We were walking down the stairs when everything began to crumble beneath us. The wooden planks moaned, then snapped with the sound of breaking bones. Dust burst into the air, thick and choking, while the distant roar of chaos surged up from below. In that moment—mid-fall, heart racing—I clung to one truth like a lifeline:
My name is Dymonia Stone.
I'm twelve years old, but life has already taught me how fragile things are,Dreams, Homes, Even families, Especially families. My mother used to say that names carry stories, that mine would one day reveal its meaning. But what she didn't say—maybe couldn't—is that my name carries an entire legacy. A legacy I wasn't prepared for.
Though my surname is Stone, I am a descendant of the Black family—an ancient lineage once draped in honor and mystery. We were the kind of family whose name carried weight. People whispered about us in marketplaces and at palace gates. My ancestors were called The Family of the Gods. Healers. Seers. Warriors. But we've also been exiles, lunatics, and fugitives. That divine name dimmed long ago, flickering out with one selfish decision made generations before me.
It started with my great-grandfather, Archibald Black, a man of ambition who valued power over peace. He orchestrated a marriage between his son, James Black—my grandfather—and a daughter of the wealthy Hunter family. It was a union not built on love, but on politics and gold.
But James Black was never one to be used.
My grandfather had the kind of spirit you couldn't put in a box. Fiercely principled, impossibly romantic, and stubborn to the core, he rejected the arranged marriage and vanished. Some say he left in the night on horseback. Others claim he took nothing but a satchel and a dream. Wherever the truth lies, his journey led him across the sea to Lagos, Nigeria, where fate waited for him in the vibrant neighborhood of Egbeda.
Lagos was a city of music and madness, of prayers tangled in horn blasts and laughter echoing from food stalls. Egbeda pulsed with life. My grandfather lived among the people, learned their language, soaked garri with locals, and bargained in the markets. He found freedom there—but not the love he craved.
Desperate, he asked friends to introduce him to potential wives. And they did—one after another. Tall women, short women. Loud ones and quiet ones. Women shaped by life's blessings and bruises. Some had eyes like storm clouds, others voices like wind chimes. But none could unlock his heart.
One woman, Halima, shared a story that stayed with him. Her mother had died shielding her during a village conflict. The pain was raw, but what shocked my grandfather—and me, hearing it years later—was her conclusion. "Her death freed me," she said with strange serenity. "I can finally live without her eyes watching me."
To James Black, that was a kind of madness he couldn't understand. To him, love was sacred. To bury love under relief felt like a betrayal.
He returned home, not for reconciliation, but What he found was heartbreak.
His mother—gentle, wise, and strong—was gone. Buried beneath cold earth without his final goodbye. The grief nearly crushed him. They'd been close. She was his confidante, the anchor of his soul. And as whispers spread that her death wasn't natural—that she'd been slowly poisoned—his sadness curdled into fury.
The man responsible, the rumors said, was Archibald Black himself. Her husband. A man who couldn't control her spirit, so he silenced it.
One evening, standing by her grave, James made a vow. Justice. Not through law, but through flame.
That same night, drawn by rage and despair, he fell in with a band of rebels who promised revenge. They lit fires across the town—my grandfather among them—watching symbols of legacy and oppression turn to smoke. But fire is a hungry thing. It doesn't stop when you're done. It took the houses. The trees. The memories.
The next morning, ash blanketed the Black estate.
Only then did James learn the full truth: his mother's death hadn't been swift. It had been slow and quiet. Poison in the tea. Whispers in the dark. A betrayal far deeper than he'd imagined.
Haunted, he left everything behind.
As I reflect on these events, I realize that my family's history is a tapestry of love, loss, and the pursuit of identity. Each thread is intertwined with the choices made by those who came before me, choices that would shape not only their destinies but mine as well. I am Dymonia stone , and my journey is just beginning—a journey to uncover the truth behind my family's legacy