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Sixteen
Oghene


If days were shoes, Wednesday would be the one that pinched so much but had a cute design. First, I was accused of rape for the second time in my life. Then Ifenkili got engaged and told me about it while I was still battling the immeasurable pain the false accusation caused me. Finally, when I returned to my house late in the night after my wandering, I decided to keep my mind off everything by busying myself in the kitchen. At 1 a.m., I cooked ogbono soup that refused to draw. Oghene meh! Why bad things go dey happen to good people?

“My man, do this thing make I commot here nau!” Oga Amadi, a stout man with a temper worse than that of a pregnant hen, shouted at me.

“Sorry, Oga.” How long had I been standing there mourning my life that had just been shattered into multiple pieces?

It was eleven a.m. when I arrived at the workshop to Shukudi and Agu’s surprise. Both men knew what happened to me. They spent the rest of the previous night at my place because my heart was constricting with unshed tears, and I feared I was going to die. Cooking wasn’t as therapeutic as I thought. They’d left my house before the sun came out and instructed that I have a good rest.

I tried to shake off the heaviness in my chest, focusing on the familiar sounds and smells that usually brought me comfort. Wrenches clinking, the hum of engines, the sharp scent of oil. However, everything felt muted, and distant.

"I am so sorry, Oga Amadi," I repeated and slid under his car. The man wanted the usual tune-up and handed me his keys, leaving the workshop to get himself something to eat. How long was he gone for?
Jesus, I was supposed to be done with his car by the time he got back so he could drive it to work. I stared up at the car’s undercarriage, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to start work. It was as if the weight of the accusation, the betrayal, had chosen this morning to bury me under the sand and put a tombstone on my grave.

A loud clank snapped me back to reality. I had dropped a wrench. Cursing under my breath, I reached for it, but my hand was shaking.

"Warri boy, you dey kill yourself for there?" Chukwudi's voice cut through the haze.

"O’boy, I dey alright. Just... distracted," I muttered, sliding out from under the car.

"Distracted? My friend, e sure me say you no dey here with us. Na only your body day, your spirit is long gone," he said, crossing his arms. “Seriously, Oghene, do you want to kill yourself because of one winch way wan use you shine? One angry lady who wanted to hook you with her smelling kpekus but God no gree."

But God gree make the karashika concoct febu against me. And my church, my own pastor whom I’d worked with for years, believed her. I was not the person Sarima told them I was. I would never gbensh a woman without her consent. I wouldn’t even want to do it with consent unless I was finally married to the lady because I loved God. My pastor and his wife knew me, or I thought they did. But yesterday I realized how unreasonable they all were. This morning, before I decided to leave the house, one of the council members had called to tell me that they had convinced Sarima to allow them to take the matter to the police as they weren’t a church that would condole such immorality. He said I should expect a visit from the police.

I shocked the man by telling him I’d turn up any time the police wanted me. From the silence that followed my words, I guessed he thought I would beg or sound afraid. I wouldn’t deny that taking the matter to the police didn’t stir fear in me as only a handful of men got vindicated in a rape case even if the man was innocent. Society had always believed a woman’s accusation over a man’s innocence no matter the evidence presented. But I was more worried that if I sounded afraid people would believe her more. So, I must conceal my fear.

“Bro Oghene. Please, son. Between you and I, tell me if you did it,” the man had said. His voice, although laced with concern, aroused my anger afresh.

I didn’t care what they chose to believe. They decided I was guilty even before I was summoned. They were never going to believe me no matter how much I tried to convince them of my innocence.

“My man, how e dey be you na?” Agu, who was just returning from Ikokwu where he’d gone to purchase a Toyota Corolla’s headlamp, asked.

Before I could answer, Oga Amadi interrupted. "See, I will not sleep here with you guys. I have work to do in the office nau."

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered.

“Oga, sorry.” Shukudi and Agu echoed simultaneously.

Then Shukudi stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Let me help with Oga Amadi’s car. You need a break."

“I can’t have a break,” I murmured, lowering myself to the ground so I could slide back under the car.

“My friend, come dey go house before you knock person engine abeg,” Shukudi retorted, squatting down and peering under the car. “Oya, go my house go stay. My wife and my sister dey for house, they’ll keep you busy so your mind will be off this whole thing.”

I considered the suggestion, then decided I’d fare better with Ezioma and Juoshi around me than remaining here, trying to work with a brain that had refused to cooperate.

“Are they aware?” I asked Shukudi after I’d come out from under the car. “Your wife and your sister, I mean.”

“My wife, yes. She had even wanted you to come over last night, but I told her I’d better come around with Agu instead. We are your guys, we will know how to talk you out of mudding yourself.”

“Thank you,” I said, truly grateful to him and Agu.

“Don’t mention,” he said with a dismissive grin. “Mens mount for you. You think if Skalas dey for PH and hears about this rubbish that he won't go to that your church and set everywhere on fire? I told him about it and guy dey para. Even Akan’elu wan contact his elder brother way dey army.”

Akan’elu, one of our secondary school classmates. A notorious boy who got expelled in SS2 and was now into politics in Abia State. “He called me before I left the house. He wants me to give him Sarima’s details.” But I’d refused. I knew how brutal Akan’elu could be and how far he could go to get the desired result. Back then in school, he’d kidnapped and tortured our math teacher for three days simply because the man gave him thirty strokes of the cane on his bare buttock during the morning assembly. His pain wasn’t the punishment—he didn’t even shed a single tear, but the embarrassment. That was the act that got him expelled. The few times we spoke after I got his number from Shukudi, it was obvious that he hadn’t changed. He was still a hard guy wain fit sew collar for paynt if person no hol am. The paynt sef go carry bow tie join.

I knew he could put an end to this at the snap of the finger, but I feared his process. I didn’t want Sarima to claim that she was threatened and forced into admitting that she’d lied.

“You mean Akan’elu called you?” Shukudi asked with excitement.

“Him and Skalas.”

“O’boy, I tell you say mens mount! We gallant for you! Just give us the go-ahead order to change am for that girl and those una church members. Anybody way do anyhow go receive woto-woto.”

We talked some more while he worked on Oga Amadi’s car. Agu came around for a while, talked me into sharing a bottle of coke and a small loaf of bread with him, then went back to attend to another customer.

“Igbo boy,” I called Shukudi.

“Waffi boy.”

“Why you think say I dey innocent?”

