Chapter 1: The Day Everything Scatter

I no even wait make sun rise finish—carry my bag, wear my slippers, waka go clinic before anybody fit suspect. I waka straight go the private fertility clinic and replace my husband frozen sperm.

You know when trouble just dey your neck, you no get time to play soft. My head dey hot, body dey vibrate, but I no gree show am. Na so I tell myself: 'Ngozi, if dem wan do craze, you go show dem you sef sabi road.' The air for Lagos that morning be like say e wan choke person. Danfo dey horn anyhow, hawkers dey shout gala, and my sweat dey run for my back like small stream. But my mind dey sharper than ever.

When hospital call make I come confirm the body, I carry Olumide nearly stiff hand press am for the equity transfer document. His hand cold like iced fish, but I press am well, make blood mark the paper.

I tie my wrapper well, adjust my scarf, waka enter the mortuary with leg wey no dey shake. I hold my wrapper, smell that sharp mixture of Dettol and cold, and the sound of generator humming for background. The smell of disinfectant nearly suffocate me, but I hold my breath, focus on my mission. This kin matter no be small play — Naija woman must use sense pass everybody.

As the funeral dey about to finish, my husband so-called 'the woman wey dey shine for him eye since university days'—Aisha Bello—show with lawyer and him will. Her lace gown bright pass everybody own, and she carry herself like say na she get the burial.

People for compound begin dey whisper. Some dey do fake tears, others dey peep with corner eye, dey wait to see if wahala go burst. For our side, once lawyer show face for burial, you go know say matter don wear trouser. Even the caterer sef slow down, dey watch drama. The jollof rice for cooler dey cold, nobody chop.