Periwinkle's Promise

Tuelo straightened his tie in the side mirror of the town car, the fabric slick and uncomfortable against his fingers. The church loomed before him—a testament to colonial sensibilities that had no business in Gaborone, yet somehow managed to be a landmark his father had insisted on frequenting. The irony wasn't lost on him: a man who'd built an empire by exploiting the very forces that had once colonized them, now to be memorialized in their house of worship.

Twenty years. Twenty years since he'd last set foot on Botswanan soil. Twenty years of carefully constructed distance that had evaporated with a single phone call from his cousin Lesedi three days ago.

"Your father is dead, Tuelo. Heart attack. The will has been changed. He's asked for you specifically." The words had come like bullets, precise and devastating.

Behind him, Amara helped their seven-year-old daughter Naledi adjust her dress—black with tiny white flowers that now seemed grotesquely cheerful. Their twin sons, Thabo and Kgosi, sixteen and sullen, stood rigid in suits that didn't quite fit. Children who had never known their grandfather, about to stand witness to his farewell.

Amara's eyes met his—steady, grounding. The Lebanese warmth in them contrasted with the cool morning air. "Remember why we're here," she whispered, smoothing his collar with fingers that had soothed away his nightmares for seventeen years.

The why was complicated. Tuelo had rehearsed his explanation a dozen times on the flight over. Duty. Closure. The unexpected amendment to the will. But beneath those convenient truths lay something more primal—a promise made long ago that he'd never fully understood until the old man was gone.

"They're watching," Amara murmured, nodding toward the church entrance where his uncle Seretse stood flanked by cousins whose names Tuelo struggled to recall. Their eyes tracked him like predators assessing wounded prey.

"Let them watch," Tuelo replied, taking Naledi's small hand in his. "We have nothing to hide."

If only that were true.

The church interior was awash with flowers—a riot of colors against the somber backdrop of mourning attire. Pews packed with business associates, political figures, and family members whose connections to his father ranged from tenuous to parasitic. At the front, an open casket of polished mahogany, lined with white satin that caught the light filtering through stained glass.

Baruti Morapedi, patriarch and business titan, master manipulator, reluctant father, lay in state surrounded by bouquets that spoke louder than the mourners. Roses for those seeking to appear conventional in their grief. Lilies from the politicians who had both feared and needed him. And periwinkles—delicate clusters of five-petaled blue blooms that seemed out of place among the more ostentatious arrangements.

As Tuelo led his family down the aisle, conversation suspended, replaced by a wave of whispers that followed them like a toxic wake.

"Naedi's boy, finally returned." "After the will changed, of course." "Bringing that foreign wife and their half-breed children." "The old man must be turning already."

Lesedi, his father's only sibling's daughter, intercepted them before they could reach the front pew. Her smile was as practiced as a politician's, her embrace stiff with formality.

"Cousin," she said, loud enough for nearby mourners to hear. "How good of you to come after all these years. Uncle would be... surprised." Her gaze slid to Amara, then to the children, a subtle assessment that felt like an autopsy. "Your family is lovely. So... exotic."

Tuelo felt Amara's hand tighten on his arm—a silent warning. "Thank you for calling me, Lesedi. It was time to come home, regardless of circumstances."

"Of course." Lesedi's smile remained fixed. "You're to sit in the front. Family only. Though I'm sure your... new family... will understand if tradition requires some separation."

"We sit together," Tuelo stated quietly, the firmness in his voice drawing glances. "As my father would have expected."

Something flickered across Lesedi's carefully composed features—uncertainty, perhaps, or the first hairline fracture in her confidence. "As you wish. Though tradition—"

"Has always been selectively applied in this family," Tuelo finished for her. "Hasn't it?"

He guided his family past her, feeling the speculative stares of relatives who had last seen him as a rebellious young man, now confronted with a composed stranger wearing his face. The twins moved in unison, their body language communicating protective alertness that belied their age. Naledi kept close to her mother, wide eyes missing nothing.

