Chapter 4 Slippers and Suya

The Okonkwo mansion still stood like a monument to old wealth: towering marble pillars rose against the Lagos skyline like sentinels of power, and cascading fountains danced under golden evening light. The smell of jasmine drifted through the air from the carefully manicured gardens, and the marble floors gleamed like liquid glass beneath antique chandeliers that dangled like frozen stars.

But to Chizaram, it no longer felt like home.

The grand staircase she once tiptoed down in nervous silence now looked theatrical, even absurd. The corridors lined with imported paintings and ancestral portraits no longer moved her. This house, built with the sweat of generations and the pride of titles, had never offered her the three things she wanted most: love, acceptance, and respect.

It had been months since she last stepped through the double doors of that mansion. Months since the final confrontation, when her father had slammed his fist on the glass table and called her a shame. When her mother turned away with an expression carved from disappointment and disdain. When Amara laughed, triumphant, like the queen who had finally vanquished her only rival.

But today, Chizaram had returned not from obligation, not out of desperation, but by choice.

She stood quietly in the vast living room, her simple blue dress contrasting sharply with the velvet curtains and gold-trimmed furniture. The air felt heavy, as if thick with memories and judgment. The chandeliers cast crystal shadows across the ceiling, flickering like ghosts.

Amara lounged on the couch like a sated cat, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly through social media with a tight expression. Her once-glowing aura was dulled by scandal and stress. Her startup, once the golden child of the family business empire, had crumbled spectacularly losses, lawsuits, investors pulling out. And with it, the cracks in the Okonkwo legacy had begun to show.

"Back so soon?" Amara sneered, not even glancing up. "Or did the slum finally spit you out?"

Chizaram didn't react. Her silence was polished now, not from suppression but from growth. She looked around, taking in the velvet furniture, the gold accents, the sterile cold of too much perfection.

"I came to talk," she said. Her voice was soft, measured. "Not to fight."

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and their mother appeared, wrapped in a shimmering silk wrapper that clung to her frame like water. She stopped the moment she saw her younger daughter.

"If it's money you came to beg for, forget it," she said sharply. Her tone cut like a blade. "We've done enough for you."

"I didn't ask for money," Chizaram replied.

Another figure emerged from behind-the patriarch, Chief Okonkwo himself. He still held his daily newspaper like a staff of authority, his reading glasses perched on his nose. His eyes met hers and narrowed.

"Then why are you here?" he asked. "To gloat? Because your sister is having a hard time?"

Before Chizaram could speak, a sharp buzzing sound cut through the air the intercom at the front gate.

"I'll get it," she said quickly, walking toward the door with calm purpose. She needed a moment to breathe, to clear the sting of old wounds reopening.

The man standing outside wore plain jeans, a faded polo shirt, and bathroom slippers the cheap rubber kind sold at roadside markets. His beard was scruffy, his smile boyish. In his hands, he held a small, grease-stained paper bag.

"Evening," he greeted, voice low but warm. "Can I come in?"

Chizaram's face lit up. She laughed quietly. "You always find the most ridiculous ways to make an entrance."

He shrugged, holding up the bag. "Got your favorite suya."

She stepped aside to let him in. He removed his slippers at the entrance, but she shook her head. "No need," she said. "Come as you are."

As they entered the living room together, the transformation in the atmosphere was immediate. The air stiffened. The Okonkwo family turned toward the newcomer like royalty reacting to a peasant who had wandered into their throne room.

Amara wrinkled her nose. "Who is this thing?" she asked with venom.

Their mother let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Ah, so this is the one you've been hiding?" she said with a hiss. "The cleaner? No wonder. He looks like someone that sleeps under the bridge."

Chizaram clenched her jaw but said nothing. Tunde, however, stepped forward, calm as ever.

"Good evening, sir. Ma," he said, bowing slightly in deference.

Chief Okonkwo didn't respond. His eyes scanned Tunde from head to toe, stopping at the slippers.

"Slippers. In my house," he muttered in disbelief.

Tunde turned to Chizaram and gently handed her the paper bag. "Extra pepper. Just how you like it."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

"This is who you're dating?" Amara said, her voice rising in pitch. "A man who brings street food into a mansion?"

And then, without fanfare, Tunde dropped to one knee.

Still in those tattered, dust-lined slippers.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring box. Inside was a simple silver band, no diamond, no gold, just a gleaming circle of honesty.

Chizaram gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth.

"What... are you...?"

"I love you," he said, his voice unwavering. "I've seen your worst. And you've seen mine. I want to build something with you. Not because you come from money. But because you survived without it. And you didn't let it turn you bitter."

Time seemed to freeze.

Papa Okonkwo's face turned red with rage. "You want to marry her?" he barked. "You, a nobody? In slippers!"

Tunde didn't flinch. He looked the man squarely in the eye.

"Slippers are honest," he said. "Suya is real. And love doesn't wear Prada."

Mama Okonkwo burst into laughter, incredulous. "You can't be serious," she said, shaking her head. "You think we'll allow our daughter to marry someone who smells like engine oil and poverty?"

Still kneeling, Tunde held the ring higher, waiting for Chizaram's answer.

She turned to her parents.

"You never saw me," she said. "You only saw what I wasn't. Not obedient enough. Not polished enough. Not Amara."

Amara shot up from the couch, eyes blazing. "This is a disgrace. I dated doctors, lawyers! You bring home a cleaner?"

Chizaram snapped. "And where are they? Why are you still single?"

The silence that followed was volcanic.

Tunde slowly rose to his feet, still holding the ring. "I may not look it now," he said calmly, "but I know who I am. And one day, when the world knows too, you'll remember this moment."

He turned back to Chizaram.

"My offer still stands. But only if you want it."

Her eyes shimmered not with embarrassment, but with certainty. With a kind of love that sees past titles and into truth.

"Yes," she whispered.

She took the ring, slipped it on, and smiled.

Her parents exploded.

"Over our dead body!"

"You'll shame us!"

"You are no longer our daughter!"

"I disown you at this very moment. Get out of my house, you shameless bastard!"

But Chizaram didn't raise her voice. She simply took Tunde's hand.

"I was never truly your daughter to begin with," she said. "Just your reflection of failure."

They walked out together, hand in hand, the sound of his slippers clapping softly against the marble floors like a farewell drum.

Outside, there were no cameras. No press. No red carpet.

But somewhere across the city in a boardroom in Victoria Island, in an inbox in Silicon Valley news was spreading. Of a quiet Nigerian entrepreneur named Tunde Owolabi. A man whose AI startup had just received international funding worth millions.

The same man who wore bathroom slippers.

And the woman who said yes before the world ever knew who he truly was.