Chapter 3: Night Road and New Threats

I dey laugh anyhow, drunk, as I waka comot from Madam Sade’s Bukka.

Na that kind laugh wey dey make conductor for danfo look you twice—my head don dey hot with ogogoro and pepper soup. The night breeze dey slap my face like old friend.

Wura, the madam’s daughter and my padi, call me, “Morayo, abeg, take care as you dey go house!”

She dey wave her handkerchief, face still dey show small worry, but I know say she just dey care like true sister.

I just wave her.

My hand nearly miss, but I catch myself. "No wahala!" I shout back, voice rough from all the pepper.

Time don reach midnight, everywhere dark, road empty.

Even crickets don tire, na only my footsteps dey echo for gutter. For Lagos, this kind silence dey rare.

But I don waka this road tire—even if I close eye, I go reach house.

E no be today I dey do this waka. Even night guard for my street sabi my footstep.

With alcohol for my body, my mind dey ginger, so I waka home alone, no fear.

Nothing happen on the road.

I dey even sing small song as I dey go, heart light, dey count how many stars dey sky. Life just dey do me like new yam festival.

As I reach my gate, I find my key for my chest, lean for door, ready to open am—na so the door just open by itself, I fall inside.

I land for ground, see stars.

Na real "Gbam!"—my head knock floor, eye dey see disco light, but my hand still dey find ground. My bag scatter, but I still dey alive.

Dizzy, I grab the door, try stand up. When my eye clear—

I see more than a dozen machetes, all dey face me, their blade just dey shine.

Cold sweat catch me. My drunkenness just disappear; na fear remain for my stomach.

All the people wey hold machete wear black, everybody be correct fighter.

From shoe to cap, all black—like cult boys wey just finish meeting. No single smile, only muscle and blade.

But wahala be say, behind them, one man for black agbada turn as he hear the noise.

His agbada fine, embroidery sharp, with lion-head staff for hand. Yet na the cold for him face dey bite pass.

Once I see his face, my drunkenness just vanish.

Femi look me, smile, and him voice cold like death, like person wey come back from grave.

Even the shadow for wall no fit compete with the darkness wey him dey carry. I for run, but na my spirit dey run, body no move.

“Long time no see, my sister.”

My legs just dey shake. I try step back—

But one big hand hold me from back.

I think say if I fit run, maybe dem go forget me. But my leg no gree move. Fear catch me. I turn look.

Na my former fiancé, Musa, the same man wey I disgrace before, now na big man for community council.

His agbada sharp, wristwatch dey shine, but the pain for him eyes old pass Lagos bridge.

Standing beside am na the main woman, Halima, the same lady wey I scatter her name before.

Halima wear martial clothes, no be the fragile woman of before. With big machete for her back, she look strong and ready.

If she smile, the blade go smile join. Even her wrapper tie strong—no space for nonsense.

She glare me, teeth tight, her voice cold like Lagos rain, full of old wahala.

Her eye fit roast groundnut. She spit every word like person wey swallow ice block.

“Morayo, you really be woman.”

That kain insult na only woman fit understand. My chest tight, but I gree—na true.

All of them dey look me with eye wey strong, like say dem wan finish me there.

Silence carry weight. Even my ancestors go dey look this scene from heaven dey shake head.

Omo.

As dem drag me go keke, I know say tonight, na only God fit write my ending.