A lovely story, but just like others pointed out, you need to work on your tenses and spelling errors. And lastly, from my little knowledge, you need to improve on your narratives. It's the key ingredient in telling a story. From what I learnt, it's more interesting showing than telling. For instance :

He shouted at his wife and slapped her. (TELLING)
The echo from his voice was accompanied with a deafening slap which left his wife cowering. (SHOWING)

Like my Northern pals would say. "Bola, you are good ney".


;DA lovely story, but just like others pointed out, you need to work on your tenses and spelling errors. And lastly, from my little knowledge, you need to improve on your narratives. It's the key ingredient in telling a story. From what I learnt, it's more interesting showing than telling. For instance :

He shouted at his wife and slapped her. (TELLING)
The echo from his voice was accompanied with a deafening slap which left his wife cowering. (SHOWING)

Like my Northern pals would say. "Bola, you are good ney".

izywzy:
short but interesting story filled with moral lesson. Nice one

Thanks a lot

jessyjames100:
such a nice story

Thanks ma'am.

TomTheleader:
Wao keep it up

Thanks sir.

Adadinmaa:
Weldone, I enjoyed reading. Looking forward to more stories from you.

Thanks very much sister, you're too kind. I promise not to fail you.

Adadinmaa:
Weldone, I enjoyed reading. Looking forward to more stories from you.

Thanks very much sister, you're too kind. I promise not to fail you.

Make una help me comment na. Readers in the house, how far the story, e make abi?

18 hours earlier
It was on Monday morning, Bola woke up a little bit late. "Aaaaarh!" rubbing her hands against her eyes she yawned. Suddenly, she sprang up from the bed when she noticed it was past 7 o'clock already from the big black clock nailed to the wall. She tidied her room and head for the Fagir's believing Mr Fagir must have left for work. Without knocking, perhaps not to disturb the sleeping Mrs Fagir, she opened the door to their room.
"Oh!" her mouth wide open, she said - "am sorry sir, I never knew you were around". She closed back the door immediately.
"I told you I don't trust this girl, see how she opened the door without knocking". Mrs Fagir complained to her husband in Arabic. "But she didn't know I was around, she was only here to check out on you". Replied Mr Fagir.
"I don't trust her"
"Oh, not again Salma, someone who takes care of you while am away at work now seems suspicious, after several months with us"?
"I don't know, my instinct tells me she's of no good". Feeling defeated, she turned away from her husband and threw a tantrum hitting the bed lamp with her hand. All the while, Bola had been standing by the door, eavesdropping. She heard and understood every word that was said, she had ears for language.


Makpo's barber shop received low patronage in the early hours of the day. Although, on a busy working day, he would hardly find time to rest. As he cleaned the shop getting set to attend to the first customer of the day, a young Libyan who came for a cut the previous night but left after waiting for too long. Suddenly, a strange looking man walked in, same strange man who had met with Bola at the busy intersection the other day. He moved straight to the customers chair wanting to get a cut. As he sat, the young Libyan looked him in the eyes as if to say, I was here before you. But the rock-hard face from the strange looking man was intimidating. With every one quiet, Makpo wrapped him up from his neck down to his knees with a plain blue cloth, quickly, he reached for his already sterilised clipper and starts to shave the stranger's moustache. All the while, the young Libyan looked in amazement. In less than 5 minutes, Makpo was through. The stranger quietly dipped his right hand into his pocket and brought out a piece of brown paper which he gave to Makpo and peacefully like a saint, he walked out.
"Wakam asm"? The young Libyan asked to know if the stranger was deaf.
"Naima walbukum" (yes and dumb) Makpo replied not looking at the boy.
"Ya fuqara' la (oh poor him).
Later when Makpo was alone, he checked to see what was written in the paper passed to him by the stranger.

IT HAPPENS TONIGHT
BE VERY WATCHFUL.