They took their places in the front pew, and Tuelo finally allowed himself to look directly at the casket. The old man's face was composed in death as it had rarely been in life—the lines of calculation and constant evaluation smoothed into an expression that, if one were charitable, might be called peaceful.

"Is that him?" Thabo whispered. "He looks... small."

Tuelo nodded. His father had been a giant in his memories—a thunderous presence whose approval had been as elusive as rain in the Kalahari. Now he was just an old man in a box, his power already being parceled out among the vultures gathering behind designer sunglasses and carefully dabbed tears.

Uncle Seretse slid into the pew behind them, leaning forward until his breath tickled Tuelo's ear. "Bold of you to take front position, nephew. Bolder still to bring them." His eyes flicked meaningfully toward Amara. "The board meets tomorrow. The will is just a piece of paper, after all. Easily contested when foreign influence is suspected."

"I've missed your subtlety, Uncle," Tuelo replied without turning. "Tell me, are those your periwinkles on the casket? They seem unusually... thoughtful for you."

Seretse stiffened. "I wouldn't know flowers from weeds. But I know vultures when I see them, boy."

Before Tuelo could respond, the organ began to play, and the service commenced. The minister spoke of legacy and community contribution, carefully sidestepping the more controversial aspects of Baruti's empire-building. Business associates offered anecdotes that painted him as tough but fair, ruthless but principled. Family members claimed emotional connections that Tuelo knew had never existed.

Through it all, he watched his children's reactions—Thabo's skeptical frown, Kgosi's intense focus, Naledi's solemn acceptance of these strangers' truths about a man she would never know. Amara's hand remained steady in his, her thumb occasionally brushing his knuckles when particularly egregious falsehoods were spoken.

When it came time for family to speak, Lesedi approached the pulpit with practiced grace. "My uncle was more than a businessman," she began, her voice carrying easily through the acoustics of the church. "He was a visionary who understood that in a world divided by color—both the colors of our skin and the colors of our political allegiances—there was opportunity in being the bridge."

Tuelo felt his jaw tighten. The old man had been many things, but a bridge was not among them. He had been a dam, controlling the flow of resources, damming up opportunities for those who wouldn't play by his rules.

"He believed in family above all," Lesedi continued, her gaze finding Tuelo with laser precision. "Though family sometimes disappointed him grievously. Still, he was a man who believed in second chances—in redemption for those who recognized their errors and returned to the fold."

A murmur rippled through the congregation. The implication was clear: the prodigal son had returned to seek forgiveness and inheritance, not out of genuine grief.

"And now," Lesedi concluded with theatrical emotion, "as we say farewell to this great man, we must honor his final wishes—however unexpected they might be. His legacy must be protected by those who truly understood his vision. By those who remained loyal."

The challenge hung in the air as she returned to her seat, satisfied smiles exchanged with Seretse and others in their faction. The minister, sensing tension, quickly announced a moment of silent prayer before the final viewing.

As heads bowed, Amara leaned close to Tuelo. "They've been busy while we were in the air," she whispered. "That speech was a declaration of war."

"They were at war before we even landed," Tuelo replied. "They just don't know who they're fighting yet."

The prayer concluded, and the minister invited family members to approach the casket for a final farewell. Tuelo rose, his family following in practiced unity. As they approached, he noted how the flowers had been arranged—the periwinkles positioned closest to his father's hands, folded decorously over his chest.

"What are those blue flowers, Papa?" Naledi asked, her voice carrying in the hushed atmosphere.

"Periwinkles," Tuelo answered, loud enough for nearby mourners to hear. "Your grandfather grew them in his garden. The only plants he tended himself."

This simple statement caused a stir among the family members waiting their turn. Tuelo had counted on that reaction—on their surprise that he would know such an intimate detail about a man he'd supposedly been estranged from for two decades.

He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small envelope, weathered and creased from years of safekeeping. With deliberate care, he tucked it beneath the periwinkles, his fingers lingering on the blue petals.

