Chapter 2 The Exile At Home

When they both turned eighteen, the path split-clean, intentional, and irreversible.

Amara was sent abroad with fanfare. London welcomed her like royalty. Their parents paid for a posh flat, a designer wardrobe, and tuition at one of the most prestigious business schools in the UK. Photos flooded in-tea at The Ritz, summer programs in France, shopping on Oxford Street. Her Instagram gleamed with captions like "Leveling up" and "London living."

Chizaram, too, had dreams. She applied to universities in Canada and the UK. Wrote personal statements by candlelight. Earned glowing recommendations. Acceptance letters came in thick envelopes, each one carrying hope.

But her parents never even let her open them.

"You haven't proven yourself," Chief Okonkwo said, ripping the papers in half right at the dining table. "You stay here."

Her heart cracked. But she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply nodded, swallowed the ache, and enrolled at a local university.

There, she buried herself in work. Built mobile apps from scratch. Joined tech communities. Taught kids in the slums how to code. By graduation, she was at the top of her class. Professors praised her brilliance. Companies noticed her skill.

But at home? Only Amara's British accent, her string of luxury internships, her selfies with European landmarks were celebrated.

Years later, Amara returned home, every inch elegance and arrogance. Her skin glowed, her tongue curled with foreign polish, and her eyes held no warmth.

"Still here?" she sneered at Chizaram. "Still dressing like you shop under the bridge?"

Their parents laughed like it was comedy gold.

"Amara is just teasing," their mother said with a smile.

But the teasing soon turned cruel. Razor-sharp.

And when Chizaram finally asked to pursue a Master's abroad, her father didn't even blink.

"Embarrass us overseas? Never. Let Amara handle international affairs. You'll stay here."