At the Fagir's house, breakfast was ready. Bola had cleaned up Mrs Fagir and taken her to join her husband at the living room, where they normally sit and eat.
"Thanks Khadijat, less I forget, my children are returning back from school tonight. So, you would follow us to the airport. And, prepare couscous for dinner, it's their favourite. "Alright sir". Bola could hear her heart beat as if it was with her on her hands while she left. For one moment, she panicked and wished for more time. But the earlier the better, things had to be done perfectly, if not, she would be doomed.
As the clock tics, it was already 18:00 o'clock in the evening. Mr and Mrs Fagir together with Bola, were at the arrival lounge of the Tripoli international airport awaiting Arush and Ziya. Other families were there too, some were seen with placards carrying different names and welcome wishes.
"Are you OK standing"? Mr Fagir asked his wife.
"Yes", she replied. She actually was feeling very strong, perhaps due to the fact, she was going to reunite with her children. It showed in her face. While the couples held hands, Bola was standing a little distance from them. She was tensed but managed to stay calm. Suddenly, a feminine voice echoed from the hall speakers, announcing the arrival of the flight from Egypt. First, in Arabic, and then French and finally English. Everyone watched with great interest.
"Habbi habbi" (my love my love). Mrs Fagir muttered as she smiled with her eyes saturated with tears, she pointed at her children. "Arush! Arush!" Mr Fagir called.
Arush having heard his father's call, tapped Ziya, and pointed at their parents. As they got to their mum, they hugged passionately like it was their last. The already waiting tears sprint down from Mrs Fagir's eyes as she continued muttering "habbi habbi habbi". Mr Fagir wrapped his bogus hands around his family forming a big sandwich of a happy family leaving the skinny Bola standing aloof as she steered on. Not disturbing the family's cuddle, she went for their luggage. The bigger ones must be for Ziya, boys hardly travel with heavy luggage, she thought. Arush and Ziya hardly noticed Bola. Perhaps, their eyes were clouded by the joy of meeting their parents, most especially, their sick mother. The family cuddled up more as they made way for the exit, while Bola struggled behind them as she pushed on the cart containing Arush and Ziya's luggage. Having arrived at the Fagir's house, everyone was sited waiting for diner. Bola was already at the kitchen about to serve couscous with vegetables sauce and fried chicken. Quietly, she tiptoe towards the entrance of the kitchen to see if anyone else was close by. Although she could hear laughter coming from the living room. Certain, that no one was coming, she dashed back to the cooking stand, her right hand dipped into her bra as she brought out a concocted wrap of sleeping medicine which she mixed with the vegetable sauce.
"Khadijat". Mr Fagir called for she was already taking too long. Hurriedly, she stepped out carrying two big food flasks, ceramic plates, glass cups, and spoons on a sparkling silver tray.
"Hi Khadijat". Arush said. Surprisingly, everyone looked up in unison, as if he had said the forbidden word. Except for Bola who was trying to place everything in order.
