Chapter 14 - The Second Gala
Three years after the first gala, Ezeani Holdings held another one.
I almost refused.
Too much symbolism.
Amara surprised me.
“We should go.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see whether your family can survive an event without arranging your marriage.”
Fair.
The ballroom had same chandeliers.
Different board.
Different security.
No engagement stage.
The giant screen showed scholarship recipients and small-business partners instead of family announcements.
Amara wore deep green.
Not designer-sponsored.
Her choice.
Triplets stayed home with Ngozi because three toddlers at a corporate gala is terrorism.
Beatrice attended in wheelchair.
Evelyn did not.
Vanessa sat with investors.
For first hour, nothing exploded.
Remarkable.
Then chairman Balogun honored the community-enterprise protection fund my father created.
He told story of vendors displaced and restored.
He did not turn Amara into poor-girl mascot.
She had approved language beforehand.
Good.
Then he invited her onstage as founder of Amara’s Table, now employing forty-three people.
She spoke for four minutes.
No mention romance.
She said:
“Small businesses do not need billionaires to rescue them. They need systems that stop powerful people from casually destroying what took years to build.”
Room applauded.
Beatrice even did.
I watched Amara and thought:
That is power.
Not proximity to me.
Her own.
After speech, she handed me microphone.
“I was not told about this.”
“Good.”
I stared suspiciously.
She smiled.
“Daniel once asked me what I’d want if I became rich.”
Laughter.
“I said refrigerator.”
More laughter.
“He thought I was joking.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Then she looked at me.
“The first version of Daniel I loved had nothing. The second version had too much. The man I trust now finally understands neither condition tells me who he is.”
My throat closed.
She reached into clutch.
The room gasped.
I whispered:
“Amara.”
She pulled out not ring.
A brass keke key.
Old.
Rusty.
From my broken keke.
I stared.
“You kept that?”
“You left it at stall.”
She placed it in my hand.
“For man who thought he had to become poor to discover whether he could be loved.”
I could barely speak.
Then she said:
“You can stop testing now.”
I swallowed.
“Is that a yes?”
“I haven’t heard question.”
Right.
I almost laughed.
No proposal prepared.
No ring.
No plan.
Perfect.
I handed microphone to Balogun.
Then, in front of everyone, I knelt.
Amara rolled eyes.
“Drama.”
“Yes.”
I looked up.
“Amara Okafor, will you marry me?”
She stared long enough to punish me.
Then:
“On conditions.”
The ballroom laughed.
“Name them.”
“Prenup.”
“Yes.”
“My restaurant stays mine.”
“Yes.”
“No grandmother picks wedding date.”
Beatrice muttered from table:
“Rude.”
More laughter.
Amara smiled.
“And if you ever pretend to be poor again, I leave you there.”
“Agreed.”
Then her expression softened.
“Yes.”
I stood.
No ring.
She kissed me anyway.
The room erupted.
But before this turns into perfect fairy tale, something else happened.
An assistant hurried toward Balogun with a file.
He read.
Then looked at Beatrice.
Her face changed.
“What?”
He walked to microphone.
“The independent audit has concluded one outstanding matter regarding the Okafor stall compensation.”
Amara stiffened.
Balogun continued.
“The final authorization to demolish the stall was not signed by Beatrice.”
Everyone looked at Evelyn’s empty seat.
Not Evelyn either.
The signature belonged to someone else.
Chief Henry Cole.
Vanessa’s father.
May you like
The forced engagement had not been only Ezeani family plan.
Vanessa’s family had helped remove Amara too.
