Militants came without warning.
They stormed the village in a blaze of gunfire and fire. Eko and Yemi watched helplessly as their parents were killed — their mother’s last words whispered with blood in her throat:

“Take care of your brother.”

And just like that, it was the two of them.
Eko, thirteen. Yemi, eight.
Alone in a world that showed no mercy.

They scavenged through streets and scraps, clinging to each other like driftwood in a storm. But peace never stayed long.

The militants returned.

This time, they dragged the Village Head into the square, forced him to his knees at gunpoint. Their leader scanned the crowd — and his eyes locked onto Yemi.

He smiled darkly and handed Yemi a pistol.

“Shoot him,” he said.

Yemi’s hands trembled. He could barely lift the gun. He shook like a leaf in a monsoon.

Before the tension could snap, Eko stepped forward.

He took the pistol. And without blinking, he pulled the trigger.

The old man collapsed.
The militants roared with laughter.

“That one,” their leader said, pointing to Eko. “That one’s got killer in his eyes.”

They took Eko. Left Yemi behind.
The brothers wouldn’t see each other again for years.

Yemi found sanctuary in God. He became a priest — not just for others, but for his brother’s soul. He prayed day and night, believing redemption was still possible.

Eko became a ghost in the jungle — a child soldier turned war dog. He did unspeakable things. He stopped believing in anything — especially God.

“If God existed,” he told himself, “He wouldn’t want someone like me.”

But Yemi never gave up on him.

Years passed.

Eko planned one last deal: smuggle a load of drugs overseas through a private plane. A perfect setup — he’d pose as a priest for cover. The money would buy freedom. A clean slate.

Yemi found out. He begged his brother to walk away.

“This isn’t you,” Yemi said. “It never was.”

But Eko had already made peace with who he’d become.

On the day of the deal, as the last packs were being loaded onto the plane, Yemi appeared one final time. Rain was coming. Thunder cracked overhead.

“Don’t go,” Yemi begged.

Then — sirens.
Police. Gunshots. Chaos.

Yemi was caught in the crossfire.

Bleeding, gasping, he collapsed in Eko’s arms.

Without thinking, Eko carried him onto the plane. But the others, panicked and angry, suspected betrayal. They pushed Eko out before takeoff.

The plane took off into the storm.

The police arrested Eko — mistaking him for a priest. They thought he was their informant.

He never told them otherwise.

And he never saw Yemi again.

Years later, on a remote island, a wreckage was found. A plane — long buried in vines and salt. Bodies decayed beyond recognition.

All except for one detail.

A chain.
Silver. Simple. Familiar.
Their mother’s gift.

Eko wept.
He had found Yemi — at last.

As he buried the bones of his little brother in the island soil, the rain began to fall again. Then — a whisper in the wind. A warmth behind him.

He turned.

There, a few meters away, stood Yemi.

Smiling.

“I forgive you, Big Bro,” he said gently.
And vanished.

Eko dropped to his knees, chest heaving, soaked in rain and grief. And when he rose...

He rose a new man.
The ghost had left him.
The burden was lifted.

He believed.
And from that day on, Eko became a true man of God — not to run from his past, but to finally live free of it.