"Hi". She whispered shyly as she quickly rose up and paced back into the kitchen to fetch water and juice. Later she retired to her bedroom waiting to see what happens next. While in her room, she could still hear the family talking, Arush been the loudest and Ziya sometimes but inaudible. At 20:57, Bola couldn't hear anyone talking, quietly, she head towards the living room. Her heart pounded like never before. Their, she saw the entire family laying by their food. She had never been this scared. As she drew closer, she heard Mr Fagir snoring faintly. Quickly, she dashed into Mr Fagir's bedroom, under their bed was the box. Without wasting much time, she struggled with the box and managed to pull it to the living room. She opened the entrance door of the house, composed, and walked through the poorly lit pathway towards the car parked outside. Maintaining same pace, she reversed the car and drove closer to the balcony. She maintained her calm, not to alert perhaps already sleeping neighbours. Bola went back inside, straight to her room, she carried her already arranged big black bag. On her way out, she figured the box was of more importance, so she dropped her bag, walked back in and carried the box with great distress as she staggered with it. While outside, she dropped it inside the boot of the car. She jogged back inside, this time, she picked the car keys on top the glass center table, there still laid the Fagirs like logs of wood. With her bag in her arms she walked out, locked the door from outside and zoomed off.
After a few minutes drive away from the Fagirs, she let out a heavy sigh of relief, "phew". Driving at a steady pace of 60km per hour, she headed for the old GARRAGE. Her motive to meet her undercover boss, she had been the undercover maid. For a moment, she realised she was been tailed, she wondered who it was. Certainly not Mr Fagir, at least he's got several more hours of sleep. Not the police too, they would certainly order her to pull over. Trying to outrun the car, she stepped more on the accelerator. As soon as she arrived at the GARRAGE, their, was standing Balcham, beside a black Benz with its doors open. Not long, the tailing car arrived.
"Where is it"? Balcham asked.
"In the boot". She answered.
Immediately, Balcham whispered. Like ghosts, two heavily built black men appeared from behind Balcham like aliens, without been told, they went for the box in the boot and dropped it in front of Balcham. Balcham openened the box and the smell of dinar oozed. Bola's eyes opened wider at the site of it, but Balcham was unmoved. All the while Bola wondered who was behind in the tailing car, even Balcham seemed unconcerned. For the second time, Balcham whispered, like zombies, the heavily built men went for the tailing car behind Bola. As they returned, they were holding the driver firmly on both hands as he struggled with them. But this wasn't part of the plan, Bola wondered. Close enough, the unknown man looked familiar.
"Jamal" Bola yelled like she had just seen a ghost. Her mouth and her eyes opened in disbelief. "what are you doing here"? She echoed. Makpo was equally shocked and confused - not for seeing Bola though, but for being held ransome by this heavily built men he wondered. He kept his calm. Maybe Balcham was only playing a game.
"Jamal" Bola called once more still looking for an answer.
"Hey hey". Balcham interrupted giving a devilish smile.
"Jamal? that's your new name now"? Balcham asked Makpo, though not wanting a reply.
"Well, you guys have done a fantastic job here, and like in every game, there is always a loser and of course, a winner". In the darkness one could see his very white teeth as he smiled while he talked. "For tonight's game". He cleared his throat. "Of course am the winner, living you the losers". He points to Makpo and Bola. "So, that means I get the money in the box and you get nothing. But, I been a very nice man, I intend to compensate you with a token, at least, for your troubles. He dipped his hands into his pocket and dropped two wads of dinar. Looking very furious now he said: "that's 50,000 dinar for each of you, you have only tonight to leave Libya. Bola had started crying already. Makpo's eyes, desert dry, still in shock. With a whisper for the last time, his two heavily built body guards took the box stacked with money into the boot of the black Benz and drove off disappearing into the darkness.

