Chapter 3 Rise of the Rejected

The sun had set over Ilodé, but a different light now burned inside Adura. She walked back down from the hills with her head high, her feet firm. Her eyes no longer held tears - they held purpose. Something inside her had awakened, and though she didn't fully understand it, she knew this: she could not go back to who she was.

Her hands, once ordinary, now sparked with warmth whenever she focused her emotions. Not just anger - intention. She could control it, bend it, feed it into her work.

The world had tried to bury her, but they didn't know she was a seed.

Or maybe... a spark.

Adura didn't return to the old shop. She left it to rot, like the friendship that had died there. Instead, she moved into her grandmother's abandoned hut deep within the bush - the place people in Ilodé whispered about, saying it was cursed. She cleared it out, cleaned the cobwebs, and built a new sewing corner from scratch, using wood, palm fronds, and an old generator.

It was there, under moonlight and silence, that she began again.

Her hands moved differently now. As she stitched fabric, she channeled the fire into the seams. The result was more than clothes - it was healing. When worn, the fabrics pulsed gently, calming the wearer's spirit and healing old aches. The clothes didn't just change appearance; they changed energy.

She called her first piece: Ire - meaning Goodness.

Her second: Aanu - Mercy.

Her third: Aja - Warrior.

But who would wear them? Who would believe in a designer living in a hut?

One day, while fetching water at the stream, Adura met a man with a limp, dragging his left leg awkwardly. His beard was overgrown, his skin pale. His name was Dimeji, a tech genius who had returned from Lagos after a failed startup and a broken heart.

They spoke. Just briefly. Enough for her to notice the dullness in his eyes.

Later that night, she returned to the stream with a gift - a shirt from her new line, woven with fire-threads. She gave it to him without words.

He wore it reluctantly.

The next day, he showed up at her hut.

"Did you... do something to this shirt?" he asked, eyes wide.

She smiled faintly. "No. It did something to you."

From then on, they became partners. Dimeji built her a website using leftover laptop parts and borrowed internet. Adura designed and sewed from the hut. Together, they created an online brand in secret:

Rekindle - Clothing for the Broken.

They never advertised with faces. No models. No influencers. Just whispered testimonials, passed through coded hashtags and DM messages.

"I wore Rekindle when I had my panic attack. The pain stopped."

"These clothes feel... alive. Like someone understands me."

"I don't know what it is, but I feel hope again."

Orders started coming in from Lagos, Abuja, even Ghana.

But Adura refused to show her face. She wasn't ready.

Not until the day Mistress Olohun returned - and this time, she wanted war.

It started with a tweet.

A challenge.

"50 million naira for the face behind Rekindle. If you don't come forward, we will."

Adura froze.

The world was watching. Her brand, her flame, her story - all about to be exposed.

"I can't hide anymore," she whispered.

Dimeji looked at her. "Then don't. Let them see what fire really looks like."

She nodded.

And the Phoenix began to rise.