"What did you put in there?" Lesedi demanded, breaking protocol to step forward.

"A promise returned," Tuelo said simply. He nodded to his sons, who stepped forward with quiet dignity. Each placed a hand briefly on their grandfather's casket before stepping back.

The gesture—respectful but not emotional—spoke volumes. These were not children meeting a stranger in death. These were young men honoring a connection that the watching family had not been privy to.

As they returned to their seats, Seretse intercepted them, his voice low but intense. "Whatever game you're playing, boy, it won't work. The board has already been advised of contingencies. The South African partnerships are secured. Your father's empire will remain in proper hands."

Tuelo smiled for the first time since entering the church. "I'm not here for his empire, Uncle. I'm here for his legacy. There's a difference you've never understood."

The remainder of the service passed in a blur of ritualized grief and political positioning. Tuelo observed it all with detached interest, noting which government officials sat together, which business partners exchanged furtive glances, which family members seemed genuinely affected versus those performing for potential advantage.

As the service concluded and the casket was closed for the last time, Tuelo felt a presence at his side. He turned to find an elderly man—his father's age at least—regarding him with eyes that held neither hostility nor welcome, merely assessment.

"Rre Mogapi," Tuelo acknowledged, recognizing his father's oldest friend and legal advisor.

"You've grown into your father's height," the old lawyer observed. "Let us hope you've grown into his foresight as well. Tomorrow will not be easy."

"It wasn't meant to be," Tuelo replied. "But necessary things rarely are."

Mogapi nodded once, then melted back into the crowd as mourners began to file out for the procession to the cemetery. As Tuelo guided his family toward the exit, Naledi tugged at his sleeve.

"Papa, why was everyone looking at us like that? And why did you put that paper with Grandpa?"

Tuelo lifted her into his arms, her small face level with his. "Because, little one, your grandfather and I had an agreement. Those blue flowers—periwinkles—they're special. In some places, they symbolize memories and loyalty. In others, they represent new beginnings."

"Which did they mean to Grandpa?"

Tuelo glanced back at the now-closed casket being prepared for transport. "Both. And that's why we're here—to honor a memory and to begin something new."

As they stepped into the harsh sunlight outside the church, Tuelo spotted them immediately—a row of black SUVs with tinted windows, parked at strategic points around the perimeter. Security personnel with the subtle bulges of concealed weapons beneath tailored suits. The hallmarks of Seretse's influence, the not-so-subtle message that whatever Tuelo had planned, they were prepared.

Amara followed his gaze, her expression unchanged though he felt her tension. "Sixteen at last count," she murmured. "Plus whatever's in the vehicles."

The twins had noticed too, their posture shifting slightly, positioning themselves on either side of Naledi with practiced casualness.

"They're very confident," Tuelo observed.

"They should be," came a voice from behind them. Lesedi approached, her carefully constructed mask of grief replaced with cold efficiency. "The board meeting tomorrow is a formality. The votes are secured. Whatever my uncle's... sentimentality... might have prompted in his final days, the reality is that Morapedi Holdings remains under proper stewardship."

She moved closer, her voice dropping to ensure privacy. "Be reasonable, cousin. Take the settlement offer that will be presented tonight. Return to wherever you've been hiding all these years. Your mixed family will never be accepted here, and whatever delusions my uncle fed you about redemption died with him."

Tuelo studied her face—the absolute certainty, the dismissive confidence. He had expected this, planned for it even, but the reality of such calculated cruelty still managed to surprise him.

"You've been efficiently busy since he died," he noted. "Tell me, when did you discover the changes to the will? Before or after his heart gave out?"

A flicker of something—alarm, perhaps—crossed her features before she controlled it. "Be careful with such implications, cousin. Slander carries consequences, especially for foreigners." Her gaze shifted meaningfully to Amara and the children.

"Papa," Thabo said, his voice deliberately casual, "the cars are moving."

Sure enough, two of the SUVs had pulled away from their positions, circling to block the most direct exit from the church grounds. A strategic mistake, Tuelo noted. They were showing their hand too early.