Now
The night was pitch black, except for twinkling stars decorating the sky. The crescent moon was too young to brighten up the vast earth. Wind whispered, crickets chirped, dogs barked but no one talked. Makpo and Bola sat on the floor like refugees. Tears kept on walking down her cheeks as she sobbed. Makpo was filled with regrets, he wanted talking but didn't know how start or where to start from. But somehow, he started talking. He owned my shop, my house, my car...he owned me. I was his errand boy, his watchdog, his tool. I never gave no for an answer, I obeyed instructions. Tracking you, was supposed to be my last job before I go back to Nigeria with 3 million dinar, so we agreed. But here, here I am all f****d up. As if no one was talking, Bola picked herself up quietly, holding on to her 50,000 dinar, sluggishly, she staggered away like an injured sloth as she fades into the darkness.


THE END
Drop your comments please. It's actually my first piece of work. Thanks for reading.

***
Libya - 2days earlier
On Sunday morning at the Fagir's house, nothing had changed. The humming sound from the air conditioner, Bola in the kitchen preparing breakfast, Mr Fagir at his favourite spot holding the day's paper with eyes focused on it. The only noticeable change was Mrs Fagir. She gets pale as the clock tics. She had been sick for sometime until she was diagnosed with leukaemia - a rare cancer of the blood forming tissues. It was solely because of this reason Mr Fagir had Bola working for them. Thanks to a trusted friend of his - Balcham. On a meeting with Balcham at a local restaurant Mr Fagir let loose his guard, he complained bitterly of his predicament to Balcham like Balcham was his god while they await their order sitting by the window.
"Balcham am fed up, am confused, I don't know what to do. Ever since my wife was diagnosed with cancer my life had been ruined. I clean the house, do the laundries, though that doesn't bother me much, but the food, the food Balcham. I just learnt how to cook pasta. Things would have been easier but Arush and Ziya are still on section at school.
All the while, Balcham patiently listened. He was a fine man, a complete opposite of Mr Fagir. He had firm cheek bones, daring eyes, his moustache neatly trimmed. And whenever he spoke, it was sonorous - one can always tell he is highly educated. "unfortunately I can't seem to find help" Mr Fagir continued.
"Hm, Fagir, only you in such a mental anguish. I pray you get out of this misery soon". Balcham said as he gave his friend a gentle tap on the shoulder.
"So what are your lay in provisions as regards your wife"?
"well my doctor referred us to India"...
"Yes, they are fantastic over there". Balcham chips in.
"So I heard" Mr Fagir affirmed.
He said we may be lucky to get a likely donor of newly generated blood cells, how they so it, I don't know".
"it's a complicated process Fagir, but how do you intend to foot the bill"?
"I have about ten million dinar". Raising a brow, Balcham asked like Mr Fagir had committed an atrocity. "In the bank"?
"No of course, in my save at home".
"Oh! that's wise". It was actually atrocious keeping such a huge amount of money in the bank just being an ordinary civil servant in Libya. Such money may be confiscated and the owner charged for embezzlement of public fund. "I intend to gather some more, pending when Arush and Ziya would return, because we all will be making the trip.
"Cool, cool, Fagir I think I could be of help as regards the house help issue". "Really". Mr Fagir's face lit up for the first time since their meeting.
"Yeah, I know a friend who accommodates those immigrants from West Africa". Referring to himself.
"No no no no, I heard they are very dubious".
"don't be judgemental". Balcham interrupted. "Yes, some are dubious like we have dubious Libyans too". Surrendering his statement, Mr Fagir replied. "You are right though, how do I get one please"?
"Don't you bother, I'll give you a call".

"Breakfast is ready sir" Bola said to her boss at the balcony. Alright, I'll be in soon. Is my wife up yet"?
"Yes sir, I cleaned her up already she would join you soon".
"Alright, I'll take care of my wife after breakfast, you can go out and catch fun, eh".
"I would love to Sir, thank you sir".

For the past few months, this had been the lifestyle of Bola. Cook, clean the house, do the laundries, clean up Mrs Fagir whenever she was too weak to take her bath herself. The pay wasn't that encouraging, 5 dinar weekly. Although she never complained, at least she had a room over head, she can eat whatever she wants and of course she had a motive. And again, thanks to Jamal, he had always been comforting, she would laugh at his funny jokes. The way he talks alone can make one laugh.
Later Bola set out, heading for Makpo's barber shop after been permitted by Mr Fagir. As she walked along the busy pedestrian lane, she noticed been followed. The figure undoubtedly takes the shape of an elderly male. She wasn't bothered though, the street was quite busy. No one would be so bold to hurt her in the view of everyone, she thought. While she was about crossing the busy intersection, the street light went green, which means she would have to wait for the next red and consequently the strange man would get to her. As the stranger gets closer, she recognised him in his disguise. Putting her hand in her chest as if to hold her heart in place, she eaved a sigh of relief. Standing by her side, the stranger slipped a piece of paper and a whitish powdered substance wrapped in a small transparent nylon into the side pocket of her jilbab. Suddenly, the red light came back alive, every waiting pedestrian crossed, including Bola, except the stranger who stood still like a British Queens guide in their famous red and black uniform. After walking a few distance, making sure she was alone, she opened the paper which read:
TOYS WILL COME
SLEEP WILL FOLLOW
OLD GARRAGE
22:00 22-03-06