Shukudi slid out from under Oga Amadi’s car, stared at me for a moment and shook his head. “O’boy, no be you again? Fear-fear boy that won't hurt an ant. I know you na. You can be anything but not a rapist.”

I was halfway to his house, which was a trekkable distance from the workshop, when I thought of Ife and I mentally blocked the sadness that wanted to grip me. I get more kasala wein hol me for blokos. Funny enough, I knew, after that night in the Sienna, that she was not going to be mine. She made it obvious to me. But I had fragile boy emotions and didn’t know how to man up and move on.

Even this moment, while I veered off the road, entering the street that led to Shukudi’s house, my pulse kicked impossibly higher as I recalled her features I now knew better than my own; the frown that creased her face, the beauty in her lips, the smile that made her eyes glisten. Most of all, I remember her laughter that was like a burst of water splashed across the face, so unladylike yet so sweet.

Last night, when I saw the ring I’d feared, and when she confirmed my fear, I’d wanted to fall to her feet and beg her, to kiss her so hard that she wouldn’t need words to understand how much I wanted her for myself. I was angry that she’d chosen the other guy over me and that she was happy. I told her that I was happy for her. A part of me wanted that to be true, the other part feared for her...and for me.

For me especially because I would always think about her and mourn. I knew people would tell me how time heals wounds and how I’d get over her with time. “Oh, you'll be happy again, never fear.” But I would not forget. Every time I fell in love it would be because something in the new lady reminded me of Ife.

Rosemary, your update na fire
Keep it up

"Men's mount" got me cracking.. Thanks for these wonderful updates

nice update

Omor you really served us fried rice with chicken. The update carry fire. Nothing sweet pass when you get Friends wey gat your back. Agu and chukwudi are great friends

Shukudi...Agu...Rosemary33, you're too much! Well, I added your name to the others because you are obviously in that team.


But... Rosie mama, the food sweet o! Takeaway no dey?

Seventeen
Ife

My people always said one could never identify a bad market day from its morning. But there were always signs that a particular day would end up being a disaster. Signs like heading to the clothesline in my backyard to retrieve the outfit I planned to wear to work, only to find that my landlord’s dog had pulled it down and pooped on it. Then, as I hurried to catch up with my colleagues for an official assignment, the heels of my newly bought shoes suddenly came off. To top it all off, I boarded a speedboat to Bonny Island, and it ran out of fuel in the middle of the river. My heart nearly left my body because it was my first time on a boat, and I thought I was going to die.

Fortunately, death was merciful—or perhaps the dark entity was simply passing by. Another boat came along with a gallon of fuel, and our pilot was able to refill his tank and get us moving again.

The company we went to meet was in Finima town. The meeting with their management wasn’t supposed to take more than two hours, but there we were, six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and three seconds after we’d arrived, still sitting at the reception hall like de-feathered angry birds, waiting for a meeting that was scheduled for 9 a.m., to start by 11 a.m.

I was the most agitated. I was supposed to travel down to Elele with Preye today by 5 p.m., I’d be sleeping over at his village house so his people would get to know me better while I also know them. I’d already written to my HOD and had gotten the required permission.

“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist who was grinning at a video playing on her phone. TikTok Video I guessed. “Excuse me,” I said again to get her attention.

She looked my way, stared for a moment, and unplugged her earphones. “Yes?” she said with irritation.

“Do they know we are still waiting?”

“Yes,” she said with irritation, putting back the earplugs and returning her attention to her phone.

I checked the time on the clock showing Lagos time which was between the other two showing London and South Africa Time zones respectively and hissed. A hand patted my back and I turned to see who it was.

“Calm down,” Emmanuela, one of my colleagues said.

As if I had any option. But the truth was that I needed to leave Bonny that moment I Preye and I wanted to still make the Elele journey today.

I was about to let out another hiss when the receptionist picked up a call that came through her landline, spoke to the caller for a short moment, and announced to us that the management was ready for us.

Less than an hour later, we were done. The company was satisfied with our pension policies and would be signing up.

The journey back to Port Harcourt was easier than expected, and in less than two hours, I was fast asleep inside Preye’s Prado while he drove us to Elele.

I couldn't tell how long I had been out when a sudden jolt shook me from sleep. Groggy and disoriented, I realized we had reached the outskirts of Elele town, and the SUV was no longer in motion. Preye had pulled over at the side of the road, his face tense and alert.

“Sorry, babe. I just got a text message that some hoodlums are robbing motorists a few miles from here,” he said, his voice low and serious. He noticed the fear flash across my face and took my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don't worry. We’ve actually gotten close to my place. We can leave the vehicle here and follow a footpath down.”

I glanced around nervously. “What if someone breaks into the car? What if they steal it?”

“Are you kidding me?” he laughed, though it lacked humor. “This is my village. Nobody dares touch my car.”

His confidence was little comfort to me, but I nodded, feeling uneasy. The place was disturbingly silent, and thick forests flanked both sides of the road, deepening the sense of isolation. Despite our prolonged discussion, not a single person walked past, which only heightened my anxiety. I tried to rationalize it, convincing myself that the reported robbery had likely scared people away from traveling this road.

“Come, let’s go. It’s getting late,” Preye urged, taking my hand and leading me toward a narrow, winding path I hadn't noticed before. The trail snaked through the dense forest, its twists and turns making it difficult to see what lay ahead.

After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at a dilapidated family house that looked as though it had been abandoned for years. The structure was weathered and worn, with peeling paint and overgrown weeds choking the yard. A middle-aged woman with a little girl, no older than twelve, emerged to greet us, their faces expressionless. Another man stepped out from a small security house and asked what I’d like to eat.

“I’m not yet hungry,” I said to the man. “We just arrived.” But the truth was my instincts were screaming that something was wrong. The place was far from the magnificent home Preye had described. It wasn’t even half as decent as my father’s modest three-room house in the village. The compound was unkempt as if no one had tended to it in months. Moreover, the woman didn’t look like she could be his mother, and the man certainly didn’t resemble his father.

Preye frowned at my refusal to eat but quickly masked his disapproval. “Come inside, so you can rest,” he suggested.

I was reluctant to follow him and instead asked to see his parents.

“They’re inside the house. Come, let’s go meet them,” he said, a smile curling slowly across his face, one that never quite reached his eyes. His lips parted just enough to reveal a sliver of teeth, and for the first time since we met, I noticed how unnatural the smile seemed. It was as if it were forced by some unseen puppeteer, and it carried a hint of malice that sent shivers down my spine.

