Chapter 1: No Secret for This Abuja

For money, I climb enter Lanre bed—a big man wey dey among Abuja people wey get name.

No be only him name big for mouth; na the way people dey yarn about am for pepper soup joint, how women eyes dey shine once dem hear say Lanre dey around, and even oga at the top go lower him voice if Lanre waka pass. Me, I no ever plan say na so my life go be, but as dem dey talk for my area: person wey no get choice na him dey chop frog.

For over a thousand nights, Lanre find new way to make my life hard.

Some days, him voice cold like Harmattan breeze, dey cut through me. Other days, he go hold my face gentle, whisper small soft words—just to turn round and fling me like old wrapper. I dey count the nights for finger, before the thing turn story only my body sabi remember.

Later, when the woman wey him heart dey beat for since dem small—Ronke—return come Nigeria, I quietly run commot, carry belle join am.

No drama, no noise—just silent packing before cock crow, like the women wey waka before me. Only difference be say, this time na pikin I carry. My chest heavy like stone, tears no gree come out. For Lagos bus park, I hide my face, clutch my small nylon bag, dey pray make Abuja person no spot me.

I tell myself say our road no go ever cross again.

For my mind, I believe say for this big country, Abuja fit hide plenty secrets. My plan na to vanish, start new. But as life dey be—e dey spin like danfo wey dodge pothole, e go always turn bring you back where you run from.

Five years pass, na my pikin nursery school teacher call say she miss.

I nearly faint, my heart dey beat kpokpo like Yoruba talking drum. I run from house to school, barefoot, scarf fall one side, breathless, dey call her name with mouth wey no fit form prayer.

I search everywhere until I finally see two figure—one tall, one small—stand for my door.

My leg nearly fold. Sun dey high, sweat dey my back, but na cold dey my hand. The small one dey swing bag, slippers dey tap ground. The tall one—Lanre—just dey look sand, face tight. My mouth dry, words hide for throat.

My daughter dey lick lollipop, her words muffled: “Mummy, this fine uncle say na him be my papa, but you talk say my papa don die before, abi?”

She look me with that innocent face, lollipop stick already red. For that moment, na God hold me make I no faint. Even the fine uncle—Lanre, my past wey no gree die—just dey watch me with eye like, 'Wetin dey happen?' The air choke for my throat, I just manage smile, but my spirit dey shake. I dey pray make ground open, but Abuja no dey swallow secret—especially not this kind.