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Chapter 13: Scott Dawns (Part 2)
February 2000
The Meet II
Scott's POV
The car was quiet at first, except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional tap of raindrops brushing against the windshield. I sat there, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than I should have. My heart was racing—not from fear, but from something more unfamiliar: nervousness.
She was sitting just inches away, yet it felt like a universe separated us. Her presence was graceful. Poised. She looked out the window for a second before turning to me with a polite smile.
I cleared my throat. "Ha-hmmm…"
It was now or never.
"My name is Scott Dawns," I said, finally finding my voice. "And you are?"
"Bunmi Onasanya," she replied, her words wrapped in a soft, elegant accent that made my name feel like a footnote in a much more beautiful sentence. Her voice was warm and confident—like music with a heartbeat.
That was the moment.
Right then, I knew this wasn't just another girl from campus. She was different.
"Ahem… ahem," I said again, nervously adjusting my seatbelt like it was part of the conversation. "What course are you studying?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
"Accounting," she said, her eyes lighting up with quiet pride. "And you?"
"Music and athletics," I replied. "Strange combo, I know."
But she didn't flinch. In fact, she smiled wider. "That's not strange. That's bold."
She could tell I wasn't naturally talkative, and instead of letting the silence take over, she carried the conversation with ease. She asked about my background—what I knew of Africa, and if I had ever heard of Nigeria. I told her the truth: "Not much."
So, she told me everything.
With enthusiasm and poetic detail, she painted Nigeria in colors I'd never imagined. The rich tribal cultures, the energy of the cities, the spicy aromas of jollof rice and egusi soup, the political debates that seemed to stir every corner of the country, and of course—football, their religion in motion.
I listened. I laughed. I learned. And somewhere between her words and the rhythm of her voice, I forgot the storm outside and the nerves inside.
Then, all too soon, she said, "This is my stop."
I pulled up to the sidewalk and parked. For a second, I debated whether to ask the next question. Then I did.
"When can I see you again?"
She smiled gently. "Come to the next meeting. I'll be there."
That was it.
That one moment became the spark that lit everything else.
From fellowship meetings to impromptu study sessions… from casual strolls on campus to deep midnight conversations under the stars… it all began here.
And soon enough, it wasn't just meetings.
It was coffee. And laughter. And butterflies.
Then it was late-night calls. And quiet dinners.
And then… it was love.
—
Scott's POV – The Hardest Truth
Bunmi was the light that helped pull me out of the deepest shadows of addiction. Her faith in God, and in me, gave me the will to heal. She prayed for me, encouraged therapy, and stood by me even when I stumbled. I didn't just want to be clean—I wanted to be whole, for her. And I was becoming that man.
Even my father began to notice the change. For the first time in years, I saw pride in his eyes. But what he didn't know—what I never told him—was that the source of that transformation was Bunmi.
Everyone on campus knew us. "Lovey-dovey," they called us. "The lovebirds," Femi used to tease. For four beautiful years, we dated, building something real. So real, in fact, that we decided we were ready for forever.
But then, reality hit.
We weren't just any couple—we were an interracial couple in a world that didn't always welcome such love. First, we faced her parents. They were deeply rooted in tradition, and to them, our love was a rebellion. They gave her an ultimatum: me… or them.
She chose me.
And then, my own family—the great Dawns legacy—tightened its grip. My father reminded me of the bargain I had struck: marry a woman from a conglomerate lineage or be cut off. It was her—my joy, my light—or a cold, emotionless future dictated by dynasty and duty.
Even now, I remember that day like it was yesterday.
---
The Breaking Point: A Son's Choice
"It's either her or this family—you've got to choose, boy. You don't walk out on your name. You're a Dawn."
His voice thundered through the marble halls like a gavel from the gods. My father—Charles Dawns. The patriarch of power. The man whose name meant wealth, influence, and fear. He stood across the room, fists clenched, grey suit ironed sharp enough to cut the silence that followed.
I stood by the staircase, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, fingers trembling not with fear—but with fury.
"I'm marrying her," I said, voice lower than a whisper, but edged with steel. "And there's nothing you can do about it."
"You're making a mistake," he spat. "Throwing away five generations of empire… for what? A fling? A woman who doesn't belong—"
"Don't," I warned, my chest rising.
He ignored it. "—from a direct descendant of ape-like beings. Do you even hear yourself?"
My body stiffened. For a second, I froze. And then I snapped.
"Don't you ever speak about her like that," I growled. "Not in my presence. Not ever."
"Do you hear yourself?" he shouted, slamming his glass of brandy on the table so hard it cracked. "You would throw away your bloodline. You would betray your legacy. Over some… African woman?"
"She's not some woman. Her name is Bunmi. And she's worth more than every cent in this cursed family fortune."
He blinked. Shocked by the venom in my voice. I hadn't meant to say it—but I meant every word of it.
"She saved me," I continued, stepping closer. "You see a race. I see salvation. You see an outsider. I see the only person who ever loved me without seeing a dollar sign."
"I gave you everything!" he snapped. "Power. Freedom. Choice!"
"No, you gave me a bargain," I said. "You said I could chase music, basketball, whatever—but when I came back, you'd chain me to a woman I didn't know. You'd lock me into a life I never asked for. You never gave me freedom. You gave me conditions."
He pointed at me, trembling now. "This is the last time, Scott. You walk out of this house, you walk away from everything."
I stared at him. For a moment, a part of me hoped—prayed—that the man who held me as a baby would understand. That somewhere, beneath the tyranny, there was a father who could see his son wasn't rebelling—
He was becoming.
But I saw nothing in his eyes. No understanding. Only pride, twisted into a noose.
Then I said it. Softly, but clear:
"Yes."
The silence that followed was so loud it rang in my ears.
"Yes," I repeated, louder. "I choose her. I choose Bunmi. I choose love, and peace, and purpose—and I choose me."
He laughed bitterly. "Then forget this family ever existed."
My heart cracked. But I stood tall. "That's your choice. Not mine."
He turned away. "You're dead to me."
I swallowed hard. My throat burned.
I walked to the front door. I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I did, I'd break. And I couldn't afford to break—not now. Not after what it cost to be free.
As I stepped outside, the wind hit me like ice. My car was parked in the driveway. I threw my bag in the backseat and paused, gripping the steering wheel, eyes burning.
I had just lost my father.
But I had found myself.
---
The Light Named Bunmi
That night, I drove straight to her apartment. Bunmi opened the door, confused at first. Then she saw the tears in my eyes and knew everything.
"You chose me," she whispered, voice trembling.
I nodded. "I lost everything. But I don't care."
She didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around me and held me like the world couldn't touch us.
That was the moment I knew—Bunmi wasn't just my love.
She was my light.
She was the reason I got clean. The reason I stayed clean.
Through her, I learned faith wasn't just a word people clung to when life was hard. Faith was a choice. And I chose it, every day—just like I chose her.
She helped me go to therapy. She stood by me when I relapsed. She prayed when I couldn't. She forgave when I failed.
And four years later, when I stood at the altar with her, watching her walk toward me in a white lace gown, I knew—I hadn't just found a wife.
I had found my redemption.
Now in 2000, six years into our marriage, I sit with her in the warmth of our small home. No empires. No boardrooms. No billion-dollar board votes.
Just her.
And for the first time in my life…
I know what it means to be rich.