***
After six years, Bola's family was doing better, at least, they've got two university graduates, an uneasy fate for such a poor family. The two graduates had promised to support their mother when they secure a job. This alone was relieving for her, though she knows she's got more tasks ahead.
One beautiful evening when the sun was about retiring to bed, and animals were beginning to return back to their abodes. Someone visited, a bosom friend of Bola. From a distance Bola's mum could see someone approaching. The picture became clearer as the figure came closer. Anita was short, chubby and light-skinned. Her skin seemed so smooth and surple, like a few days old baby. Her wavy walking steps were calculated like a bride walking the ailse.
"Good evening ma" her sweet voice greeted. Shuffling through catalogues of pictures in her brain to recollect the face, Bola's mum looked puzzled.
"Mama it's like you no recognise me again".
"Naim I dey look so my pikin, the face dey do me like person wey I know".
"Na me Anita, Bola's friend for Educh girls school, her friend wey dey follow her come house, come eat sometimes". Just then the picture appeared very clear.
"O o o, na you", as she hugged Anita. "Abeg sidown jare, aha! you come fat o, you wey dey 'legelege' like rope before", they laughed. "you come fine o my pikin, see as your body fine like woman wey get belle", as she continued mocking.
"Mama na God o, how this side na"?
"Fine o my dear".
"What of this small boy, hmmm"
"Tunde"?
"Yes, Tunde".
"Ah! na big boy now o, he don go field since go play ball. Make them buy something for you na my pikin".
"No mama, am okay, thanks".
"Oloyibo" (grammarian), they laughed again.
"Mama na something carry me come see you".
"Hope no problem", Bola's mum replied looking anxious.
"No, mama". Looking a little bit relaxed, Bola's mum asked - "na wetin come happen o my pikin"?
"I see Bola for Italy".
KABOOM! it sounded like a terrible bomb blast to Bola's mum. The one thing she knows about Italy is prostitution. She had seen on TV twice, Nigerian deportees from Italy, females most especially alleged for engaging in prostitution. In a recent case it was 103 girls who were deported she had thought.
"Mama you dey hear me so"? Anita asked the already confused looking woman. "I dey hear you my deear".
"So we discussed at length, Bola body fine and she look like person wey get money. Bola's mother's mind gets disrupted occasionally. Italy? if it were to be England, USA or even Spain it would have been better but certainly not Italy, she thought.
"After everything, I collect her number", as she dipped her right hand inside her Chanel designer black bag to fetch something. Bola's mother's eyes followed in anticipation.
"This na her number mama, wey I collect, you go fit reach her through this". The taught of getting to hear her daughter's voice after many years lifted her already dull spirit a little.
"Alright mama, make I take my leave".
"OK my dear, salute your people for me".
"Good bye ma", she said as she walks away.

Later that evening, when everyone was around, that is, Bola's mum, Kola, another of Bola's younger brother, Kike and of course Tunde. Their mother narrated her ordeal with Anita. The conclusion was to give her a call that night, for a moment, frenzy filled the air as no one knows what to envisage.
"Tunde take this #200, go buy MTN recharge card come". Their mother insructed passing the old naira note to Tunde who left happily.
Resting on a dirty brown termite devoured table was a mobile phone - Samsung RH220 commonly referred to as blue-face, owing to its blue back light screen. The phone was gifted to Bola's mum by her elder brother who lived in Lagos, working with a famous detergent manufacturing company. The house was poorly lit due to low voltage of power supply. The rusty ancient fan, hanging from the brown ceiling rotates with a screeching sound helping to spread the stench of pasty locust beans emanating from their mothers room. Soon Tunde appeared holding a rectangular shaped hard yellow paper.
"bring am come". Kola ordered as he collected the card scratched open the silver panel concealing 12 digits. Swiftly he picked up the phone on the table, loaded the voucher, collected the white piece of paper from his mum containing the supposed Bola's phone number, and dialed.
"E dey ring o". He passed the phone to his mum. From the phone's speaker, a female voice answered - "hello!", instantly Bola's mother responded.
"Bola emi ni, mama re, lati Nigeria". (Bola it's me your mum from Nigeria).
"Am sorry I don't know you", echoed from the phone already placed on loud speaker. For a moment, shock filled the air. Their mother repeated.
"Bola, abi oogbo ni, emini, iyare lati Nigeria". The receiver was silent this time. Kola collected the phone thinking maybe their sister had lost ears for yoruba, he said to the receiver in fluent English - "hello, this is Kola your brother from Nigeria, mum wants to talk with you".
"This is Segi talking", the receiver replied. With anger and desperation, the young Tunde collected the phone from Kola and exploded. "Sister Bola na Tunde dey talk, I know say na you, mama wan follow you talk". Pissed off, the receiver replied angrily - "sorry, am Segi not Bola please don't call this line agian". Pum! Pum! Pum! the line cuts off. The remaining part of the night remained graveyard silent. The only one who spoke was the fan, annoyingly it gave a screech-screech-screech-screech sound. Everyone was disappointed but, somehow, convinced it was Bola they spoke with. Luckily, they've had their dinner before the call, if not, the beans porridge they ate would have tested like garlic blend with bitter leaves. Later that night, every one of them retired to bed. Sleep wouldn't come apparently, but when it came everyone followed except their mum. Every event, from the arrival of Anita to the end of the call played on repeat in her saddened mind. As she laid on her bed looking up the dark ceiling, she rubbed against her breast with both hands praying God protects her daughter wherever she may be.