“I’m fine here,” I whispered. I couldn’t tell why that smile paralyzed me with dread. Maybe it was the screaming emptiness of the whole place or the way the middle-aged woman looked at me when she walked past. I felt icy fingers gripping my heart, squeezing tightly, making it difficult to breathe. Slowly but persistently, my skin prickled with intense, cold sweat. My mind raced, conjuring up worst-case scenarios.

“See, I no get time o. Follow me inside.” As he spoke, a chill settled over me. Who was this man who seemed to be transforming rapidly before my eyes? His voice had changed too, becoming a deep, gravelly whisper that reverberated through my bones. Each word was drawn out slowly, dripping with menace.

“No.” I shook my head.

What happened next caught me off guard.
He slapped me so hard that I crashed to the ground, my vision swimming as pain exploded across my cheek. For long seconds, I was blind, deaf, and dumb, reeling from the sudden violence.

“You are mad!” he screamed, his voice filled with rage.

“You think say I dey play with you?”

A loud ringing filled my head, and I struggled to get up, my body trembling. But Preye was relentless. He forcefully dragged me to my feet and slapped me again, demanding to know what I had expected when I decided to follow him down here. Before I could muster a response, he pulled off his suit and shoes, discarding them carelessly. He gathered my hands in one of his, his grip like iron. I fought to break free, but he headbutted me directly on the nose, a sharp, excruciating pain blinding me as darkness closed in.
I passed out.

****
Oghene

“Na this kain thin make me fashi church, I swear,” Agu murmured lazily, lifting his grease-stained shirt to expose his bulging stomach. We had just come out of the police station where I had been held since morning and had ordered some plates of pepper soup and drinks in a local bar nearby, the exhaustion and humiliation of the day weighed heavily on me.

It all started with a loud bang at my door, a noise so jarring it yanked me out of sleep. I stumbled to the window, peering out with bleary eyes. At first, I couldn’t understand why a police van was in our compound so early in the morning. But when I saw my landlord speaking to one of the policemen inside the van and looking towards my flat, I knew whatever this was about had to do with me.

With a sense of dread settled in my stomach, I hurried to my front door and unbolt it, but before I could grab the handle, the door was thrown open by someone on the other side, slamming me against the wall with it. Pain shot through my shoulder, and I barely had time to react.

In the blink of an eye, kpokpo men full my house. One dey drag me by my knickers, another one hol my shirt, and others dey shout for my ear.

“Rapist!”

“Na so una go dey disgrace men up and down!”

“See as im dey! See him face!”

“We go comot that preek wey you dey use rape women!”

There was no time for me to ask questions as I was dragged like a man wey steal fowl for market and bundled into their van. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. The van sped off some minutes later, followed by another car. My Rector’s wife’s car.

I had expected the day I’d be summoned to the police station because of this case, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would go down like this. With disgrace. Now my compound people don hear say I rape person. I couldn’t erase the looks of shock and disgust on their faces from my mind. Each face, each expression, was like a knife twisting in my gut. If I’d ever prayed for death to come faster or for me to vanish from the surface of the earth, it was at that moment because I knew this accusation had forever altered my life.

Even if I proved my innocence after all this, I’d never be the same Oghene. Something had snapped. My sense of self, my place in the world, it was all shattered.

“See ehn, if I was present at that police station, I would have killed a lot of people!” Skala said from the live video Shukudi initiated. “Ah-ah. What happens to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“You say! O’boy you think say here na yankee? Na Naija be this o,” Shukudi responded.

“But mehn, Naija is a messed-up country. You can’t try this shit over here. What the hell?

As I watched the men wein no wan make I cry my cry, the men who’d come through for me, as I listened to them rant over my case, I couldn’t help the cloud of tears that gathered in my eyes. It was difficult to reach Shukudi because I didn’t go to the police station with my phone. And when, after writing my statement, I demanded to make a call, no one offered me a phone. Not even my pastor’s wife. Not until noon when the DPO arrived and decided to grant my request.

Shukudi showed up at the police station with Agu so fast, and in less than no time, I was released on bail. I heard they didn’t pay a dime because Akan’elu got involved. The guy had friends in high places. He only placed a call to the Rivers State commissioner, and I was released. The relief was palpable, but it was quickly overshadowed by the dread of what lay ahead.

My problem was far from over, and top on the list was house hunting. I needed to leave my area before shame go kee me. By now, every fowl and goat wein dey street go don know say Oghene rape woman. All eyes would be on me the moment I stepped out. I really didn’t want to face my street people. Not now, not ever.

And I didn’t want to crash at Shukudi or Agu’s place. Those two had done enough for me; I wouldn’t want to be a bother to them anymore. Their kindness was a lifeline, but I couldn't lean on them forever as leaning on them no mean make I press them die. I needed to find my own way, even if it felt impossible right now.

Shukudi’s slap on my shoulder called my lost mind back to the present.

“Skalas is asking what you’d want to do now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d go home and rest for today,” I said, stirring the pepper soup in front of me that had gone cold. “Tomorrow, I’ll start looking for another house.” The thought of facing my neighbors again made my stomach churn, but what choice did I have?

“Definitely—”

“My thought exactly—” Shukudi and Agu said simultaneously.

But they were worried about tonight. How I was going to survive. Agu suggested I follow him home, Shukudi offered me the comfort of his home too. Skalas suggested a hotel; he would pay for as many nights as I would want to lodge there.

But I turned all their offers down. I had my own plan.

Tonight, I’d like to be alone. I’d like to set chairs so baba Godeh and I go yarn, we go run this night under personal relationship levels. I go wan tell the man wey dey for heaven how e dey me for mind. Jesus! He had to tell me why I was in this mess. What did I do wrong?

And how best was I supposed to handle this?

We spent the remaining evening at Agu’s place. By midnight, when we were sure my Neighbours had all gone to bed, Shukudi drove me home and waited for me to get int before he drove off. I packed a few things and left again.

The silence of the night was almost oppressive as I hurried down the street, braking only by the distant croaking of frogs and the occasional rustle of leaves. I kept my head low, avoiding any potential gazes from curious neighbors who might still be awake. I stopped when I got to the road and brought out my phone to book a ride. The battery life was only twenty-four percent. I hoped there would be electric power in my new workshop. The site had been fenced and there was an old, unused shed. I never knew I would have any need of it until now

In less than fifteen minutes, the bold rider pulled over by the site.

