The gold pen hovered over the pristine white paper just inches from her signature. “Sign it,” the mother-in-law be said, her voice tight behind her lace-trimmed gelly. “It’s standard, just to protect family interests.” Al Lima blinked. Her hands were trembling, not from fear, but from restraint.

Her fiance, Cunnel, sat beside her like a statue. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak. He just tapped his finger nervously against the mahogany dining table. The document between them was a prenuptual agreement, five pages of legal language designed to strip Al Lima of any claim to Kunnel’s family’s wealth, assets, and inheritance.

She stared at it for a moment, then raised her head. “I’m marrying your son, not robbing your house,” she said quietly. Cunnels mother leaned back in her seat, unimpressed. Mary, but let us not pretend you are not marrying into money. My son has worked hard. My late husband built this, and I won’t let a girl from wherever you’re from destroy that.

There was a silence that sat thick in the air, more suffocating than the Legos humidity outside. I’m from Iloin, Al Lima replied. Her voice didn’t shake. The father who had said nothing all afternoon finally stood and added dryly. And we are from Leki, worlds apart. The statement sliced the room open.

Kunnel cleared his throat. Finally speaking, Al Lima, it’s not personal. My parents, they’re just protecting your inheritance. She finished for him. He blinked. She saw it then. The man she loved was not just silent. He was complicit. The same man who once told her, “Even if I have to lose everything, I’ll choose you.” Now sat beside his parents and offered her a contract instead of comfort.

And still she smiled. She picked up the pen and signed. “Just one letter.” Then she looked up and gently pushed the document back across the table. “On one condition,” she said. “We add a clause.” The parents exchanged glances. Cunnel frowned. “What clause? that the prenup remains valid, she said softly, no matter what I acquire in the future.

They laughed. Oh, how they laughed. His mother chuckled and said, “My dear, please let’s not play rich woman. Just sign and enjoy the wedding. You’ll be taken care of.” And with that, the papers were sealed, witnessed, filed. 3 months later, Kunnel’s family would host a wedding that spared no expense.

The same night, Al Lima would receive a call that changed everything. It came just before midnight. She was in the honeymoon suite, silk robe tied around her waist, hair still pinned from the wedding ceremony. Cunnel was in the shower. Her phone lit up with a number from the US. Her aunt’s voice crackled through the line. “He’s gone,” she said. “Your father.” Al Lima dropped to the edge of the bed. Her chest tightened.

“I’m so sorry,” the voice continued. But he left you everything. The will was updated a week before he passed. It’s all yours, Alma. The shares, the patents, the companies, the trust funds. Al Lima’s breath hitched. How much? She whispered. The pause. Then $70 million. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Only one word echoed in her mind. Clause.

She had added that clause. She had signed it. They laughed at her then, but they would not be laughing now. Cunnel stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Everything okay, babe? Alma turned toward him, her face unreadable. Yes, she said. Everything’s just getting started.

Let’s rewind because the truth is this story didn’t start at that table or that phone call. It began years earlier on a street that smelled of burnt oil and acra in a house with no generator and three cousins sharing a room. Al Lima was born into struggle. Not poverty, struggle. There’s a difference.

Her mother sold fabrics at Teduosho. Her father was a mechanical engineer, brilliant, but underpaid until a childhood friend in the US pulled him into a startup that would one day revolutionize biodegradable plastic across West Africa.