Back in Nigeria, it's been six years since Bola was heard from, the 16th day of February 1999 to be precise. A time when only the rich could afford telephones. NITEL (Nigerian Telecommunication) was the only available telecommunication network affordable to only a few. Letter writing, was however, the major means of communication. Whenever Bola would call home, it was Fidon's dad's telephone line it would be. Fidon was a family friend, and they live 3km away from Bola's house which made it difficult, fetching Bola's mum whenever there was a call. This implies, her mother had never spoken to her since her demice. She would often ask Fidon - "na where Bola dey self"?
"Na Libya o, mama", Fidon would reply.
One faithful day, Fidon visited, on his head sited a big blue-white 'Ghana must go' bag.
"ko ko ko, who dey" Fidon knocked at the door. Reaching the door to ascertain who it was, the tiny squeaky voice of Tunde, Bola's younger brother answered.
"Yes who be that"? On noticing it was Fidon at the door, with so much excitement like a man who had won the American visa lottery, he dashed back inside like flash to fetch his mum.
"Mama mama, bros Fidon don come, he dey call you". Hearing Fidon, his mother's face brightened up spontaneously as they both head for the door with Tunde following behind like a duckling. It wasn't difficult to decipher her origin. Her face designed with the peculiar Ibadan tribal marks like the tally connotations in arithmetic, her subcutaneous fatty layers danced to every step she took. Even haven spent decades in Delta, her deep yoruba accent won't fade off.
"Ah! Fidon na you"?
"Good afternoon ma".
"Afternoon, aha! You no enter house"?
"I dey hurry ma", of course he wouldn't want to sit on those bedbugs infested chairs.
"How you dey na" she continued the pleasantry.
"Fine ma".
"How your papa"?
"Fine ma".
"Your mama nko"?
"Them dey fine ma".
"She send message come abi"?
"yes ma, she even call say make I salute you. She say she dey fine". Tunde standing beside his mum already tired of the pleasantries wished the bag be opened as soon as possible.
"oomo eyan ki"? (don't you know how to greet), she queried given him a stern look. "good afternoon sir" he greeted hesitantly.
"Tunde how are you na"?
"fine sir"
"mama make I dey go, na wetin she send come be this".
"OK my pikin, God bless you o, anything wey you dey find you go see o".
"amen ma"
"you go marry better wife o"
"amen ma".
"you go born better pikin".
"amen ma".
"emi gigun" (long life).
"amen ma".
"salute your papa for me o, na chance wey I never get I for don come salute am"
"no problem ma, good bye ma". Fidon left. Tunde struggled with the heavy bag trying to take it inside.
"you go fit carry am so"? Asked his mother. Panting hard he replied "yeeees"
The arrival of the goody bag brought happiness to the house, every member of the nuclear family got at least two gifts each. However, there was a little moment of sadness.
"Una papa no dey to see all this things". Their mum cried. "Mama e don do na". Bola's younger sister Kike wiped her mother's eyes with her wrapper trying to comfort her, tears ran down her eyes too as they both sobbed. Tunde however, seemed not disturbed for he was already outside flaunting his toy binoculars and a Nintendo game to his friends as they gathered around him like ants feasting on an open blue box of St Louis sugar. Bola's dad had passed away few months after her Departure. Some rumored it was because of Bola's unannounced disappearance. Her mother had been the one catering for the family ever since then with little proceedings she made from the akara (beans cake) and akamu (pap) she sold. She had ever since then promised to sponsor her children till they attain tertiary level of education, as two were already in the university studying Economics and Microbiology.

SORRY FOR THE DELAY.

UNDERCOVER MAID
a short story

UMAR YUSUF

Undercover maid is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All right reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, transmitted in any form, or stored in a retrieval system, without the written consent of the author.

