Chapter 4 - Everything Has Gone Wrong
Morenike
I jolt awake at dawn. The rain has stopped, leaving behind its scent and the faint drip of water, dripping from the roof outside. Pale sunlight slips in through the cracks of the single grimy window in the apartment, painting our tiny refuge in a dull gray. For a moment, I forget where I am as an unwanted memory forced its way to the forefront of my mind: an old rickey yellow bus written off, the dank motor park, a cold voice demanding payment.
Exhaling shakily, I push tangled locs away from my face and lean against the damp wall. Sleep in this place was fitful but it wasn’t just this place, no matter where I sleep, I find no peace in it.
Across the cramped space, Olanrewaju shifts on the threadbare mattress. A low groan escapes him, his brow creased even in his dreams. Dark circles bruise his eyes; he looks older than he did last night. I wonder if Adenike, the woman he called “the Devil,” visited him in his sleep.
I stand carefully, the chilly concrete pressing against my bare soles. My clothes feel stiff against my skin, still damp from the previous evening’s storm. If not for the warmth that I carry within from which I gave Olarenwaju, we probably would be sick by now, sleeping in our wet clothes like that.
I shrug off my soaked jacket and drape it over a rickety wooden stool. The kerosene lantern’s flame extinguished sometime in the night, so the weak morning light is all we have, the sun rays illuminating the motes of dust flying about.
As I move, my mind drifts to the day I was “bartered” to Baba Ola—a day that taught me the depths of human depravity. My uncle had crashed a Danfo bus belonging to the feared thug-lord, incurring debts he could never repay. In exchange, he offered me up like a goat at the market.
I remember the cruel set of his jaw when he spat out the terms. I remember my aunt’s silence—no protest, no plea, nothing. Though, it would have been surprising if she had fought for me, still, a part of me wished she hadn’t been so unbothered, just sat there chewing gum loudly and counting the meagre change from selling her poisonous herbs that day, as if nothing of import was happening around her.
They took me that same night. I was not even given a moment to process what was happening to me. Just like that, I had been married—sold off, and my bride price was a damaged Danfo bus. That was the day, I died my first death.
***
Baba Ola’s compound was just behind the motor park; a sprawling arrangement of makeshift rooms and corridors, all steeped in the stench of stale beer and engine oil, and fear. The gates were bolted shut with thick chains at night, and armed enforcers roamed the perimeter like rabid dogs.
Inside the compound, I was handed off to his wives—four women who regarded me with a mixture of contempt and twisted amusement. “Another mouth to feed,” one sneered. “Useless prostitute,” spat another. They circled me like a vulture did to its next meal.
Over the following days, they tested me. It began with chores from dawn till dusk—scrubbing filthy floors, hauling water, washing the wives’ clothes. Their punishments were brutal if I so much as slowed to catch my breath. Bruises bloomed across my arms and ribs from constant slaps or jabs with a belt. They pried at my pride, calling me names, spitting threats. The youngest wife, hardly older than me, had eyes hollow with suffering. But she still tormented me, perhaps desperate to curry favor in that twisted household.
Baba Ola was oblivious to what I suffered at their hands, the only thing he cared about was the torture he meted out on me every night when he took his pleasure.
Then I miscarried the first pregnancy, the second, the third, the fourth—by this time, I was no longer a useless prostitute to the four other women but now a witch who fed on the souls of her unborn children. And to Baba Ola, I was a worthless basket that could not hold water, only good for pleasure and always and the receiving end of the punches he threw.
By the time I had my fifth miscarriage, I couldn’t take it anymore. And that was when I died my second death.
A muffled groan from Olanrewaju pulls me back to the here and now. He opens his eyes, disoriented. A flicker of confusion crosses his face—perhaps he had expected to wake at the bottom of that river or floating atop of it.
“Morning,” I murmur.
He sits up, wincing as though every muscle aches. “How long was I asleep?” His voice is rough with fatigue.
I shrug in response.
He glances around, taking in the squalid surroundings. “I almost forgot where I was,” he mutters. “I dreamt I was still on the bridge.”
A shiver runs through me at the memory of him perched on the edge, an instant away from falling into oblivion. But judgment isn’t my role here; I’m merely a guide.
Easing onto the floor, I cross my legs and look him in the eye. “Last night, you said you wanted to live,” I say gently. “Was that desperation talking, or are you willing to fight for it?”
His shoulders slump. “I’m scared,” he admits. “Everything…everything has gone wrong. You don’t—”
“I understand more than you think.” My voice is soft but unwavering. “I’ve seen misfortune. If you really want a chance at rebuilding your life, you’ll have to face what—and who—broke it.”
For a moment, he closes his eyes as if the weight of it is too much. “Adenike,” he whispers at last. “She’s the cause of it all. I don’t know how to fix any of it.”
“Are you sure?” I ask without a hint of sympathy.
“I don’t under—”
“That Adenike is the sole cause of your misfortune? Think well before you answer. Healing begins the moment we confront ourselves with solemn honesty.”
Olarenwaju is silent for a while and when he finally speaks, he begins with a sigh, “My thoughts… my life… it’s all so… I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start by surviving the morning,” I reply with a curt smile. “We can’t do much in these wet clothes, so let’s see about some food and a change of clothes. After that, we’ll talk about your next steps.”
He nods, indecision warring with relief on his face.
Outside, I hear the city beginning to stir: distant horns, hawkers shouting, footsteps squelching in still-wet roads. It’s a reminder that life carries on, even when we’re weighed down by our darkest secrets.
“Where do we get clothes?” he asks uncertainly.
I rise, rummaging through a worn plastic bag in the corner. “I keep a few odds and ends.” I toss him a faded T-shirt and a pair of threadbare trousers. “They might not fit perfectly, but at least they’re dry.”
He runs a hand over the fabric, managing a faint smile. “Thank you.”
I shake my head. “No thanks needed,” I say briskly. “I’m changing too.”
I unceremoniously peel off my shirt, revealing my bra underneath, I take that off too. And Olaranwaju awkwardly looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly.
We don’t speak as we both change out of our clothes, but there’s an odd intimacy in sharing this cramped space. Sometimes I catch his gaze on me—maybe curious about this stranger who calls herself an agent of destiny.
When we’re both dressed, I unbolt the battered door. Rain-washed air hits us, smelling fresher than it did last night but I know it will not last, this city is filthy and it is only a matter of time before its signature rotten odour takes over.
I pause at the threshold. “Ready?” I ask.
“No,” he answers. But he steps out of the apartment.
To be continued….
Let’s discuss this week’s episode. When you picture Baba Ola, what does he look like to you or what do you think he looks like?
Also, as usual, forgive typos and errors. I'm self editing and bound to miss things.