₦airaland Forum

This is better for us than political arguments everyday.

Op I supported you with few likes
Nice narrative

PlayerMeji:
Kicking the door, waving a 44

All you hear is ' Poppa, don't hit me no more..'

On ur mark, get set, when I spark, u wet.
Look how dark it get, when you're marked for d**th...

This is a very interesting stuff

Keep it coming

Something tells me already that Amaka will destroy funmi somewhere down the line...

It's just a matter of time

bluefilm:
This is a very interesting stuff

Keep it coming

Something tells me already that Amaka will destroy funmi

i see that coming as well. She wouldn't like the love twist.

ayandee:
i see that coming as well. She wouldn't like the love twist.

Aswear

Highseek123:
My mind is telling me that Bashit we be the son of the police that died.

Same here

Please come and finish your story oooo , I cannot waste my time to read an incomplete story

One of the best things I have ever read on Nairaland. Pls continue

This is really commendable and I will just drop my own fictional story here too .

I've got a sci-fi and some bad ass horror story. Which one to drop fess??

This is a very interesting story. Continue

Please continue with the story.

what is all this

Here for the continuation

Nice story.


I fear for Ella, she shouldn't have told Amaka about the Gab incident.....She might use it to blackmail her tomorrow, "women supporting women" na scam.

Bahamas95:
Nice story.


I fear for Ella, she shouldn't have told Amaka about the Gab incident.....She might use it to blackmail her tomorrow, "women supporting women" na scam.

Yes she should have kept it to herself.

merits:
Yes she should have kept it to herself.

[color=indigo]Lol. You think it's easy to bear the weight of such secret alone

Intriguing storyline...
[/color]

No update yet, pls continue millions of us here are waiting for your updates

Waiting to hear that you and Bashy tied the knot ...

goog

When ever you started a story and you did not finished it it becomes useless, so please can you finish your story.

My friend come and complete what you started

But trust was a luxury I could barely afford.

Was Bashy’s love real—or just another form of control?

I didn’t know yet. But for the first time, I wanted to find out.

Bashy’s attention was intoxicating, like a cool breeze on a scorching day. His presence felt like a fragile promise of something better—something more real than the cold transactions I was used to.

We met often, in discreet locations—private suites, exclusive lounges, quiet gardens behind expensive hotels. He made sure I never felt rushed or pressured. Instead, he was patient, almost gentle, which was foreign to me.

One evening, as we sat sipping mint tea on the balcony of a luxury hotel overlooking Lagos’ twinkling skyline, Bashy reached out and took my hand.

“Funmi,” he said softly, “I know your past is complicated. But I want you to know that with me, you don’t have to hide.”

I looked down at our entwined fingers. For a moment, I almost believed him.

But then, that nagging voice whispered inside my mind—warning me not to trust too easily.

“Why me?” I finally asked, breaking the silence.

Bashy smiled, but it wasn’t the carefree smile I’d seen before. It was serious. “Because you’re different. Because I see strength in you, even when you try to hide it.”

His words stirred something fragile inside me—a hope I had long buried.

Still, the world I lived in didn’t allow for easy trust. I had seen too much betrayal, too many lies.

One night, after a particularly lavish dinner, Bashy surprised me with a small, leather-bound journal.

“I want you to write in this,” he said. “Your thoughts, your dreams—anything you want. It’s yours.”

I held the journal, feeling its weight. A symbol of faith, maybe. Or a trap.

I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing:

With Bashy, the line between business and something more was blurring.
And I was standing at the edge, wondering if I dared to jump.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself a glimpse of normal life.

With Bashy’s quiet encouragement, I finished my Higher National Diploma certificate—the proof that I had once been a student with dreams beyond the streets and smoky hotel rooms. His belief in me stirred a flicker of hope I thought had died long ago.

“You have so much potential,” he said one evening, his eyes shining with conviction. “You deserve to build a future beyond this.”

I wanted to believe him. More than that, I wanted to believe in me again.

Then came the news: I was posted for my National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in Delta State. A chance to step away from Lagos, from the past, from the shadows.

I told Bashy, expecting him to be happy for me.

He was.

“Go,” he said, but his voice was thick with something I couldn’t place. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

The day I left, he bombarded my phone with calls—dozens every day. His voice messages were sweet, sometimes desperate, pleading for me to stay safe, to call him, to think of him.

But I was out of his reach now, and for the first time, that felt like freedom.

Delta State was different—a slower pace, wide-open skies, a chance to breathe. I threw myself into the service, the routine, the anonymity.

Still, every evening, my phone buzzed with his name lighting up the screen.

Sometimes, I answered.

Sometimes, I didn’t.

And each time, I wondered:
Was Bashy’s love a sanctuary... or a cage?


Delta State was supposed to be my clean slate.

