Chapter 1: When Wahala Finds You Again

The third year after I fake my own death, I really believe say my wahala don end for good.

You know as e be for Lagos—if you run pass your shadow, you go dey check under bed before you sleep. That year, I swear, all my wahala don end. Na only fresh air and better sleep remain. If person ask me, I go talk say I no dey owe anybody trouble again.

But the day I push open my front door—na so I see more than a dozen machetes, sharp and shining, all pointing straight at me.

My chest freeze. The compound smell like burnt diesel and old sweat. Before, na only generator sound dey my ear, but now, all I dey see na eyes, machete, and shadow—people balance well, steady like bouncers wey no dey smile. My heart jump enter my mouth.

The main man, the same person wey I stab before, turn around, give me one wicked smile, and talk, “Long time no see, my sister.”

The grin for him face no be ordinary—na the kind wey senior man fit use break coconut, wicked and full of old wound. The kain confidence wey dey for him step be like person wey don pay him tithe finish, nothing dey shake am again.

My legs just fail me immediately. I try step back, but one hand hold me for back.

I think say if I fit run, maybe dem go forget me. But my leg no gree move. As I step, my slippers nearly cut, and na so one heavy hand grip my shoulder like local bouncer for Mushin roundabout. My voice nearly lost inside my throat, na only my heart dey drum kpaka-kpaka.

As I turn, trembling, na my former fiancé I see—the same man wey I disgrace for public.

Him face still dey show small pain, but the power for him grip shock me pass. The kain person wey I once dey toss anyhow for palace now hold me like say na yam wey him wan peel.

Standing by his side was the main woman, the same lady whose name I once scatter.

Halima bite her teeth, her voice cold like Lagos rain, full of old wahala.

Halima dey press her lips together, hand for waist, eye dey shine like torchlight. Even mosquito wey hear her voice go avoid her this night.

“You really be woman.”

Na only true Naija woman fit spit that kind line, voice heavy with old wahala and bitter memory. For that moment, everywhere just dey still—na only my own fear dey shout inside my ear.