Chapter 1: Pepper for Eye

When we dey together, my boyfriend dey always remove my glasses, then tell me how e like my small, squinting eyes wey resemble hibiscus flower.

Sometimes, the way he go look me finish, he go brush my cheek with him thumb, whisper say, "See as your eye dey do like baby wey no sabi wahala. I dey reason say if person pluck flower for wet season, na so e go resemble you." I go blush, dey cover my face. E go just laugh, say, "Amaka, your wahala too much." For that moment, I dey feel special, as if na only me dey shine for am inside the whole of Lagos.

But all that change the day I jam am dey gist with another person for Mama Kemi's bukka.

That afternoon, e dey rain small, so everywhere dey muddy. As I dey waka pass the buka, I just see Lanre, my Lanre, dey sit with one guy for plastic chair under faded umbrella. Oil dey bubble for frying pan, and the air thick with gist and Maggi smell. The smell of fried fish and agidi just dey float for air, and I dey think say maybe I fit buy small beans go house. I no even plan to catch anybody. But na so God arrange am.

"She no dey see well, so anytime I wan run my small wahala, she no fit catch me on time—she just dey there dey collect am."

The way he talk am, e soft, almost like joke. E tap table with knuckle, raise brow as if e dey give secret. The guy wey dey with am burst laugh, slap him thigh.

"Omo, e no dey ever boring."

The laughter choke for that small buka, mix with sound of spoon for plate. My own heart skip one kind beat as I dey try hear well.

One guy laugh, then ask am how e take win me.

Lanre just smile like say e dey hide something.

The smile no be the normal shy one I sabi; e carry small pride. He lean back, raise him voice so all dem wey dey chop yam for corner fit hear am.

"All these home-trained babes, dem dey the same. Na only the man wey really wan marry dem go see their real self."

He look the other guy like say make e learn from am, voice low but sure. I just dey hide, dey wonder who be the real Lanre. The one wey fit dey talk like this or the one wey dey tell me for house say na me be the flower for him garden?

"I just buy one old, rough face-me-I-face-you, put only Amaka name for the paper."

As he talk am, the pride for him voice heavy. He no mind say the house old, say na sign of real commitment, na 'yam' as e go later call am. My chest dey rise with confusion, my inside dey quarrel.

"She come dey emotional, think say I don use all my money for her sake. How she wan take refuse me?"

The guy nod, whistle. "Sharp guy!" Another round of laughter scatter the place. Inside me, wahala just dey build up. I dey reason whether na me dem dey talk about or another Amaka, but I know my own story—e too match. The pain na like pepper for eye. I wan shout, but my throat lock. Even my glasses no fit hide the tears wey dey threaten. But as I stand for that muddy street, one thing clear: this wahala never finish.