Chapter 4 The Return of the Flame

The Lagos Fashion Resurrection was the biggest fashion event in all of West Africa - a stage reserved for gods, gatekeepers, and the chosen few. That year, it was trending weeks before it even began. But one question was on everyone's lips:

"Who is the founder of Rekindle?"

Adura sat at the back of a dusty bus heading to Lagos, staring out the window as the skyline approached. She wore a plain hoodie and carried nothing but a duffel bag and a handmade dress that glowed faintly under cloth wraps.

Dimeji had begged her to let someone else walk the runway.

"You don't have to be the one to step into the fire," he had said.

But Adura only smiled.

"I am the fire, Dimeji. I won't run from my own flame."

Backstage at the Resurrection event was a world of chaos - models rushing, makeup flying, stylists shouting in four languages. Adura stood quietly in the corner, sewing the last golden thread onto her masterpiece gown. It was made from phoenix-feather silk - a rare material only she could conjure with her fire gift.

The moment arrived.

Lights dimmed. Music dropped to silence. Then a soft, haunting Yoruba chant echoed through the arena:

"Ina rere... Ina igbesi aye..."

The runway burst into flame - not real, just clever stage design. But when Adura stepped out, wrapped in molten gold, her footsteps sparked real fire across the catwalk. Not to burn... but to awaken.

The crowd froze.

Cameras clicked. Journalists whispered.

She walked slowly, head high, each movement a story.

Her voice rang out across the room:

"They took everything from me - my shop, my name, my trust. They thought betrayal would bury me. But I became what they feared. A flame that doesn't destroy... but rebirths."

She stopped at the end of the runway, raised her hand... and from her palm, soft fire spun into the air, forming a glowing phoenix above her head.

"My name is Adura Adebayo. Founder of Rekindle.

Betrayed but not broken.

Burned but not buried.

This... is my return."

The audience erupted in a standing ovation.

But not everyone was clapping.

Mistress Olohun, seated in the VIP section, snarled as her shadow-weavers prepared to strike. Her powers - stolen from ancient tribes - fed on fear, jealousy, and control.

She stood and shouted, "You dare use fire against me?! You are nothing but a spark. I am the storm!"

She lifted her hand - dark smoke forming - but before the strike could land, Dimeji activated his secret weapon: a spiritual-tech amplifier built using ancient chants and digital code.

A pulse of light exploded across the room.

Mistress Olohun screamed as her magic shattered. Her face aged instantly. Her glamour vanished. Cameras captured everything. Her lies, her theft, her evil - exposed.

The shadow-weavers fled.

Her reign... ended.

Later that night, Adura stood alone on a hotel balcony, staring out at the Lagos skyline. Dimeji joined her, handing her a wrapped shawl.

"What's this?" she asked.

He smiled. "A gift. Woven from your leftover fire threads. You've given healing to everyone but yourself."

She took it, wrapped it around her shoulders, and for the first time in weeks - she cried.

Not from pain... but release.

And as if summoned by fate, her phone buzzed.

A message.

From Tolani.

"I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted to say... I lost everything. I'm sorry."

Adura read it twice, then typed only four words.

"I forgive you, Tolani."

She sighed and whispered to herself:

"But I'll never carry you again."

She placed her phone down, walked to the mirror, and smiled.

She had faced fire.

And rose as flame.