“Oga, na here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I watched him stare at the deserted looking place for a while, then he turned to look at me. I understood the fear in his eyes. The place was still a developing area with very little human activities. But I couldn’t think of any other place I’d want to be tonight. One leaf of the gate had given way to rust and had fallen to the ground. The shed had a door but no windows. The floor was rough and cold. There was no single light bulb in the place, but there was a socket that I could plug in my phone charger.

I closed the door behind me, spread the blanket I’d come with on the cold, hard floor and lay down. The solitude wrapped around me like a blanket, offering a brief respite from the turmoil of the day. Then my mind became a storm of thoughts and emotions, a mix of fear, anger, and sadness. But when I opened my mouth to kabash, one name pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. Ifenkili. I didn’t know where or how it was able to do that, pushing every other fear and worry to the back seat so it could take prominence.

The more I tried to push it away so I could pray for myself, the more it became a burden heavier than all I was going through put together. So heavy that I didn’t know when I began to mutter the name like a spiritual groan that could not be uttered.

Chai, Ifenkili don enter one chance ooo😭😭😭😭😭😭. Abeg make papa Goddey help her oo

Thank you for the update aunty Rosy. E sweet wella

Reading

Thanks for the update

Shey this Preye guy no be ritualist so.... Omo things dey happen ooo. Make nothing happen to Ife abeg.

Such a sweet one! On our knees, victory is assured... Rosemary33 (in a guttural tone) I need BLOOD more...

Chai!
Ife!
I feel for you.
All that glitters is not gold.

Thanks for the update OP!
More ink to your pen!

Aunty Rosie @Rosemary33,
Today is Sunday ooo, give us lunch ahbi na dinner we go chop today
Happy splendid Sunday Rosemary33

Rosemary33, thanks for the update. Please do weekend for us with a new episode.

Aunty Rosy Happy new month. How are you doing and how is the family.

Seventeen
Oghene

Sometimes, all it takes is one experience, one encounter, to believe, confess, and be convinced that Jesus is Lord. In my case, it wasn’t the pastor preaching salvation the first day I followed Ezioma, Shukudi’s wife, to their church. Nor was it the supposed life-altering miracle I witnessed at one of those big crusades usually organized at the Port Harcourt Liberation Stadium, where a blind man I used to see begging every weekend at Elekahia Road got healed.

My friend Agu had slapped my head and whispered to me, deflating my spirit completely as he revealed that the healed blind man was never blind. In fact, the man once worked as a security guard at Crowder Memorial Girls School and had retired, only to pretend to be blind to receive alms. It was clear that the minister who organized the crusade knew about the old man’s pretense and decided to take advantage of it.

My encounter also didn’t come from the beautiful woman who stopped Shukudi and me on our way back from the workshop to give us flyers, inviting us to her church’s Holy Ghost service.

“Make sure you come with your friends and your enemies,” she said, as if we were even going to read the flyer in the first place. But for some reason, I didn’t throw the paper away like I usually did. It remained in my hand until we got home.

My personal encounter was a near-death experience.

The uncovered septic tank where we used to draw water when we were still managing life in that uncompleted building was low, barely reaching my waist. The water in it was almost at the bottom. I could barely see it because the tank was very deep. The day after the crusade, there was heavy rain, and everywhere was slippery. I was fetching water when I saw a hawk descend and, with amazing sharpness, snatch up a chick from across the road.

It was funny, watching the mother hen scream and cluck loudly. But the hawk was gone.

As I turned back to my fetching duties, I slipped. The accident that all the boys sharing that uncompleted building feared would happen one day was happening to me. I was falling headlong into the deep tank, and my life was surely over.

I screamed so hard and squeezed my eyes shut. It was too late anyway. I was already over the short barricade and flying into the well. I wasn’t thinking about how I would leave this earthly plane so early. Instead, I was thinking of my maleh and who would take care of her in my absence.

I was still screaming, almost vertically inclined and about to begin my quick descent into death.

The contents of my shorts were already flying past my face and into the darkness when someone grabbed me by the neck and forcefully dragged me back.

That feeling of life, that relief after escaping the jaws of death? There was nothing like it.

With my eyes still shut, I turned to hug whoever it was, only to realize that there was nobody there.

I opened my eyes, turned back, and there was nobody. Nobody. Just… air.

Someone or something had pulled me from the brink of death, and to this day, I have no idea what or who it was.

My moment of realization came when I looked into the well, straining my eyes to see if maybe the person had fallen inside after pulling me out. I only saw the things from my shorts floating on the surface of the water.
And prominent among them, right in the center, was the pamphlet that woman gave me. On it was a picture of a man with a bald head and a soft smile, and some words boldly written.

“Jesus Saves.” How I was able to see that bold writing in such a deep, dark well, together with how I got pulled out like one being snatched from the jaws of death, has remained a mystery to this day.

So, on a cold night like this, when I couldn’t sleep because my brain refused to rest and my lips wanted to blame God for not caring for me enough to fight for me when men accused me for reasons best known to them, this profound “Wellish” experience blasts into my head like a slap, and I’d only groan and allow tears to flow.

My heart was heavy, my head a raging storm of thoughts. The words to express my feelings slipped through my grasp like sand. It felt as if God Himself didn’t want to engage in a conversation about my kasala because He had His matters too, but His steeze no gree am talk. And I didn’t want to pray the ‘thy will be done’ kind of prayer as the last time I did, the will showed me shege. I cried like a goat. Never again, abeg. Tonight, I wanted to tell Him how it was doing me, hoping He would come through. But since I entered this shade and shut the door, I had been awake, desperately trying to pray. But all I managed to do was groan, my tears streaming down unchecked, while my voice remained silent. The words refused to come out.

As the night wore on, I began to feel that urge again, that strong burden that settled on me when I first entered here, the one that made me mutter Ifenkili’s name like she was Lazarus in the tomb for four days and I was Jesus calling her back to life. The more I resisted the urge, like I did some hours ago, the more insistent it became. I wanted this night to be about me, my pain, my sorrow. Yet the compulsion to pray for Ifenkili grew stronger, deepening my sadness.

“Why, God? Why now?” I whispered into the stillness of the room, my voice barely audible. “Don’t I matter to You? Don’t my fears, my pains, my sorrows count?”

The room was silent, offering no answers.

“Na so you hate me reach?” I asked the darkness, my voice cracking with the strength of my feelings. “You no even wan reason my matter at all.”

As if it was by the door, waiting for an opening, the memories of my near-death experience, that time I almost died inside the well, resurfaced like a comforting assurance. I had been so close to the edge, yet God had saved me, even when I wasn’t fully His.

