Shade sashayed into the noisy lecture hall with a smile stamped on her heavily powdered face. She was in good spirits. A designer hand bag dangled from her arm and her long manicured fingers clutched a shimmering new smart phone which she intentionally flaunted. Her stilettos made drumming sounds on the wooden floor as she walked up the aisle, scanning the lecture hall, looking for a convenient place to sit. She finally chose an empty seat at the back of the hall - unperturbed by disapproving looks from a group of gaily dressed girls sitting on her left. She disliked them; they were her former friends turned foes, the same ones who had ostracized her for failing to have a smart phone. Pretending to be engrossed with her new phone, she smiled intermittently, bursting into short fits of laughter at intervals, determined to draw the attention of her adversaries. Taking a sly glance towards their direction, she was confronted by envious faces which quickly turned away, chewing their gums noisily, pretending not to watch her. Shade was satisfied, the sacrifice for the phone was worth it. It didn’t matter that she had to stay up all night during the holidays, catering to the sexual needs of a man old enough to be her father.

A chat alert from Eric made her temporarily forget the girls. She had told him off a week ago. Though the romance felt good, the wads of note from her new sugar daddy felt better. Popping open the chat window, she was stunned by what she saw. The caption read, “Remember this?” Weeks back, on Eric’s request, blinded by passion and the excitement of finally owning a smart phone, she had sent him several poses of herself in her birthday suit.
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Sausage! Sausage! A customer shouted from a blue Toyota Camry. It was the call Akazua and his fellow hawkers waited all day for. Here on the road, their real names didn’t matter; they were called by the commodity they peddled. The sausage hawkers dashed after the car which began to slowly accelerate as the traffic started to ease, their rubber slippers flapped noisily; making slapping sounds as they ran. Akazua preferred selling to parked vehicles and pedestrians; the moving vehicles frightened him, but he ran all the same, till he felt a throb in his thighs and finally gave up when a bigger boy got the upper hand. It was difficult for him to keep up with the pace of his colleagues; they were older, stronger and faster. He sometimes stood awestruck whenever he watched his older colleagues running after fast moving vehicles; exchanging sausage for money in split seconds.

Akazua felt his stomach rumble in protest, he was hungry and weak; the carton of Sausage felt like a ton of brick, it tired his frail malnourished arms. His routine breakfast of Garri and watery Egusi soup usually gave him the strength to cope with the strenuous demands of hawking, but he had forfeited today’s ration, as punishment from his master incensed by his poor sales. He wished he had eaten, he preferred the occasional beating to the forfeiture of his meals—the pain from the whip was not as painful as the hunger pangs that now tormented his stomach.

Dropping the carton of Sausage on a stone pavement, he stretched his arms in a bid to ease his cramped muscles. He longed for his little village, his master’s cruelty made him homesick. He missed sitting with his siblings on the farm and roasting salted yams till they turned brown. He missed the thatched primary school and Uncle Idibia his English teacher. He had enjoyed going to school, now he looked forlorn at kids dressed in school uniforms and chauffeured by doting parents. His master had promised his father he would send him to school in return for his domestic services, but he had since reneged on his promise. Akazua groaned, angry at his father for giving him out to his cruel master for monetary gains.

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Abike was apprehensive, Madam Tura was travelling and she dreaded the outcome of her absence. She sluggishly packed Madam Tura’s bag, slowly arranging the items in the bags many compartments. For a moment, she stopped packing and gazed into space, wishing she had supernatural powers to prevent Madam Tura from travelling.

“Abike am getting late, please be fast with that bag,” Madam Tura’s voice echoed from the hallway where she stood scrutinizing her shoe collection; confused by the vast variety. Reluctantly, Abike hastened up and when she was done, she unwillingly dragged the bag to the sitting room. When a ravishing dressed Madam Tura emerged, Abike realized her silent wishes couldn’t prevent the inevitable; Madam was indeed travelling. Madam Tura failed to notice the distress written all over her troubled maid; her mind was preoccupied with her trip abroad.

After checking her luggage and ensuring all the necessary items were in place, Madam Tura turned to Abike who stood idly in a corner. She held Abike affectionately, ruffling her coarse hair and pinching her nose in a playful manner. “Abike be a good girl and make sure you don’t do anything that would stress Oga. You don’t have to do much, the freezer is filled with cooked food—make sure you ask Oga what he would eat before you defrost and heat it.” Madam Tura ranted on about her expected chores, eliciting a “yes madam” from Abike who nodded her head in the affirmative.

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