The plane touched down with a jolt, its wheels skimming the asphalt of an airport Zara had never seen before. The city below was a far cry from the lively, colorful streets of Lagos she had left behind. Zara pressed her face against the cool window, watching the sprawling suburban landscape of glass, concrete, and neatly manicured lawns below. Everything was so... quiet.
Her chest tightened as she stared at the unfamiliar skyline. She wasn't ready for this. America. She'd only heard stories of people moving here for a better life, but it wasn't her choice. She had been dragged along by her mother, Clara, after her father's sudden death—shoved into a new life that felt like a stranger's skin.
I miss Lagos, Zara thought, her fingers tracing the window's cold surface. I miss the noise, the heat, the people. I miss Dad.
She glanced over at Clara, sitting beside her. Her mother's face was fixed in a hopeful smile, an optimism that only made Zara feel more out of place. Clara looked at Zara and said, "I'm so excited, Zara. This is a fresh start for us."
But Zara wasn't excited. She was empty, hollow, like she had been hollowed out the moment her father's heart stopped beating. She just nodded.
Zara stepped off the plane, feeling like an alien in a strange land. The bright lights and clean floors of the airport seemed more like a hospital than a welcoming place. A sea of unfamiliar faces rushed past, none of them even noticing her. Her heart ached for the warmth of the crowded streets in Lagos, the loud music, the smell of jollof rice wafting through the air, the chaos. In the U.S., everything felt ordered, and she felt like a cog in an intricate machine—something that didn't belong.
Clara, on the other hand, was already beaming as she pushed through the crowd. "I can't wait for you to meet your new school. You'll make friends in no time, I'm sure."
Zara barely heard her mother's words as they walked through the terminal. She was too focused on the cold air conditioning that made her feel even more distant from the place that was supposed to be home. The feeling of being completely alone in this world gnawed at her. She was 16 now, a teenager with no friends, no familiar faces, and a life she couldn't even begin to understand.
They arrived at the car, and Zara got in, staring out the window at the highway, her fingers gripping the seat beneath her. The sky seemed vast, too vast, like it had no end. Everything here was so... wide. So empty.
The new house wasn't what Zara had expected. It was big—far bigger than their home in Lagos—but it felt... cold. The living room was a modern space, the walls painted in bland, neutral tones. There were no vibrant colors, no bold African patterns. The furniture was sleek and minimalistic, and there was no warmth to the place. Zara felt like she was in a hotel, not a home.
"This is it," Clara said, her voice full of pride as she set down a box. "I know it's a lot, but we'll make it work."
Zara didn't answer. She felt an overwhelming sense of loss as she stood at the entrance, looking into the sterile space. She missed the small, crowded rooms filled with laughter and the scent of her father's cooking. This... this was nothing like that.
As Clara unpacked the boxes, Zara wandered around the house, her eyes landing on a small desk where her mother had placed an old wooden box. Zara's breath caught in her throat. It was an artifact her father used to keep, a relic of their family's history. He had always hidden it from her, telling her it was nothing important, just "old junk." But Zara knew better. There was something about it that had always felt... off.
The box sat there on the desk, a silent reminder of her father's mysterious past. Zara's fingers twitched as she approached it. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for the first time since landing, a sense of purpose began to flicker inside her.
She'd never been allowed to touch the box, but now it was just sitting there in front of her, unguarded. Clara was busy in the kitchen, her back turned. Zara's breath caught as she reached for it, lifting the lid slowly. Inside, there were a few pieces of old family heirlooms, nothing particularly noteworthy. But at the very bottom was something she hadn't seen before—a small, carved figurine, ancient-looking and intricately detailed. It looked like it could be centuries old. Her fingers ran over the carvings, and a strange chill ran down her spine.
What was this?
Her father had always been secretive about his past, especially his time in the U.S. before he moved to Nigeria. Could this figurine be part of that past?
Zara's mind raced. She suddenly felt like she had stumbled onto something important, something hidden—just like the life her father had kept from her. This wasn't just some trinket; it felt too deliberate, too out of place in the ordinary box of family treasures.
Later that evening, when Zara had retreated to her room, trying to process everything, there was a soft knock at the door. Clara opened it, and Zara could hear snippets of a conversation she didn't quite understand.
"You can't just keep running from the past…" a man's voice said, low and serious.
Who is that? Zara wondered, trying to peer through the crack in the door. She heard Clara's voice respond, sounding flustered. "I don't think she's ready…"
The conversation was brief, but it felt too intense. Zara's curiosity flared. Who was this man? Why was Clara acting so nervous?
Zara sat up in her bed, her thoughts swirling. Could this man be connected to her father? And what did he mean about running from the past? What past?