Chapter 1: Wetin Money Fit Do

Lagos sun fit roast person, but inside Shoprite, cold AC dey cool my sweat. Na there I dey help her carry shopping bag, dey smile like say my leg no dey pain me—even as the heat for outside wan finish me. If you see me that time, e go be like say I no get sense, but honestly, who no like better thing? Sometimes, just small breeze of enjoyment dey enough to make person forget all the wahala.

Every day, I dey hustle for her sake, dey run errands, dey do everything. Na so one fine boy enter the picture—wahala begin dey smell for air. The guy fresh like Instagram model, white shirt, shoe dey shine like new money. I dey watch am, my mind dey shake, because I know say my level no reach.

The day Ngozi break up with me, my mouth dry. If she collect that apartment back, na street remain for me. I gather courage ask her, small small, "Ngozi, that apartment wey you give me before, you..."

As I dey talk, my voice dey tremble. The thing heavy for my chest like yam. For person wey no get house, to ask about apartment na serious matter.

She just cut me off: "Abeg, just dey go."

She vex. For under hot sun, as she talk am finish, I carry the house paper run as if na my life dey depend on am.

As I dey run, sweat dey pour for my face. My heart dey beat gbim-gbim. I just dey thank God say, at least, she no collect am back. Even the agbero for junction look me as I dey rush with my file—dem just dey shake head, no even try stop me.