“You saved me then,” I murmured, a faint smile playing on my lips despite my tears. “You cared enough to save me. So why does it feel like You no send me tonight?”

The silence in the room was deafening, and I felt a flicker of anger mixed with my sadness. I sat up. “God, watin I do You?”

The only response was the quiet rustle of leaves outside, while the urge kept getting stronger and stronger, as if someone was piling stones on my shoulders.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and with a heavy sigh, gave in. At first, I grumbled the words. But after a few emotional struggles, it became easier. I found myself not just uttering intense pleas accompanied by heart-wrenching groans but feeling my love for Ifenkili seeping out of me like steam, settling like a suspended rain cloud over my head, its wind enveloping me like a forceful shackle.

“I love her,” I groaned. Even though after I learned of her engagement, after she showed me the ring and I saw how genuinely happy she was, I had wanted to hate her so much, for that was the only way I could let her go. “I love her. I love her. I love her.” I didn’t love her because she was very attractive, although that certainly didn’t help. Before we got this close and parted again, I’d sometimes catch myself staring stupidly at her, admiring her perfect profile, her watery eyes and those cheekbones, her figure and curves. And her yansh, God, she had all that and she knew how to flaunt it. Some people had the compassion and intelligence to become decent people while also being very beautiful, but Ifenkili wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t loud too.

After that night I learned about the engagement, I desired to hate her. And when that proved impossible, I hated how much I wanted her, how I wasn’t smart enough to just admire her and move on because that would have saved me. I also hated how she raised my hope only to dash it against the rock. She should have left me where I was. In the distance. Where I only had to stare and dream.

“She no send my papa, but I still love her.” And that hurt so much. We never really had a beginning. For her, it could be that day at the house opening party, or when I visited her bank. But for me, I simply dreamt of her and woke up loving her. For months, I fought this feeling, only to indulge a little when I was alone. Then we locked gaze one day in church, but we pretended what we saw in each other’s eyes wasn’t there.

“Ifenkili,” I whispered, shaking my head at the craziness of this night. It was as if I was being forced into confessing my innermost weakness instead of praying. “All the time wein we dey look each other, they form jagaban on top feelings… hell. What if I’d spoken up earlier? Maybe we would have been in a better place. She wouldn’t have had any space in her heart to accommodate this new guy because I’d take up every space.”

I took a breath. “I love you, Ifenkili. I love you.” The strength in those last confessions, like the first splash of cold water on the face, made my heart stop. Everything stopped. That place deep down inside me burned and tingled. “You are such a fool.” My voice wobbled. “And so am I. Maybe that’s why I love you so damn much.”

I didn’t know if what I was doing was praying or uttering selfish, carnal words I wasn’t supposed to be uttering before God. But as I went on and on, a strange sense of peace washed over me. “Come back to me, please. Ife, my love. Leave that man and come to me.” What was this? A deep call from an obsessed, finished man? Whatever it was, I didn’t care. What mattered was that I was pouring my heart out even though this wasn’t what I had in mind initially, and I was also finding solace for myself. The burden in my heart felt a little lighter, the storm in my head a bit calmer.

“Babe God, maybe You dey reason my matter small sha. You do care,” I whispered.

The room was still, but the silence no longer felt empty. It felt like God was listening. Somewhere in the corner of the room, I heard the faintest laughter and lifted my head immediately. Had I imagined it—was that in my head?

****
Ife

I woke up with ropes tightly binding my hands and legs. Preye sat beside me, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was stark naked, his eyes bulging like a madman. Fear thickened in the back of my throat as I considered the possibility that he had raped me while I was unconscious. But apart from a feeling of stickiness between my thighs, everything was intact—my clothes, my panties.

“You don wake? I been think say you don die o. I don dey pray make 4 nack so I ft go bury you.” He laughed, took a drag from his cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Where did we stop?”

I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry, and my tongue stuck to the roof as if stitched there. I managed to free it, swallowed the little saliva I could gather to moisten my parched throat, and began pleading for him to let me go.

He laughed again, took another puff, and a swig from his beer. “My sweet Port Harcourt baddie,” he hailed, laughing once more. “I’d rather die than let you go. Do you know how much you’re worth? If I get four more girls like you, I’d recover the money I spent wooing you and make extra gain sef."

The implication of his words seeped in slowly, making me sick as I realized I had been kidnapped by either a ritualist or an organ harvester. This large compound in the middle of nowhere was a den where captives awaited their ends.

The more it dawned on me, the more I felt hot urine pushing against my bladder.

“Please... I beg you, please. I swear I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.”

My plea infuriated him. He stood up. “Do you know how expensive you were? You made me spend money I didn’t have, yet you showed no full interest. I had to offer you marriage and get you a car so you could totally believe me.” He mocked me, recalling how quickly I accepted him at the sight of a ring and a car.

He called me a cheap LovePeddler deceiving myself in church. He didn’t even pay for the car he gave me; he had already arranged with the dealer to return it after a few weeks. By then, I would be dead, and he would concoct a believable story, which my neighbors would believe and allow him to take the car away since he had a spare key.

“You get luck say you dey bleed. I for do you watin no make sense,” he said with disgust. “I would have raped you until all your holes tore.”

H-he didn’t rape me? God! I never thought I’d be so grateful for my menstrual flow. But my relief was cut short when I remembered that I was going to die in this man’s hands, my body cut limb by limb, either used for money ritual or my organs harvested and sold.

“Preye, please—”

He drew close and punched my face so hard that I tasted my own blood. Then he began hitting me with his fists so many times that I passed out again. When I later opened my eyes, I thought I was dead. When my body registered the excruciating pain, I knew I was still alive.

He was gone, but I was still tied up. I tried to steady my breath and began the almost impossible process of untying myself. My bones were sore and weak, my limbs numb with pain, my throat dry, and I had peed on myself.

I was yet to begin untying myself when he walked back in with a pair of scissors and started tearing my clothes off. I was butt-naked when he was done. The sight of my blood on his bed seemed to piss him off. He slapped my thighs, stomach, and breasts, calling me messy and blaming me for soiling his bed with my dirty blood.

“Go clean yourself up,” he commanded.

When I didn’t move, he burst out in laughter. “Look at you. Handicapped. Way that your mouth way you dey use tell me say you don't want to have sex because you a Christian? The hand way you dey use push me, no be am I tie like this?”