"Go with your mother," he told his children quietly. "Remember what we practiced."

Amara gathered the children with practiced efficiency, moving them toward their town car without appearing rushed. To observers, they might have been any grieving family departing a difficult service. Only someone watching closely would notice how they moved in formation, how the twins kept Naledi between them, how Amara's hand remained close to her purse.

Lesedi laughed softly. "Such drama. We're family, Tuelo, despite everything. No one is threatening your little foreign brood. But reality must be faced. My uncle's empire will not be handed to a man who abandoned it—and him—decades ago."

"You've never understood him," Tuelo replied, his voice almost gentle. "Not really. That was always your weakness. You saw the empire but missed the man. The flowers should have told you everything."

"Flowers?" Lesedi's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "What nonsense are you talking about?"

"The periwinkles," Tuelo explained. "Father grew them himself, from seeds Mogapi brought him from my garden in Lebanon. The same strain my mother grew when she was alive. He sent me pictures of them every spring for twenty years."

The revelation landed like a physical blow. Lesedi's carefully constructed narrative—the estrangement, the abandoned father, the opportunistic return—visibly crumbled.

"You're lying," she hissed. "Uncle cut you off completely when you married that woman. Everyone knows it."

"Everyone was told that," Tuelo corrected. "It was safer that way. For all of us."

A sleek black sedan with diplomatic plates pulled up behind their town car. The driver, a broad-shouldered man with the unmistakable bearing of professional security, nodded once to Tuelo before taking up position.

"What is this?" Lesedi demanded, her composure finally cracking as two more diplomatic vehicles arrived, effectively blocking in Seretse's security forces.

"Insurance," Tuelo replied simply. "Father always taught me to be prepared for contingencies. Speaking of which—" He nodded toward the church entrance, where Mogapi now stood with a slim leather portfolio, flanked by two individuals whose formal attire couldn't quite disguise their military bearing.

"The reading of the will is tomorrow," Lesedi snapped, though uncertainty had crept into her voice.

"The official reading, yes," Tuelo agreed. "But Father left specific instructions for a private letter to be delivered to me upon my arrival. I believe Mogapi has it now."

As he spoke, his phone vibrated in his pocket. A single text message from Amara: Secured.

"You should join your uncle," Tuelo suggested gently. "I think you'll both want to be present when I open what Father left for me. It pertains to tomorrow's meeting... and to the future of Morapedi Holdings."

For the first time, genuine fear flickered across Lesedi's face. "What have you done?"

Tuelo smiled—his father's smile, though she wouldn't recognize it. "Nothing, yet. I've simply come home, as requested. The rest will unfold as it should."

He turned away from her, walking unhurriedly toward Mogapi and the waiting letter. Behind him, he heard Lesedi's hurried steps as she ran to confer with Seretse, heard the urgent murmurs spreading through the departing mourners.

Let them speculate. Let them fear. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with it, the truth behind his father's final request. The envelope beneath the periwinkles contained only a single pressed flower—a promise made twenty years ago when he'd left with Amara, a promise that one day, when the time was right, he would return to claim not just his inheritance, but his birthright.

The periwinkles had been the signal—the confirmation that despite appearances, despite the necessary lies and the carefully maintained façade of estrangement, his father had always intended for him to return. To finish what they had started together in secret.

As Mogapi handed him the sealed envelope, Tuelo felt the weight of his father's legacy settling onto his shoulders—not the business empire that Seretse and Lesedi had so desperately scrambled to control, but something far more valuable and dangerous.

Knowledge. Connections. And the truth about what Morapedi Holdings had really been building all these years, hidden behind the veneer of corporate acquisitions and political maneuvering.

"He said you would know what to do with it," Mogapi said quietly as Tuelo accepted the envelope.

"I do," Tuelo confirmed, feeling the weight of what lay inside—the final piece of a plan two decades in the making. "It's time for periwinkle's promise to be fulfilled."