Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi, page 41
Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi
(Rich kids of Lagos series #1)
Tomilola coco Adeyemo.
New edition (2021)
Copyright
This work of art may in no way or form be reproduced, formatted or transmitted in any form or means including photocopying, recording or other mechanical or electronic methods without the prior written permission of the author. Except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews or certain other noncommercial uses permitted by the Nigerian copyright law.
Copyright © 2019 Tomilola Coco Adeyemo.
Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi
Desperate to have and protect a happy family unit she once dreamed of in wild fantasies, Nimi will do everything she can including losing herself, unlocking a dark side to her, and hurting people close to her to actualize a dream of never being alone again.
Acknowledgment
I guess it’s easier to write when there’s an audience. Or in this case people I have successfully fooled into believing I can tell a good story. To everyone who’s been on this journey with me, thank you. It makes everything worth it. And let’s not lie, it’s also a promise of a future in writing where plenty of money abounds. So thank you. I cannot wait for you to read this re-write of Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi.
To my younger brothers, Temiloluwa and Tunmise for their support. To my parents Tunji and Taiwo Adeyemo who must not know how nasty the sex scenes in my romance go (because then I would have to go for chronic deliverance sessions in Church). But thanks to them because they always support anything I do.
To Chris Ihidero, my teacher and mentor whose teachings on storytelling and support have dared me to take some of the biggest steps in my career so far.
To my Editor @Bookreviewbymo who somehow managed not to stumble on the typos and finished this in record time.
To Halima Bakenne who made the rewrite of Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi much easier and effortless because of her constructive feedback and support. I guess one day I’d have to insist they make her the Alake of Egbaland. Go ahead and spread your beautiful coattails, peacock.
CHAPTERS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Tomilola Coco’s note.
Exclusive Excerpt: That ’99 Love.
Other titles from Tomilola Coco.
Chapter 1
NIMI
“Make way! Make way!”
The nurse shoved an unsuspecting man out of her way as she ran with an unconscious grandma on a broken stretcher.
I waded through the crowd, shoving people off as we ran through the long corridors in UCH.
I panted and glanced at grandma to see if she was still breathing as I hurried to catch up with the nurse and the Taxify driver that picked me up from our home in Bodija Isopako, a less upscale arm of Bodija, an urban neighborhood. Bodija Isopako was closer to the Iwo Road axis. On God, I wished I had the powers to tell from where I was. But I couldn’t. The stretcher rocked her gently where she lay as we inched closer to the emergency unit.
Tears blinded my eyes and my heart raced. I prayed silently that she would be saved.
I was 18. An unrepentant church stabber. I did not know where I kept my Bible and I always missed a line in the Lord’s Prayer.
Plus the last time I went to church, my pencil skirt was too tight and I texted my boyfriend, “I am not wearing panties” just before we went into intense prayers.
So God was probably not in the mood to speak to me right now. Yet, I hoped He would help. Grandma was the one who needed Him anyway. Not me.
Well, not me directly.
Even though I would admit, grandma was the only person I had in this world.
Well, if Nigeria was the only world I counted. It was the only world I knew anyway. My birth mother was in America and I hadn’t seen her in ten years.
Remove ten years from my age and yes, you got it right, Davido did not have a music career, Bobrisky wasn’t a thing and I was nine years old when I last saw her.
And I barely remember anything about her other than the fact that she had beautiful chocolate brown skin, was a maestro with brows, and wore a Chanel perfume that stayed with me years after I last saw her. I’d purposely refused to take a peek at her Instagram and quite frankly, I liked that I blocked her a few years ago. After I did, I didn’t know what it said about me - that I didn’t want to see my mother’s face - but I know that she didn’t notice and that made it a good move. Banks thought otherwise though and I really didn’t care. We had fights over it because Banks wouldn’t stop seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.
The nurse smiled at me kindly, held my arms gently, and told me, “Sit down, Nimi. We will be out soon.”
Before she turned to leave she added, “And just pray.”
I wanted to tell her I was not sure the hosts of Heaven will let my prayers through but there was no point. Besides, she pushed in through the emergency doors and was gone in a flash.
I sat in the reception and ignored a middle-aged man who was asking me questions about ‘Wazzup’ and ‘Fezbook’ followers.
I was not certain why he thought to ask me if I could help him rebroadcast a message in the reception of an emergency unit so I smiled politely and focused on the old TV hanging on the wall.
It was on CNN, a station I watched with zero interest. Whenever we had enough money to pay for GoTV, grandma watched Africa Magic Yoruba and Hausa even though she had absolutely no idea what they said on the latter.
But thanks to this man beside me, asking me about how he can hack into his daughter’s private account, I suddenly found CNN interesting.
