Chapter 1: My Own Villain Story Begins

I transmigrated into the era novel I wrote myself, becoming the wicked side character Amaka Nwafor, destined for a terrible end.

For real, e be like all those Nollywood film—one minute, na you be the author, next minute, you dey inside your own wahala. Na so life turn me to the villain wey I write. All those sharp mouth and wicked plan, na my own cross now. Just the thought alone dey make my body do one kind.

All na for Femi—man wey if music start, leg go dey confuse. But because e get my back, na him dey lead today. Na me plot make Femi Oladipo become principal male dancer, so I scatter Chijioke Obasi’s leg.

My hand strong for that evil that year, I no even pity Chijioke. As I remember how Amaka wicked reach, shame dey catch me. But wetin I go do now?

After Chijioke commot troupe, na heroine Zainab Lawal stay for his side. Dem hustle, suffer, and finally blow.

For that novel, the journey tough well. Dem start from pure water and groundnut, dey trek from morning till night. Rice and stew na dream, na garri and kuli-kuli dey reign. But Zainab no ever leave am—na real ride or die.

Chijioke no forget. When money land, he carry revenge come my side, scatter Amaka and Nwafor family.

E no stop for me alone—na my whole family e finish. By the end, nobody dey answer Nwafor for town. I dey shiver as I remember how e take end.

And true true, as I enter this world, Chijioke leg don already break—by my own hand.

If na before, maybe I for beg my village people to rewind time. But now, I dey look my handiwork—me wey get coconut head, see as I fall my own hand.

With the way Amaka end, I no fit fold hand dey wait for gbege.

See me see wahala. I no gree chop shame like that. If na to run comot for book, I for try am. But since I dey here, na to find solution sharp sharp.

I gats guide the male lead to hammer—no time for story. If I go survive, I must change the plot by fire by force. Instead make Chijioke and Zainab blow, na me and Chijioke go shine.

I go become heroine myself.

Las las, who sabi write story suppose sabi rewrite am. My own happily ever after na my target, abeg.

At this moment, Femi Oladipo dey perform as lead dancer for him first big show for town hall.

Town hall dey hot—everywhere choke. Breeze from Oji River nor fit calm the heat. Women tie gele like satellite, men dey shine agbada, children dey squeeze groundnut paper. MC dey sweat, shout for mic like say na ancestors e dey summon.

All seat full, reporters from big newspapers and small radio stations pack for front, dey snap picture, dey record like say na big man dey come.

To tell the truth, na Nwafor family name make this show loud. If no be Nwafor, who go carry Femi for head? Na my papa chest dem take do springboard. Femi dance nor reach, but money and name na power for this Naija.

My papa, one of the first Aba men to invest for East, na heavyweight. If e stamp foot, ground go shake. If he cough, dem go announce am for news. If he vex, local government chairman go dey fear.

My elder brother get trucks everywhere—Kano, Lagos, Port Harcourt. If yam from Benue reach Calabar, na my brother hand dey inside. Sabi business like say na exam.

As Nwafor pikin, I get everything. If I waka enter party, dem shift chair, people hail me 'madam' even though I never reach twenty-five. Na respect and packaging dey run things here.

But as the show dey go, people dey yawn left and right. Na only MC and two mamas for back dey clap. Elders dey doze, snore join background music. Person dey press phone for corner, small boy dey draw for exercise book.

If no be my influence, Femi nor fit even get backup role. For my mind, I dey laugh. Na so Femi waka enter main role, because e get shoulder to lean on. If I no push am, e no go pass audition.

Performance finish, people put on fake smile, slow clap—just to respect big madam. Naija style be that.

Just like for the book, during curtain call, Femi kneel down for stage propose to me. Camera flash, women scream, girls sigh. Femi sweat dey shine, kneel down like say na last bus stop for love. You go think say na Africa Magic scene.

As people dey shout, I waka calm go stage. My step steady, my head dey calculate move. Na only my shoe dey knock for stage.

“Today na Femi Oladipo first show. Thank you for coming out to support.” My voice clear, MC dey nod. I sabi command room.

I look Femi, him dey shine teeth, then I switch: “But honestly, wetin we watch today na rubbish show.”

People freeze. Woman wey dey chew groundnut pause, mouth open. Light blink like NEPA wan take am.

Theatre silent. If pin drop, e go sound like thunder. Everybody dey look me and Femi, dey wait for wahala.

Femi face change colour, from green to pale. Powder for face begin melt, smile vanish. E dey scratch neck, no know where to look.

“With your skill, you dey far from Chijioke—you no even fit help am carry shoe.” I no pity am. “Instead of chasing empty dream, focus for your work. No be toad dey eye swan meat.”

Crowd dey murmur. Old man for second row whisper, "She don finish am." My tone cold, like judge for village square. Some dey shake head.

I fling bouquet for ground, turn and waka without look back. Flowers scatter for floor. I waka comot, soundtrack for movie for don play. People dey whisper, some dey fear, some dey admire. I no send.

Outside, Baba Musa wait. Baba Musa—my papa right hand, tall, faded cap, sharp eyes. As I come out, e move close like bouncer.

“It don settle,” he talk low. “Girl and bicycle enter gutter—she dey hospital. No worry, she go lie down at least ten days.”

Baba Musa sabi job. If e say matter close, e close. Eyes sharp, mouth tight. Na only me fit decode.

He hand me jollof rice cooler. Aroma burst my nose. “Time don reach. You suppose go boiler factory now.”

Jollof dey smell correct. Even when wahala full ground, Naija woman must chop.

Person wey dem hit na heroine, Zainab Lawal. Na that same Zainab—small body, big heart. Now she dey hospital because of me. Conscience prick me small, but I push am aside. Na survival I dey fight for.

Chijioke, after troupe, dey work as boiler stoker. Chijioke dey hustle for hot boiler room. Coal dust everywhere, no small work. Person wey dance like breeze, now dey here. Life no balance.

Zainab dey bring am food daily, rain or shine. Loyalty like her own rare. She no dey complain. Sun or rain, na she dey carry food, sometimes wash him clothes.

Watching dem dey close everyday, as wicked supporting character, how I go just look?

Abeg, I no fit watch love story play for my front. If I gree, na my name go end for shrine.

I gats wedge myself in between. I can’t let my family scatter finish.

For this my new life, I go fight for my place—even if I go use Igbo woman tactics. Na who lose guard dey chop last.

As I step off that stage, every eye dey watch—some dey fear, some dey wait. But na only me sabi say this story just dey start.