Some friends are real—loyal, supportive, the kind who stand by you no matter what. And then there are others. The ones who smile in your face while secretly plotting to take everything you have—your business, your peace, even your wife.
My father's friend was the latter.
It was 1996, exactly 11:00 p.m., when my parents burst into my room. Their voices were low, barely above a whisper, but their urgency was unmistakable.
"You need to hide, my son," my father said, his eyes wide with fear.
He rushed out of the room and returned moments later with a small wooden box. He handed it to me without explanation, then turned to the fitted wardrobe and opened it. Behind the hanging clothes, to my surprise, was a hidden door.
My mother was already packing a few clothes into a bag, her hands trembling. I stepped into the dark space behind the wardrobe. It was cold, musty, and terrifying. The air smelled of dust and old wood. I clicked on my flashlight, its beam cutting through the blackness. They closed the door behind me.
I crouched low, trying to steady my breathing.
Then I heard it—footsteps pounding down the hallway, fast and heavy. Voices and screams of my parents.
A man's voice rang out. It was familiar. I recognized it instantly. "Where is it?" he demanded.
My father didn't respond. Then came a loud slap, followed by a groan that made my stomach twist. The man spoke again, his voice dripping with cruelty.
"I always wanted your wife. I slept with her once—when you sent her with me on that business trip last year. Now I'm taking her. But you? You die tonight."
My mother cried out. I heard the sounds of her being dragged from the room—her sobs echoing down the hallway. Then my father's voice—pleading, desperate.
"Please… spare me. I can give you what you want. Please…"
Gunshots.
Two of them.
Sharp.
Final.
Silence.
They killed my father. They took my mother. And I—Ethan, a twelve-year-old boy—was left alone in the dark, clutching a box I didn't understand, and a heart that had just been shattered, not only with the death of my father, but also that mom had been cheating or she did cheat on my dad just like I heard.
That whole night, I stayed hidden in the dark room behind the wardrobe, terrified.
I didn't dare move.
What if they were still in the house?
What if they found me?
They'd kill me too.
Sleep refused to come.
I lay curled up, clutching the box my father had given me, my mind racing.
What was inside?
What had that man wanted from my father?
Where would I go now?
How would I survive?
Questions echoed in my head like whispers in a cave, bouncing off the walls of my fear.
Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I drifted into a restless sleep.
I don't know how long I slept.
But then I heard a voice—faint, trembling.
Someone was crying.
"I'm calling 911," the voice said. "There's a dead body… blood everywhere."
I thought I was dreaming.
But the voice didn't fade.
It was real.
Minutes later, I heard sirens.
Doors slammed.
Boots thudded against the floorboards.
I panicked.
I began knocking on the inside of the wardrobe door, crying for help.
"Someone's knocking," I heard a voice say. "It's coming from this room. Let's search—find where the sound is coming from."
I kept knocking, louder now, tears streaming down my face. Then another voice shouted, "It's coming from the fitted wardrobe!"
They opened it. Pulled back the coats. Found the hidden door. And there I was— a twelve-year-old boy, trembling, eyes wide with fear, clutching a box I didn't understand.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't scream.
I could only cry.
Three women rushed in—maids, I think.
One of them wrapped a warm blanket around me, gently pulling me into her arms.
Her touch was soft, but her eyes were filled with sorrow.
Later, she took me to her home. I didn't know then that she was a single mother, raising a daughter on her own. Her name was Charmaine.
She was seventeen. A high school student with quiet eyes and a kind smile. And though I didn't know it yet, she would become the first light in the darkness I was drowning in.
That evening, I overheard Auntie Carol—my father's maid, the woman who had saved me—speaking quietly with her daughter, Charmaine.
"I think Ethan should change schools," she said, her voice low and thoughtful. "Though his father was rich, it seems like everything is gone now… except that house. And people will be talking about the murder for a long time. I don't think that's good for him."
She sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that carries both grief and resolve. "I'm going to find him a new school," she continued. "Somewhere no one knows him. Somewhere safe."
Charmaine nodded. "I think that's a good idea, Mom. I can walk him there—it's on the way to mine. So don't worry, okay?"
I stepped into the dining room where they were seated. Their voices faded as I approached. "Auntie Carol," I said softly, "thank you for taking care of me. But I'm scared. What if those people come looking for me?"
She stood and walked toward me, her eyes gentle but firm. "You'll be fine, okay?" she said, wrapping me in a warm embrace. Her hug felt like a shield—thin, but strong enough to hold me together.
Few weeks later, I started at my new school.
It was smaller, quieter.
No one knew my name.
No one whispered about my past.
During break, I met a boy named Cedric.
He was kind, polite, and quiet.
He didn't have many friends—maybe none.
He was poor, living with his uncle, and kept mostly to himself.
After school, his uncle came to pick him up.
Cedric introduced me with a shy smile. "Uncle, this is Ethan," he said. "Can he come for dinner sometime?"
His uncle nodded without much expression. Cedric leaned closer and whispered, "My uncle's a renowned martial arts trainer. If I convince him, he could train you too. I'm his only student now—after he lost a big fight last year, all the others left. He's got nothing now… except me."
He smiled, hopeful. "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow," he said, then ran after his uncle, who had already started walking down the road.
I watched them go, something stirring inside me.
A quiet thought. A possibility. Maybe this was the beginning of something new. Not just survival.
But strength.
That night, I sat on the couch, wrapped in the blanket Auntie Carol had given me. The house was quiet. Charmaine was doing homework at the table. Auntie Carol was folding laundry nearby.
The news played softly on the television. Then I saw her. My mother. Her photo flashed across the screen—smiling, elegant, confident.
The anchor's voice echoed through the room:
"Businesswoman and investor, Mrs. Grace Moyo, has just backed a major film project set to begin production next month…"
I froze.
My heart thudded in my chest. She's alive? She's investing in movies?
I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it.
Why hadn't she come for me? Why was she on TV like nothing had happened?And then the question hit me like a punch to the gut: Did my father die because of her?