Gbemileke – Businessday NG

Our father had always been sickly, so the burden of caring for our family of five rested heavily on our mother, a petty trader. Mama was determined to give us a good life, even if it meant working herself to the bone.

Her business thrived for a while, but when it began to tell on her health, my younger brother, Gbemi, the last born and only son, made a decision that shocked everyone. Gbemi was one of the most selfless humans I’ve ever known. He quit school to help Mama.

He was brilliant—the best student in his class. But he said he didn’t need an education to be successful. We all pleaded with him to reconsider, but his mind was made up.

When he joined Mama in business, everything changed. Gbemi brought in fresh ideas and innovation. Mama was old-fashioned, but she eventually yielded to his modern methods. Within months, sales multiplied, and she was able to employ two extra hands.

Outside of business, Gbemi poured himself into music. He had always played the keyboard in church, but now he took it seriously, taking online lessons and performing at events. Before long, he was producing music for known artistes, going on tours and gaining recognition.

Gbemi became the pride of our family. He promised to change our lives, and he did. The poverty that once shadowed us disappeared. People who once pitied us now looked on in awe. Rumours spread that Gbemi’s wealth came from fraud, but his hard work and success silenced their gossip.

With money came better care for Papa. The treatment we could now afford prolonged his life far beyond what the doctors expected. When he eventually passed, our hearts were heavy, but we were at peace knowing we had done our best.

Papa’s burial was planned swiftly just as he had wished. Gbemi, who had been away, was flying home for the funeral. He called to say he had landed safely and even did a video call from the car. But minutes later, the unthinkable happened.
A call came in—there had been an accident. His driver had rammed into a broken-down trailer. The impact was fatal. Gbemi died instantly. He hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt. His driver passed on days later.

It felt as though life had been snuffed out of our family. The pain was unbearable. Mama was inconsolable. Watching her weep was like watching a candle melt in slow motion. Grief engulfed our home. The laughter, the music, the life Gbemi brought—all gone.

A week later, we buried him beside Papa. Father and son, side by side. That day, Mama could barely stand. Her blood pressure kept fluctuating. The once vibrant woman grew frail, and six months later, she suffered a stroke in her sleep. She never woke up.

Another round of grief hit us like a storm. Only Kemi and I were left now—just the two of us, two sisters holding each other up. Kemi, being the eldest, had to shoulder the weight of everything: her 9-to-5 job, caring for me and keeping Mama’s business from collapsing.

She worked tirelessly until she made a bold decision—she quit her office job to focus fully on the family business. That decision changed everything. The business grew rapidly. Within a few years, Kemi expanded, opening six branches across the country. She began travelling abroad to buy goods, and I worked alongside her. Together, we built an empire while also building our own families.

It was beautiful to watch, but one strange mystery haunted us for years.

Long before Gbemi died, he used to send us monthly allowances. Strangely, those alerts didn’t stop after his death. Month after month, money kept coming in—same date, same amount.. sometimes more, same reference. The bank couldn’t trace it. His old production company had no record of it. No one could explain it. But it never stopped.

Years later, while on a family trip to the UK, Kemi’s friend Lala invited her to a Christmas concert. Her friend had connections with the organisers, so they got front row seats. Everything was fine until a particular band came on stage to perform Christmas carols.

Kemi froze. The bandleader looked exactly like Gbemi. She said she felt her stomach turn. It couldn’t be. Her heart pounded as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. He looked her way several times, and she said a chill ran down her spine.

Her friend Lala noticed her distress. Kemi whispered everything to her, but Lala brushed it off—“It’s just a coincidence. People have lookalikes.” Yet even Lala later admitted that the man’s constant glances toward their side were unnerving.

Kemi discreetly snapped a photo and sent it to me. Seconds later, I called her, screaming—“That’s Gbemi!”

When the final song began, the lights went off, and everyone was asked to turn on their phone flashlights for Silent Night. Kemi and Lala planned to rush backstage once the lights came on. But when they got there, the man was gone.

The crew said he had stepped out to use the restroom during the final song, but he wasn’t there. When Kemi asked about him, they said his name was Leke. He had a wife and two daughters named Kemi and Aanu.

Gbemi… Leke… Gbemileke

Kemi’s knees gave way. The realisation hit her like a blow. She fainted.

Later, she met his wife, Nicole, who confirmed everything. Her husband’s full name was Gbemileke. He had told her his parents were dead, but often spoke lovingly of his two sisters in Nigeria—Kemi and Aanu. He even made monthly transfers to them..

Kemi was stunned. How did he know that Mama was dead? This was so unbelievable. It was happening like an out-of-body experience, but this was real.

Nicole was shattered. The man she loved, her husband and father of her daughters, was gone. Or maybe had never truly been here. She was devastated.

After that concert, there was no trace of “Leke.” No one saw him again. His phone numbers stopped working, and his family was left confused and broken.

Kemi and I struggled to accept it. It was as though Gbemi had returned only to remind us that love never really dies, it just changes form.

Nicole eventually moved back to Nigeria with her daughters. We had grown close, bound by love, mystery and memory.

And though we may never understand what truly happened, every month without fail, that mysterious alert still comes in—just as it always has.

It feels like he just wants to remind us that he’s still watching. Still giving. Still keeping his promise.

One evening, Kemi received an email. It contained no words—just a link and a short message that read:

“For my sisters that I love so much.”

We hesitated for hours before clicking it. When we finally did, a video opened. It was a live performance, an outdoor concert somewhere in Brazil. The camera panned across the stage, and there he was.

Gbemi. Older, broader, wearing dark shades, but unmistakably him. He was leading a band, singing in Portuguese.
And as the music swelled, he looked straight into the camera and smiled.

Kemi screamed. I froze. My hands trembled so badly I almost dropped the phone. We contacted the email, but it bounced back, and the video link vanished a few days later.

Then, one quiet night, I received a message from an unknown number on WhatsApp. It was a voice note. It was his voice…low and unmistakable:

“Tell Kemi I kept my promise. I trust you both to look after my wife and kids. Aanu, some journeys are meant to be walked unseen.”

I sat there, tears streaming down my face. Before I could even replay it, the message deleted itself. The number disappeared.

I don’t know where Gbemi is now—but deep down, I know one thing for sure: He’s out there. Somewhere. Still watching. Still sending love across time and distance. Because some bonds are too strong for death to break.