He untied me and showed me the bathroom. I couldn’t walk properly as my whole body was a mess. When I finally reached the door he pointed at, I pushed it open and cringed. It was a tiny space with the smell of urine and dry poop on the floor. There was a sizable stick propped against the wall and a large bowl that seemed to take up the whole space.

I managed to get close to the tap, turned it on, and water rushed out, drowning his voice that was barking at me to hurry up and get back into the room. I must have stayed inside the little space longer than he expected because he lost his patience and burst in.
I didn’t wait for him to reach me. I grabbed the stick and hit him on the head as he pushed through the door. I didn’t think my action through, nor did I know where I got the strength to execute it. But I was grateful for the sudden rush of strength. I opened the door wider and saw him slumped on the floor. Quickly, I rushed out of the house naked. There was no sign of the woman and her child, nor the other guy. But the
the gate was locked, so I decided to try the backyard.

There were a lot of women’s clothes littered there, old wigs, and half-buried handbags. Shoes too. The fence was lower there, and some blocks were missing. I looked around, gathered some empty crates, and made steppingstones. I finally climbed over, landed on a farm, and started running.

I had never run like that in my whole life—naked, breathless, with pain searing my body.

Nice update
More wisdom

Thanks Rosemary33 for this update. I swear ife fall my hand when she accepted that preye guy. People should learn that all that glitters is not gold.

See me dancing like a child when I saw your update. After you na you. At least she's coming out alive. Glory be to God 🤸🤸🤸🤸🤸💃💃💃💃💃💃

I like this...

Thank you Rosemary ❤️

Thanks for the update @Rosemary33.

This is dope. We pin here

Eighteen
Ife

Many are mad, few are roving.

I wasn’t mad. Maybe I was because the few people I met along the Port Harcourt Elele Road at that wee hour of the morning, after I had navigated my way through the bush for what seemed to me like forever, stopping by at the broken fence of a secondary school, scaled through to get to the backyard where some girl’s uniforms were hanging on the line, picked one and wearing it, thought I was.

That or that I was an unfortunate lady who had fallen victim to the trending yahoo boys and had been used for rituals.

This misconception started when I was still in that secondary school and had the undersized school uniform on me. Some students, early risers, saw me and raised an alarm.

They were the first to call me mad, throwing sticks and pebbles at me even when I tried to make them understand that I was okay. I only needed help to get to the road. And if I could get a phone to make a few calls, that would be appreciated.

But the more I tried to make them understand my plight, the more their voices rose higher, their agitation grew louder. The sight of a disheveled, wild-eyed woman in a stolen school uniform must have been frightening. One girl came running forward, tears streaming down her face, crying for her uniform to be returned. Apparently, she was the owner of the uniform I was now wearing, while some others insisted she let the uniform go because, according to them, having one’s cloth taken by a mad woman could spell misfortune.

Ah! Me! Mad! Standing before a group of kids that would usually accord me huge respect as a big auntie, now looking at me with a mix of fear and curiosity, and trying to prove to them that I wasn’t insane but a victim of kidnap, really made me understand that one’s life could take a drastic downturn in a moment.

The commotion must have pulled some of their guardians out of bed. In a few minutes, four adults joined the scene. Three women and a man, all in various stages of early morning disarray—hairnets askew, wrappers hastily tied, sleep still evident in their eyes—dispersing the children with a cane and taking me with them to the security post. The man, who seemed to be in charge, barked orders for everyone to calm down while the women surrounded me, their faces a blend of suspicion and concern.

At the security post, a small room with a wooden desk, a few chairs, and a calendar on the wall, they sat me down. One of the women, her face stern but eyes kind, handed me a bottle of water and asked me to explain myself. I took a deep breath, the events of the past few hours flashing through my mind in a jumbled blur, and began to tell my story, hoping desperately that they would believe me.

As I recounted my ordeal, their expressions softened from suspicion to concern. The stern-faced woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Chikwendu, the school’s matron, interrupted me gently. "Wait, let me get you a fresh cloth first." she said, disappearing for a moment and returning with a simple, clean dress. "Here, put this on," she urged, helping me out of the borrowed school uniform and into the dress. The fabric felt comforting against my skin, a small respite from the nightmarish events I had endured.

"Do you have someone we can call?" the man, who I learned was the head security officer, asked.

I hesitated, biting my lip. The thought of calling someone—anyone—and narrating my story filled me with a deep sense of shame. How could I explain what had happened without sounding foolish? How could I explain what had happened without sounding foolish? Just a few days ago, I got engaged to a man I thought was the answer to my ‘God when?’ prayer. Now, I had barely escaped death at his hands. They would ask me how long I’d known him and if I was stupid to accept a ring from a man I had only met less than two months ago.

As I sat there, the name of that one person who might not blame me, who wouldn’t tell me I was responsible for what happened, eluded me. Even Ale wouldn’t spare me. Hers would be subtle, sprinkled in every word she would say to me, every gaze she would give me.

For some reason, I thought of Bro Oghene and wondered if I would have called him if I knew his number by heart. Would he blame me too? A part of me concluded he would. After all, I had left him for this man who turned my life into a nightmare. Yet, deep inside, a faint hope reminded me of what a perfect man he was—a mixture of kindness, a bleeding heart, big emotions, and an expansive mind. Even when the world felt dark and scary, he was the type who would whisk you away to go dancing, assuring you that laughter could ease some of the pain and beauty could pierce through your fear. He was a good man, and the odds of ever meeting someone like him again were as slim as biting off a piece of the rainbow.

But I wasn’t going to call him. Not because he wouldn’t come for me, but because I couldn’t face him. Not now. Maybe later, after I had gone through this ordeal, forgiven myself, and found my way back to some semblance of normalcy. Then, I might want to call him, even plead to see him again.

“Madam, don’t you have anybody you can give us their number to call?” the matron asked again, her voice tinged with concern.

The only option left was family—my brother. But I didn’t want to involve him. My mother and father were in the village, too far to help, and I wouldn’t want to agitate them. Tears welled up in my eyes as the enormity of my situation sank in.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "I don’t have anyone to call."

The matron looked at me with a mixture of pity and understanding. "It's okay," she said softly, patting my hand. "But can you remember your place? If we get a bike for you, can you find your way home?"

I nodded. “I stay in Port Harcourt,” I said. “I can find my way home if I get a bus going there.” The idea of going home alone aroused my anxiety. What if Preye found me again? What if this was just a temporary reprieve? I suddenly wished that he was dead, that he wouldn’t recover from the hit I gave him on the head. But what if he did? Quickly, my mind took a mental score of my journey from where I was held to this place. Did I leave a trace that would make it easy for Preye to find me?