Comments are highly welcomed.

***
The night was pitch black, except for twinkling stars decorating the sky. The crescent moon was too young to brighten up the vast earth. Wind whispered, crickets chirped, dogs barked, but no one talked.
Makpo and Bola sat on the floor like refugees. Tears, kept on walking down her cheeks as she sobbed. Makpo was filled with regrets, he wanted talking, but didn't know how to start or where to start from. But somehow, he started talking. "He owned my shop, my house, my car... He owned me. I was his errand boy, his watchdog, his tool. I never gave no for an answer, I obeyed instructions. Tracking you, was supposed to be my last job before I go back to Nigeria with 3 million dinar, so we agreed. But here, here I am, all f****d up".
As if no one was talking, Bola picked up herself quietly, holding on to her 50,000 dinar, sluggishly she staggered away like an injured sloth as she fade into the darkness.

Libya - 3days earlier
Makpo met Bola at Tripoli, Libya, on a hot Saturday afternoon during his fortune hunting, a common dream shared amongst many Nigerians in the late 90s.
Libya, a member of OPEC, sits top North of the African map bordered by Algeria, Chad, Niger, Egypt, Tunisia and South-Sudan. She is predominantly dominated by Arab Caucasian muslims. The major spoken language is Libyan arabic though english is spoken in major cities.
Taking a cruise around the streets of Tripoli, one can't help but notice young boys driving flashy cars. On a regular working day, traffic was enormous, pedestrians were not left out, and also, a few bystanders. The view was always lovely - young girls were modestly dressed in massive flowing hijabs leaving only their faces visible. After a long walk, one can cool off with a chilled glass of fresh milk and honey tasting date fruit. Life was so sweet and smooth, no wonder, the regular influx of West African immigrants.
"Hey! hi! hello!" almost shouting as Makpo approached Bola, walking very fast with great intent like a cheetah, ready to pounce on an innocent prey. Bola continued walking without looking back. It may be she was ignoring the call or, perhaps the noisy nature of the busy market wouldn't allow her hear. As Makpo pursued, he manoeuvred through the crowd often rubbing against persons and sometimes hitting some.
"Sorry - excuse me - sorry".
"Watch your way young man". An unknown voice said in Arabic as he struggled through.
Luckily, just behind Bola, he gave a gentle tap on her shoulder, saying - "salamu alaykum". Looking back angrily wanting to hit this stranger with the sack she was already tired of carrying
"Yes, what"? angrily she replied.
Even though she was angered, her facial expressions could hardly conform to her mood. Her brown bulky eyes, sharp pointed nose, perfectly curved lips, all fit to her oval shaped face. Her brown shawl almost match her chocolate sleek skin. Still looking up at the 5'5 feet tall stranger, she longed for a convincing response.
"You look stressed up, may I help you"?
Makpo counted his words as he smiled. Surrendering to this equally handsome lanky dude, she passed the sack.
"You are Nigerian, right"? Makpo asked.
"Does it tell from my looks"?
"Hmm, maybe, but your accent though".
"And how do I speak"? She let's a smile.
"I can't really say, but I've been with Ghanaians and Sudanese, I can tell when they speak".
"Are you a linguist"?
"Sorry"?
"I mean do you study languages"?
They managed to escape from the crowd as they exit the market.
"No, it's just part of me... So are you Nigerian "?
"Why so curious"?
"Oh sorry am Jamal. Please to meet you "
"Khadijat. Same here".
Having a pseudonym for Nigerians in Libya, was a norm. A Moses from Nigeria having arrived at Libya would metamorphose to Musa, and of course David would be Daud.
"Mr Jamal, if you don't mind I'll love you to stop here". Stretching her skinny hands to collect the sack. Even though Bola was a secondary school dropout, she spoke fluent coherent English.
"OK ok"
"Thank you so much Jamal" as she quietly left.
"Can I have your number"?
"Maybe next time"
"What if there isn't next time"? makpo speaking louder.
"Unless you are dead"
"Sorry"
"I said God bless you". She yelled.