I was willing to consume all the content even if the channel flashed Donald Trump’s face on the screen every second, calling him out on something else he had done in America.
I briefly wondered if my mother considered Donald Trump a good president. She was an American citizen anyway. I wondered if she shared the sentiments the rest of the world shared or if she was like pretentious Nigerians who thought he was a good president because he echoed their homophobia, blatant sexism, and fake spirituality.
It was not strange that I thought of her anytime I thought of something that had to do with a country that took her away from me.
Her mother had nurtured me since I was a baby and since nobody ever talked about who my father was, I just went through life assuming whoever he was, he was as disinterested in my existence as my mother was.
CNN was doing something on wealthy Nigerians under 45 and I watched, distractedly as they listed the names of Nigerians who had made it under 45.
Tokunbo Carew… 40. CEO of Carew oil. Serial investor in million-dollar investments. Has an estimated net worth of $500 million.
I watched curiously as Tokunbo Carew’s face was flashed across the screen.
He was a handsome man. The media was slightly obsessed with him. He was talked about in and out of social media. He was not a socialite but Lagos women swarmed around him like bees and could not have enough of him.
I heard him speak once. My boyfriend, Banks had brought a short clip of him speaking at an event he had attended. He had been in awe of him and he spoke of him the way one spoke of someone they worshipped.
It was ridiculous how the women tossed themselves at him like audacious fans threw panties at a Trey Songz/Usher concert but I also understood why he was so charming to them.
He was of average height, had a heartwarming smile, and looked like he was drenched in wealth from the moment he came into this world.
So I got it. I just guess I would never understand why he was such a talking point amongst people who only cared for his looks.
Perhaps it was because he was 40 and unmarried.
As he spoke about his new acquisition, flashing a dimple as he smiled, I briefly wondered what it was like to be a Carew – no money worries, no worries if University was attainable without a tenable way to pay fees. Grandma told me my mother was going to pay my fees. But I told her that I didn’t want anything from someone who barely treated me as her child.
I glanced beside me.
The ‘Wazzup’ man near me had vanished. I sighed, relieved.
I relaxed my head and finally mustered the courage to ask God to heal grandma and see her through her surgery.
I had no one and she hadn’t said goodbye to me before she suddenly slumped in the sitting room this morning.
I needed her.
My eyes grew misty as I reminded God I just may become a prostitute to pay bills if grandma died. And I knew God wouldn’t like that.
FIVE HOURS PASSED BEFORE I SAW AUNTY NURSE AGAIN.
She had a worried look on her face when she stepped out.
Her worry shifted to me in an instant, cloaking me in absolute fear. Was grandma dead?
“Aunty Nurse,” I muttered and she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. Grandma told me Aunty Nurse had delivered me as a baby. A teenager herself, the midwife on duty had been held up somewhere and teenage Aunty Nurse had fumbled her way through the delivery because ‘I wanted to be here so badly.’ Grandma always chuckled when she told the story. She said it explained why she felt so connected to me and loved me so much; I was her first real delivery.
I liked Aunty Nurse because she was very kind to me and grandma.
Too many times she brought us garri and raw rice when there was nothing to eat at home. It was in the early days after my mother’s departure. We barely heard from her and when we did, Grandma kept half of the conversation from me. It was as if they spoke things that I was either too young or too foolish to understand. Or maybe my mother was just ashamed of me; I was a child she had too early anyway and sometimes, that meant altering the life of the Parent. I don’t remember my mother being too happy when she was here. Of course, there were happy birthday celebrations and moments when we danced to Sunny Ade and Sunny Okosun music. Her laughter bounced off the walls and her hair was let down while she smiled, sipping nonalcoholic wine from plastic cups. Long after she was gone, those were the memories I chose to hold on to. Those memories were coupled with the fantasies of my version of a complete and happy home. What could be if I had a father and he suddenly showed up, if my parents rekindled their love, got married, and gave me younger siblings. I dreamed of those too many times until my early teenage years. Those dreams were my escape place even when people were mean to me in school or when other parents showed up for PTA meetings.
I prayed and hoped for them.
But by the time I was 15, I let it all turn to dust and I buried them all.
I locked the gates to fond childhood memories and threw the gates open so anger and bitterness could flood in. And everything changed when I was 15.
I shut the memories away, unwilling to think about my mother.
I focused on Aunty Nurse. Sometimes, I tried to imagine what she’d have been like if she was my mother. Those thoughts fizzled fast though. Aunty Nurse was nothing like my mother. She could never birth someone like me. She was sweet, so sweet I’d have been born diabetic. I remembered more memories, like how she taught me biology when I was writing my GCE and WASSCE. Simply because she knew grandma’s Ankara business couldn’t pay for extra lessons.