‘God Abeg.’ I might die of fright if I ever set my eyes on Preye again. His cruel eyes and mocking laughter echoing in my mind still sent jitters through my body. I couldn’t count the many times I’d thought of that room he placed me, that seemed to morph into a threat, every creak of the old wooden floorboards that made my heart race, the ropes that had cut through my skin, the beatings he gave me, the thought of death. I wished one of these kind people could escort me to Port Harcourt, but that would be asking for too much. I’d rather try to be focused and alert.

I watched the women and the security man discuss among themselves, their voices low and serious. They decided to let me stay in the security post for the time being while the matron went in search of a trusted biker friend who’d take me home. But there was a problem, I was leaking blood so heavily that the fresh cloth given to me had already gotten soaked.

And I stank so badly, of stale menstrual blood and dirt. I wanted a bath, fresh underwear and a sanitary pad so badly. But I was too mortified to ask these people for further assistance. I’d never been in a condition where I needed assistance with my basic needs.

The head security officer handed me a cell phone. "In case you remember who to call, you can use this," he said. “Meanwhile, the bike man will be here soon.”

I nodded, clutching the phone tightly but unable to dial any number. My fingers stung and ached, but I still held on to the phone. I didn't know why tremendous shame and self-loath had suddenly joined the train of my feelings, why I felt so selfish and foolish. I shouldn't- shouldn't feel that way, should I? I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it.' I almost dropped the phone when it rang. “Sorry,” I said, picking it up from my thighs and handing it over to the security man.

I was foolish. I thought I knew Preye, but I didn't. I didn't even know what he did for a living, yet I accepted him so easily. My brother, Aleruchi... they didn’t stop me from making this mistake. There it was, the giant pain that cracked me in two if I thought about it too long. Why did I expect them to see what I couldn’t? They wanted what I wanted. This was on me.

I couldn’t shift the blame. I believed the illusion was real, and now I felt shame and anger, like I deserved this.

Society would say I deserved it, right? ‘You deserve what happened since you couldn’t see reason.’ It didn’t matter that I was deceived by a man I thought was my better half, that he preyed on naive women. If society could blame an online vendor for being unfortunate while making deliveries, or a job applicant who was murdered during an interview, they’d condemn me once my story hit social media. I prayed it wouldn’t, but I knew any of these people could be social media thirsty and use my story for popularity. So far, none of them had lifted a phone to capture my face. Maybe they had when I was too distraught to notice. I shuddered at the thought of my picture, looking like someone out of a mental asylum, making rounds on the internet with a misleading headline.

A Port Harcourt baddie runs mad after being held captive for days by her Yahoo boyfriend.

People would be drawn to it.

The matron arrived with a bike man and a nylon bag in her hand. “Come,” she said, helping me up and leading me to a smaller room in the security post. A few minutes later, she led me out, helped me onto the bike’s backseat, and handed me some naira notes and a piece of paper she wrote her number on.

“He is my cousin,” she said, referring to the bike man. “Call me when you reach Port Harcourt.”

I was grateful for the fresh underwear, although it was a little loose, and the tissue paper she handed me to soak my flow, even though I feared it would disintegrate and fall off with time.

The sun had sat perfectly in the sky when the bike man pulled over at the side of the road and announced that we were at the new road round about and wanted to know if I’d want him to continue down to Rumuokoro or turn left and head towards Eliozu.

It took a while for his words to sink, and a longer time for me to come up with a decision. And I was about to tell him to continue towards Rumuokoro when I heard a voice that tore my heart out. The sound of vehicles on rush hour wheezed past my ears, the angry shouts of the road safety men hauling insults on motorists distorting the rhythm, but all I heard was that voice calling my name.

Had I imagined it? His voice. Bro Oghene’s calling my name?

Definitely. For there was no way he could be here. Waiting, like a man on a bus stop, for a lost lover. Of course, what I’d been through had brought madness upon me, and that madness had worn me down. Now it was easier to hear what it said was there. A voice. A song. A breath. To see what it said was present. This way, it takes over my mind so I wouldn’t know where it ended and I began.

I heard it again. The voice. My name. Madness had completely taken over me because the sound was so close, like he was standing right next to me. Anxiety burned inside me like fuel, and I turned my head.
He was there, right beside me, staring at me.

“Ife what are you doing around here?”

My temples were pounding. I wanted to dismount from the bike, but I could not put my weight on my feet without falling. With my eyes still on his face, I tried to get a grip on the metal carrier of the bike behind me, but it was like there was nothing to hold onto.

“Are you okay?” he asked me.

“Oga, you know her?” The bike man who seemed to be in a haste to push me off his bike and drive away as fast as he could, asked.

I couldn’t tell whether I was the first to move, to throw myself into his arms or he was the one that lifted me off the bike and held me tight in his embrace. All I knew was that the whole of me had crashed against his body and he wasn’t ashamed to hold me so tightly, as if he feared I’d disappear if he let me go.

“Jesus. What happened to you?” His hands were around my waist—my waist! And they felt so right. I liked this closeness. Maybe I liked it too much. After I got tied up in that tiny room, I never thought I’d see him again. Never. And even after I got free, I concluded I wouldn’t have anything to do with Oghene. wouldn’t want to see him because I was too ashamed.

Now here I was sobbing shamelessly in his arms. My heart beats frantically, while he held me in place, only stroking my disheveled hair. Why on earth would a guy like him want to hold and sooth a girl like me?

And why didn’t I pretend like it wasn’t him but his illusion, so I could escape from him. It was the adrenaline rush. That was what it is. I threw myself into his arms because I was still experiencing the adrenaline rush from that brief moment I heard his voice. Or maybe it was madness that attacked my senses earlier. Now I’d forgotten how dirty I looked, the soaked tissue paper under my loose panties, the oversized dress that felt sticky somewhere at the bottom part. All that mattered was these arms shifts, and I love how that movement caused my body to shiver with comfort after a terrible long night.

Nineteen
Oghene

I went house-hunting this morning, and the agent took me to a two-bedroom apartment in a swampy area. When I complained about the canal at the back, the stupid man pointed at a stick in the water and said, “Look at fish!” as if I had told him I was looking for a house with a "point and kill" pond. Only God made me keep my fingers off that man’s face. I should have known early enough that this man was an agent of darkness sent to test my patience, and I had to walk away before I did something I’d regret.

