But far away, in the dusty shadows of the prison yard, Obinna stood by the chain-link fence, his eyes still burning with that same cold hatred. Whispers and rumors circled among the other inmates—rumors of his plans, of men on the outside ready to carry out his bidding.
One afternoon, as guards were escorting him back to his cell, he leaned close to a fellow inmate and murmured, “Tell them I’m not finished. Johnson and Williams think they’ve won, but they haven’t. I will come back for them.”
The other inmate nodded slowly, and Obinna’s lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile.
Back at the mansion, Williams sat on the balcony with Juliana, holding little Clinton in his arms. The sky above Lagos was painted with stars, and the night was calm and beautiful. He held his son close, his heart full. But deep inside, he knew that peace was never a permanent state. Life had taught him that shadows always returned, even in the brightest light.
Juliana leaned her head on his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”
He looked down at her, then at Clinton, and finally back up at the stars. “I’m thinking about the future,” he said softly. “And how sometimes, the real fight isn’t against the enemies on the outside, but the ones on the inside. Fear. Doubt. Pain. Those are the enemies I have to conquer… for him. For us.”
Juliana squeezed his hand. “And you will. Because you’re Williams Andrew. You always rise.”
The night air grew still, almost too still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. And though Williams didn’t say it out loud, one truth echoed in his heart.
Obinna’s war was not over. The shadows had only retreated. They were waiting.
