That night, far from Bonny, she sat in a cramped room in Port Harcourt, across from a lab technician who frowned at her samples.

“I have to,” she said. “The clinic in Port Harcourt said they can test my water samples. If the fish are poisoned, we need to know.”

She slept on a mat by the window, the photograph of her father tucked under her hand. In her dream, he was young again, laughing on the jetty, telling her: “The river remembers everything. And so must you.”

Eteima held up the lab report. “The fish are sick. But we don’t have to be. We have proof now.”

The rain hadn’t come to Bonny Island in three weeks. The creeks were low, the mangroves brittle, and the elders said the river was holding its breath. But Eteima Bonny Wari, at twenty-three years old, had stopped waiting for signs.

She was twenty-three. Her name was Eteima Bonny Wari. And she had just started the fight of her life — not for revenge, but for the water that had raised her.