I didn’t know how he convinced me to follow him to a second house for rent. This one had a grave site directly behind its window. When I pointed this out to the agent, the madman shrugged and said, “That one no be anything na. All of us go die one day. You, you no go die before?”

I simply told him, "Waka there." "God punish you," and left before I’d be tempted to curse him more while calling the name of the Lord in vain. “Forgive me, Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, briskly walking out of the street, crossing to the other side of the road, and waiting for any incoming bus that would take me to the workshop.

Tomorrow, I’d embark on another hunt. However, I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with this agent Agu recommended. Hopefully, I’d get another agent’s contact by the end of the day.

I would have left the house-hunting thing until this rape case was over. Making an abrupt change of location while the case was ongoing would set off a wrong signal. However, the atmosphere that greeted me this morning when I returned from my site was thick with hostility. My neighbors’ cold, silent stares conveyed their disapproval more clearly than any words could. They didn’t even bother to return my greeting. The final blow came about thirty minutes after my arrival. I’d had my bath and was getting ready to go to the workshop when my landlord knocked on my door, handing me a letter. With that single action, I decoded what was going on.

The 100% rent increase wasn’t about money but a strategic move to force me out. I suspected the other tenants had pressured the landlord, unwilling to share a building with a man they believed to be a rapist. And the landlord, caught between protecting his property and appeasing his tenants, had chosen the latter. Who would blame him? The poor man was just trying to safeguard his investment.

"Give me some time to find another place," I had said to the man after reading the letter in front of him. There was no point in arguing. This wasn’t about the rent. It was a calculated effort to make me leave. I understood the landlord’s predicament and held no grudge against him. Until now, the man had been kind and fair.

After the landlord left, I immediately called Agu, who gave me a house agent’s contact. Unfortunately, the agent only added to my frustration.

I hissed in annoyance and focused my attention on the road. Within moments, a bus pulled up in front of me.

“Rumuokoro!” the conductor shouted, to my disappointment. “Oga, you dey go?”

“No. Eliozu-Airforce,” I replied, and the bus zoomed off.

The next bus that drove past was full. My agitation grew as I realized how desperate I was becoming. A client was waiting for me at the workshop, and time was slipping away.

Then, a bike drove past and stopped a short distance away. At first, I didn’t pay much attention; my priority was getting back to the workshop. But when the next bus I waved down drove past without stopping, my frustration peaked, and I followed its taillights until they vanished in the distance. That’s when I noticed the bike again, and more importantly, the woman seated at the back.

The hint of recognition hit me like the first drop of unexpected rain—subtle but undeniable. Drop by drop, realization dawned on me. Her braids, her back—everything seemed familiar, yet unclear. Aside from the upper part of her ridiculous old maid’s dress, which looked somewhat neat, the rest of her was stained with patches of wet sand and what appeared to be dried blood. Despite her disheveled state, my heart lurched toward the strange yet familiar figure.

Another bus stopped in front of me. This one had space, but my attention was riveted on the woman on the bike.

“Airforce. Oga, you dey go?

I shook my head and walked towards the bike, a mix of hope and fear churning inside me.

“Ife?” I muttered, drawing closer. “Ife?” It was her. Jesus, it was her! And she was looking at me as if she just dreamed I was another person standing there, calling her name. Now that I had a good look at her, I noticed a little breakage. Or rather, a very noticeable one. Like glassware that had encountered a series of manhandling and was waiting for that one tap that would finally shatter it.

“Ifenkili, are you okay?”

“Oga, you know am?” the bike man carrying her asked. But before I could answer, she jumped off the bike, into my arms.

I had always thought of pain as a squeeze in the heart that made one scream so loud, a very visible thing that tossed breath into the sky like a ball. Instead, the one that left her to grab me robbed me of my speech and my air. I was pinned in place by the anguish she was transporting into me and I didn't know what to do.

"Ife, Ife," I kept saying, stroking her hair, her back, her waist, while she sobbed so freely on my shoulder.
I allowed her to press her face against my neck. My body sparked, and I couldn't move, except to draw her much closer, holding on to her so tightly, not minding the passers-by and the motorists staring at us. I was filled with concern, so big and terrifying it was as if I was with her in a dark place, falling into a deep well with her, spiraling down and down and down. And as frightened as I was, I didn’t want to come up for air and light without her. No one had permitted men to feel this way, and I thought I might not be allowed it. I combed my fingers through her cornrow hair, willing myself to be calm, for I felt she would also relax when I achieved calmness.

“What happened to you?” I asked her. But she couldn’t speak. She held me tighter, her body trembling against mine as she sobbed some more. “Where you dey go?”

“I don’t know,” she managed to say.

“Where you wan go?”

“I don’t know,” she cried.

I was confused about what to do with her and what to do with myself. She was like a scared child in a pit holding on to a rope that had been thrown down to her and wouldn’t let go. And I... I felt like the rope she was clinging to climb out. The weight of her pain was on me like a frozen knife stuck in my chest. An awful pain, but the funny thing was I seemed thankful for it. It was like her pain and my very existence were one. Like I was the one seeking release and not her.

“You go follow me go my house?” I asked her. I didn’t plan to go back home until darkness covered the sky. I wouldn’t want to meet the unsettling stares of my neighbors. But for her, for Ifenkili, I’d brave anything just to make sure she was comfortable. “Ife, you go go my house?”

She lifted her head off my shoulder, and as if she was just realizing that she’d been in my arms, as if she was embarrassed by it. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she nodded. Glanced up at me and lowered her gaze. “Yes. I-I follow you to your house.”

“Madam, your cloth done stain for back o. Be like say na blood,” a man said casually and walked past. It hit me immediately, the reason passers-by kept looking at us. At her first, then at me. It wasn’t because we were holding each other in a rather intimate way, but because she was stained and exposed and... I didn’t know?

She didn’t move. But I watched her face come down in a distressing frown. And when I asked, “Is that...are you...your period?”

She looked at me with a face that showed how much she wished that there was a trapdoor behind her. Just a little exit hatch she could disappear through.

Quickly, I pulled my shirt off. “Hold still,” I said to her and proceeded to wrap the shirt around her waist. Then I tied the sleeves in a knot.

“It... it’s going to get stained too,” she murmured as I took her hand and began leading her to the other side of the road where I hoped to get an empty taxi that would agree to take us to my house.

“No reason am,” I replied.

This life eh. Na wao

Hmmmm..
I dey reason am

Interesting

lonesome501:
Hmmmm..
I dey reason am

No reason am o