Novels by Opeyemi

The mansion was quiet.No alarms.No footsteps.Just the wind brushing against the old stone walls, and the distant hum of waves crashing against the cliffs beyond.I stood at the edge of the courtyard, overlooking the ocean.It was where it all began.Where Mira trained her ghosts.Where I lost pieces of myself.And now—where I would take them back.Eva arrived just before sunset.She didn’t sneak.She didn’t attack.She just… walked up the path like someone finally ready to stop running.She wore black. No makeup. No weapons I could see.But she was armed—with truth.The kind that couldn’t be undone.“I read everything,” she said.I nodded. “And?”“She lied to both of us.”“Worse,” I said softly. “She made us believe we were nothing without her.”Eva looked past me, toward the sea.“When I was a girl—before the training really started—Mira used to say, ‘Loyalty is power.’ But now I know… loyalty without truth is slavery.”I exhaled.The wind caught my hair, lifting it around my shou

The plan wasn’t complicated.Meet her.Alone.No traps. No guns. No backup.Just two women with the same face.And a truth only one of us was ready to hear.We sent the message through an encrypted channel Mira used during her early network formation.It was an old code. One Eva would recognize instantly.A phrase Mira used when calling her most loyal agents in for silent missions:"Echo. Mirror. Flame."And I added three words of my own:"We need to talk."She responded two hours later.A single location.An abandoned train station on the outskirts of Casablanca. Midnight.No more words.No threats.Just coordinates and silence.“You can’t go alone,” Adrian said, pacing the flat.“I have to,” I told him. “She’s expecting me to come guarded. If I don’t, it’ll shake her.”“She’s unstable,” my mother warned. “What if she’s baiting you?”I looked at them both.“She’s baiting me, yes. But not to kill me. Not yet.”They didn’t ask how I knew.Because they saw it too—behind Eva’s control, t

The bullets didn’t stop after the first spray.They came in bursts—targeted, controlled. These weren’t amateurs. They weren’t trying to rob the café.They came for her.My mother.Adrian fired back from the far side of the room, crouched behind a flipped table. “Two shooters, northwest entrance!” he yelled.I grabbed my mother by the wrist. “Stay low. Move when I move.”She didn’t argue.Old instincts kicked in, hers and mine.We crawled toward the kitchen door, shattered glass crunching beneath us.Another bullet struck the counter behind us. My mother flinched, but I pulled her through the swing doors.Adrian covered us, shouting, “Out back! There’s a service alley!”The kitchen was dark, narrow, and filled with the scent of old grease and gas burners.I kicked open the back door.Sunlight blasted our eyes—and another figure appeared.Gun drawn.Black coat.Eyes locked on mine.It was her.Eva.We both froze.Three seconds.That’s all it was.But in those three seconds, I saw it—the

I couldn’t sleep.Not after that photo.Not after seeing her—the woman I’d mourned for more than a decade. The woman I thought Mira had taken from me when I was sixteen.My mother.Smiling.Alive.Standing beside a building in Casablanca, Morocco.The date on the back? Two weeks ago.Adrian watched me from the other side of the safehouse living room.He didn’t say anything.He didn’t have to.There are some silences so heavy, even words can’t carry them.I finally broke the quiet. “If this is real, everything I know about my past is a lie.”He nodded slowly. “If it’s a trap, it’s designed to unmake you.”“Or…” I looked down at the photo again. “It’s the one truth Mira was afraid I’d find.”The next morning, we flew to Casablanca.No time to think. No time to doubt.I wore a scarf over my hair, sunglasses low, coat tight to my body. Adrian carried the photo, scanning every street like a soldier in enemy territory.We found the building from the picture. A café, modest, tucked between t

It started with a whisper. Not from outside. From inside. That familiar voice I’d buried long ago—the one Mira taught me to listen to in the dark. “What if she’s better at being you than you are?” I stared at the list again. My name. My photo. Underlined. It wasn’t a warning. It was a promise. Whoever she was, she wasn’t imitating me. She was declaring war. And I had no idea what she’d already taken. “She’s calling herself Eva Mora,” Adrian said, pouring coffee without looking up. “She wants me to see it,” I replied. “She wants me to feel it.” Adrian met my eyes. “What do you want to do?” “I want to find her,” I said. “Before she finds someone else to wear.” We traced her next signal to a foundation gala happening the next night in Lagos. High security. Private guest list. An invitation-only event hosted by a tech firm quietly connected to Mira’s old clients. “She’ll show up,” Adrian said. “She won’t be able to resist.” “Neither will I,” I replied. That night, I wo

The hardest part of chasing ghosts is realizing one might be wearing your face. For days, Adrian and I followed the digital trail Mira left behind. We used the SIM card’s encryption key to unlock a set of coordinates. The data took us to Amsterdam, then to a VPN node in Lagos, then to a government shell server hosted in Tel Aviv. Each stop led to a dead end. Each end whispered the same message: “This is bigger than her.” And that’s when it hit me. Mira hadn’t just trained people to replace her. She’d planted seeds inside old allies. Old enemies. Old scars. We were back in London when it happened. Adrian was asleep on the couch, still wearing his gun holster. I sat at the desk, laptop open, staring at a decrypted folder we almost missed. It had been buried beneath layers of corrupted metadata labeled as "trash." Inside were only three files. A photo. A surveillance video. And a single name: Mara Vale. I froze. The name wasn’t just familiar. It was mine. At least, it