That’s what I told myself when I first arrived in Sapele for my NYSC posting. I wore my khaki uniform with a strange mix of pride and guilt. The days were simple: teaching at a nearby secondary school, marking papers, participating in community development projects. It was a quiet life—on the surface.

But the hunger beneath never went away. Not for food or shelter—but for the power, the control, the comfort that money brought. And the quickest path to all three? Men.

This storyline is highly commendable. Please keep it up. You're impressing the whole of Nairalanders!

Awesome....pls continue

Madam OP good evening, u haven't update the story ooooo


Please do

Nice one op.
We need some more.

But the hunger beneath never went away. Not for food or shelter—but for the power, the control, the comfort that money brought. And the quickest path to all three? Men.

They found me easily. It didn’t take long. Even with the modest uniform and the braided hair under my jungle hat, they still saw her—the girl who knew how to smile just right, who carried herself like she was always five seconds from slipping away.

One of them was Chidi.

I met him at a senator’s daughter's wedding in Warri. He was tall, light-skinned, soft-spoken, and wore his wealth like a second skin—Rolex on one wrist, a gold chain peeking out beneath his white senator wear. He said he owned filling stations, trucks, and half of Abraka.

“Call me anytime, baby girl,” he said as he pressed a thick wad of cash into my palm after our first night together. “You’re different. Not like the others.”

They always said that.

Still, I took the money. And I kept answering his calls.

Chidi wasn’t just a fling—he became a routine. He came to Sapele most weekends, taking me to private villas and upscale lounges where no one would guess I was just a corps member on a ₦33,000 monthly allowance.

Meanwhile, Bashy never stopped calling.

Every day, like clockwork, his name lit up my screen:
“Bashy ❤️ Calling…”

At first, I answered. I told him I was tired, busy, stressed with school duties. He believed me.

Then I started ignoring the calls.

One day, he sent a voice note:

“Funmi, are you okay? You’re not picking my calls. Are you avoiding me? Don’t shut me out. I can come to Sapele. I want to see you. Please.”



I stared at the message and didn’t reply.

The truth was, Bashy’s attention now felt like a chain. And Chidi… Chidi was easy. He didn’t ask for emotions. Just laughter, company, and silence where it mattered.

Bashy might’ve loved me.
But Chidi paid me.

And right now, love didn’t pay rent.


---

By the middle of my service year in Sapele, I had become two women.

By day, I was the responsible corps member—neat khaki uniform, head buried in lesson notes, nodding politely to village elders and attending CDS meetings with a straight face.

By night, I was someone else entirely.

Sometimes, that meant soft sheets in Chidi’s guesthouse in Warri, a bottle of Moët on the bedside, and a fresh credit alert waiting in the morning.

Other times, it meant sitting on my mattress in the corpers’ lodge, whispering sweet nothings into the phone while Bashy poured his heart out from Lagos.

The guilt used to come like a flood. But over time, I taught myself to compartmentalize. To file emotions into boxes and lock them away. Bashy represented safety, sincerity—even a future. Chidi was ease, power, and quick cash. I told myself I could handle both.

Your writing prowess is commendable, keep it up.👍

Bashy represented safety, sincerity—even a future. Chidi was ease, power, and quick cash. I told myself I could handle both.

But balance is a dangerous illusion.

Bashy’s messages became more emotional, more frequent.

“I miss you. I’ve been planning something for us after your NYSC.”
“Do you still love me, Funmi? Or have you forgotten me in Sapele?”
“I know when someone is pulling away. Just tell me the truth.”



I’d reply half-heartedly: “I’m just stressed with school duties. It’s not you, Bash.”

Sometimes I muted his calls while lying in bed next to Chidi, my body warm and my mind cold. When the guilt crept in, I’d shake it off by reminding myself: Love is beautiful, but love doesn’t buy a plot of land.

Chidi never asked questions. He liked the arrangement as it was. A beautiful girl who didn’t stress him, who made him feel like a king and left before dawn. The money kept flowing. The gifts kept arriving. iPhones. Cash. A new bag every weekend.

But there was a moment, one evening in early April, that shook my regular sound.

I was on a call with Bashy, telling him I couldn’t talk because I was in church. In truth, I was wrapped in a white towel, about to order pepper soup in Chidi’s suite.

And then Bashy said quietly, “I’m in Sapele.”

My heart skipped.

“What?” I whispered, stunned.

“I came for a business meeting… but mostly to see you.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Chidi was in the shower. His wallet lay open on the table beside me, a platinum card peeking out.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I said, scrambling to sound composed.

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Are you at the lodge?” he asked.

I swallowed. “No. I’m at a friend’s place. I didn’t plan to go back to the lodge tonight.”

He was silent for a beat. Then: “Can we meet tomorrow?”

“Maybe…” I lied. “I’ll let you know.”

Wahala

Bashy is becoming more and more needy. It's sad.