hard. "At least you got to love and be loved in return."

"By you, you old fool?" I managed a weak smile.

"By all of us," he answered. "The whole village knows Elder Orji, the man who grew the finest yams in Obiako. The man who took in a ghost girl and gave her back her humanity."

"Isn't that—" Amadi's voice faltered.

"Yes," I murmured, feeling a pang in my chest. "Rimi and Mairo used to hum that very song."

I watched Chisa taste the soup, adjusting the seasonings with an instinctive care that was all too familiar. "No," I said quietly, more to myself. "It must be the wine clouding our minds."

Amadi gave a small, knowing nod. "Perhaps. But... shall I tell Okonkwo to bring some palm wine tomorrow? The good kind?"

"Yes," I smiled. "And tell him to bring enough to share. I think... I think it's time to tell some stories. While I still can."

The poison burned in my chest, but for once, I didn't fight it. Instead, I breathed in the aroma of Chisa's cooking, felt the solid presence of my oldest friend beside me, and thought about how love, like destiny, rarely follows the path we expect it to take.

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Many market days later, the afternoon sun painted shadows through the mango leaves, dappling the ground where I sat. Chisa's hands worked steadily at my legs, her touch carrying the same sureness she brought to everything she did.

"You have strong legs," she murmured, working at a particularly stubborn knot.

I chuckled, then coughed. "You should have seen them when I was younger. Could outrun any warrior in three villages."

"Even with the poison?"

"Before it." I closed my eyes, remembering.

Her hands paused for just a moment, so brief I might have imagined it. "Tell me about those days," she said, resuming her work. "Before the poison."

"Why? So you can laugh at an old man's tales?"

"No." Her voice carried an edge I hadn't heard before. "So I can understand."

I opened my eyes to find her watching me, something fierce and fragile in her gaze. "Understand what?"

"Why my mother sent me here."

The world seemed to still. Even the birds fell silent in the mango tree above. "Your mother?"

"The Sultana of Gwari, Garin Gabas and the Fourteen Kingdoms," she said, her hands now still on my legs. "Though she was just Mairo when she lived here, wasn't she? Before she went back to the north."

A lump formed in my throat. "You told me your name was Chisa," I managed, my voice strained. "Chisa... that's a name from Nri."

"I lied," she whispered, her eyes—so much like Mairo's, except for their color—glistening with unshed tears. "I've been lying since I got here. But I'm tired of lies. They're heavier than any load I've ever carried."

"Why?" The word came out as barely more than a whisper.

"Because some truths can kill as surely as poison." She sat back on her heels, wiping her eyes. "My name isn't really Chisa."

The poison in my chest seemed to pulse, as if recognizing what was coming before my mind could grasp it.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Rimi," she said softly. "She named me Rimi."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Images flashed through my mind: Rimi's laugh, her skill with weaving, the way she died in this very compound, an Ashangi arrow in her chest, caught in the web of my battle with the Onowu.

"She named me after her friend," she continued, her voice unsteady. "The one who died here, thirty years ago—the one my father had risked everything to save."

"Your father?" The word caught in my throat.

She reached out, taking my trembling hands in her own. "My father—the one who sent her away to safety and bore the poison of two in his veins, yet endured. Who loved my mother enough to let her go north, despite the cost. Who promised to wait... and kept that promise, even when it meant waiting alone."

"No," I breathed, but the truth was there in her face – in the arch of her brow, the set of her jaw, the way she held herself. All this time, I'd thought she looked like Mairo, but now I could see myself there too.

"She never told you," Rimi whispered. "She found out after she left, after the arrangements were made. She couldn't come back – the northern alliance would have crumbled. So she carried me alone, named me after the friend who saved her, and raised me on stories of my father. The man who kept his promise. The man who grew the finest yams in Obiako. The man who..." Her voice broke. "The man who never knew he had a daughter."

Something between a sob and a cough tore from my chest. Rimi – my daughter, my blood – moved forward, pressing her forehead against mine in the way I had done with her mother, the day she left. Her tears fell on my cheeks, or perhaps they were mine.

"All these moons," I managed, "you've been here, working, watching..."

"Learning you," she finished. "Learning the father I never knew. Learning why my mother still loves you, even after thirty years. Learning why she finally sent me home."

"Home," I repeated, the word tasting of joy and grief and something like destiny.

She pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, her face blurring through my tears. "I wanted to tell you that first day in the market. When they said your name – Elder Orji – I almost fell over. But I had to be sure. I had to know if the stories were true."

"And are they?" I asked, my voice rough with emotion.

She smiled through her tears, and in that moment, she was so like her mother it made my heart ache. "They didn't tell half of what you are."

I pulled her close, this daughter I never knew I had, this gift destiny had kept hidden for thirty years. The poison burned in my chest, but for the first time in decades, it wasn't the strongest thing I felt there.

"Baba," she whispered against my shoulder, the words carrying three decades of longing.

"My love," I answered, and felt the weight of all my waiting transform into something like completion. "My Rimi."

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