“Go home, Oluwanimilo. Go and get some clean clothes for grandma. She would be needing them.”
I exhaled. If that meant grandma would be well enough to wear clean clothes, I was fine.
As I turned to leave, she called me. “Nimi.”
The look in her eyes bore an uncertainty that made me very uncomfortable and I fidgeted.
My boyfriend, Banks once told me about how his Uncle died. He had a successful surgery, was fine for 48 hours, and then suddenly died on his recovery bed.
I shook off the scary thought. That couldn’t be grandma’s lot. I could not afford too many things in this life and losing grandma was one of them.
“Aunty Nurse,” I swallowed hard, holding my hands so I did not cover my eyes and bawl like a child.
“Call your mother and tell her about everything.”
I nodded, transfixed.
I knew what that meant – whatever was going on with grandma was very serious and it was serious enough to call my mother on the phone and tell her about it.
I retrieved my phone and sent my mother a quick WhatsApp message.
________
When I got home, my boyfriend was waiting for me at the entrance. His father’s car was parked spaces away and he buried his head in his phone while he watched the Ted talk of an American tech billionaire. A little part of me was grateful that he’d come home to wait for me while I was at the Hospital, worrying over my grandmother. However, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I also needed to be alone with my thoughts and without the constant worrying that I knew would accompany my boyfriend’s words.
“Have you eaten?” “Should I make you something?” “You’re being awfully quiet.”
He spoke fancy English words that people around us didn’t really use.
He said things like ‘awfully quiet,’ ‘deliberately obtuse’ and he once described Aunty Nurse as ‘blatantly demure.’ I didn’t ask what it meant.
I think I didn’t because I knew other words that I didn’t quite recognize or didn’t care much for would have made an appearance.
And while I was great at English Language and Literature in school, sometimes Banks sounded like a walking dictionary.
He was so perfect, so pristine, so together, and very packaged.
Grandma used to say he was like a parceled human being and that she worried he would die if he ever had to deal with a terrible situation because he wouldn’t know how to handle a little disruption in his otherwise perfect world.
I sat near him on the bench grandma and I normally shared whenever there was no power and we couldn’t afford petrol in the generator.
He held my hand and looked at me, “Is she going to be fine?” he asked and I shook my head, devastated.
I placed my head on his shoulder and whispered, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
I didn’t believe him but I nodded.
We sat there for a very long time before I opened the door and went into grandma’s room to get her some clean clothes.
I rarely came this far. When I turned thirteen, Grandma gave me my room so that I could have some privacy. It was my mother’s old room. I barely ventured to Grandma’s wardrobe and I only went into her room whenever she needed me to grab something for her. Or when we had morning devotion in her bedroom.
I pulled the doors of her tall wardrobe open as I caught the whiff of the camphor balls she kept in there to keep cockroaches at bay.
Tall piles of Ankara clothes sat neatly folded in the wardrobe and I quickly grabbed four pairs of iro and buba and threw them into a traveling bag I did not have to comb through the wardrobe to find.
As I threw the clothes in the bag, a huge pile of old magazines by the side of the bed caught my attention.
They had one thing in common – Tokunbo Carew.
I grabbed them and flipped through absentmindedly. I was not certain why grandma was collecting Tokunbo Carew’s interviews in business magazines and style magazine covers.
He was a man that turned heads of women in their late 30s, in their 20s, and maybe even late teens.
But who knew the man’s charms were potent enough to drive grandmas in their 60s wild?
I smiled.
“Babe! It is getting dark o! You know UCH road can be precarious at night!” Banks called out from the sitting room.
Precarious indeed. Banks and I had met at an afterschool lesson a few years ago. He was one of the brightest minds in the class and according to him, I was the only girl who didn’t come to class looking like I was going to a club right after. It felt good to be different from the other girls at the time, so I took it as a compliment. These days things like that didn’t make sense to me anymore. But they still meant something to Banky. In a way, I had begun to think that Banky and I were evolving into different versions of ourselves. Or maybe I just watched too many American shows. In those, characters always had a reason for everything. So maybe evolving was a big word to use. Maybe it wasn’t that deep.
“Nimi?!”
I hurriedly shut the magazines, unaware of the photo that fell to the floor.
Banks continued to talk about a writing competition he saw online.
“I know you’re not ready so I won’t push it,” he said of the Scrivener writing competition.
“Yeah, so shut up,” I joked.
I grabbed grandma’s things and ran out of the room, oblivious of the photo that would not only change my world forever but thrust me into a world I never could have fantasized of becoming a part of.
_________
When Banks and I returned to the hospital, grandma was still unconscious.
We sat in the reception where Aunty Nurse brought me a small oily plastic bag containing sweet-smelling fried fish and fried potatoes.