Mr Fagir sat on a locally made raffia palm chair relaxing at the balcony. By his left hand side, sat two grey ceramic pots of orchids swaying in obeyance of the gentle wind. By the right, was standing a tripod stool carrying a chilled glass of orange juice and a plate of locally made bread. And just over his head, extends a tarpaulin from the roof protecting him from the scorching sun. Looking keenly, as he occasionally flipped the pages of the newspaper. Bola soon approach the balcony heading for the house. "You took long today", Mr Fagir said hoarsely with eyes still focused on the papers, a thin frame of spectacles rests on his nose.
"Too many people, eh"?
"Yes sir", the market was quite busy today". Mr Fagir continued reading while Bola walked inside. Bola would sometimes wonder about her boss' look. Virtually everything about him was big and fat. Fat flabby stomach, fat hands and legs, fat nose and even a fat head resting on an almost lost neck. Complicating his funny looks, was his bushy moustache which he seldom fondled with when deep in a thought. She liked him though. He's nice and friendly too, a character which contrasts his looks. He treated her like his daughter, sometimes, he engaged her in discussions like a father would do his daughter. Of course an habit Mrs Fagir despise. Often she would say in Arabic: "You are too open minded, you don't discuss such detailed issues with your maid". It actually paid off for her, because, Mr Fagir had ever since then refrain.

Few weeks had gone by, Makpo and Bola had gelled. Whenever she was free, she would visit Makpo at his barber shop, sometimes at his home.
Makpo, lives in a self-contained apartment among some few noisy neighbours. He had always blame them for been idle, but receiving monthly stipends from the Muammar Gaddafi led government. Being a Libyan, and having clock adulthood, one is entitled to monthly stipends. Very often, Makpo and Bola would discuss about their goals, which was crossing the coast to a mountainous Italian island - Lampedusa, from which they can easily get to Sicily and perhaps other parts of Europe. A common dream shared amongst many Nigerians in Libya. Libya was, but a temporary abode. "You won't believe I met a girl yesterday begging to stay with me", Bola said as she filed her nails with a metallic abrasive.
"You don't mean it". Makpo replied.
"From my observations, she just came into Libya".
"Shuuu! Makpo exclaimed, looking amazed.
"With the current influx of immigrants I wonder of what would be of our fates.
"Ah! you too dey speak english self, wetin you come tell the girl na". He spoke in pidgin, as he dropped his phone wanting to pay more attention.
"I told her I can't help, but gave her five dinar, she looked hungry and tired".
"Eyahh! you try sha. Abeg o make we don waka before this people go come put sand for our garri". Makpo was more fluent in pidgin, a factual attribute of a Deltan boy from Nigeria.
"I pray so o" Bola said.
"Person suppose carry enough 'bread' to take block all those olokpa wey dia eyes dey shook like bottle". They laughed.
"Ehen o, how much you don save self Khadija"?
"Enough, but, not enough for the trip".
"Well, me I don gather 10k, na make man still dey hustle sha".
"That's cool". Bola replied.
They where quiet for some time. Bola was still shaping her nails, while Makpo went through a new hairstyles magazine he had recently bought.
On their first date together at Mapko's house, Mapko behaved like a kid who intends stealing meat from a cooking pot. While Bola was lying side down in his bed, he tip-toe towards the bed and gently laid beside her wanting to smooch, as he was already having a boner from dirty taught he concealed of how he was going to rump her, like he did other innocent Nigerian girls.
"Stop, stop, stop". Bola said.
"What, is it your first time"? One could hardly hear Mapko, he was already in another realm.
"No, it's complicated".
"Complicated, how, are you menstruating"?
"No".
"Then what"? Still holding on to Bola.
"Are you sick"? he continued.
Inaudibly she said, "am HIV positive".
"You said", wanting to hear well.
"Am HIV positive". It sounded very clear this time and rang in his head like a thunder clap. Mute in his reasoning, he remembered been warned once in a dream by a prophet to be careful with girls. Immediately, his for long erected penis lowered down like a deflated tyre, with humility. His grip on her loosened like a cut strap of over stretched rubber band.
"But you look healthy, HIV and AIDS patients always look sick", he wondered.
"I use anti-retroviral drugs".
"Oh I see". As Bola left that day, she couldn't help but laugh out loud while walking on the street like a lunatic. HIV and AIDS, God forbid she thought.