Chapter 1: No Good Deed In Lagos

Before the university entrance exam, I witnessed one of my female classmates being harassed by a local agbero—one of those street boys always looking for trouble. I stepped in to help her and even called the police for her.

That day, the air was thick with heat, the smell of frying akara and exhaust fumes hanging heavy, and that sharp tension you feel when wahala is about to start. In our neighbourhood, agberos were known trouble. People dey always warn make you mind your own, but I couldn't just waka pass. As I dialed the police number, my hands shook, but I stood my ground. Even though some passersby eyed me like I dey find trouble, I did it because it was the right thing.

But the next day, she came to our classroom with the police and pointed straight at me.

E shock me. The whole class went dead silent, everybody looking at me like say I wear thief cap. I felt like I had entered one of those Nollywood films where everything just kpafuka for your head.

She claimed I was the one who harassed her, and that the agbero was innocent.

Her voice shook, but her eyes no blink. She pointed at me with so much conviction that even I started to doubt myself. The agbero just stood quietly, head bowed, pretending as if he be innocent altar boy.

The police took me away, and everyone started calling me a rapist.

As I was being led out, my mother rushed from the crowd, shouting, “Leave my pikin alone! He no fit do that kind thing!” But the police held her back as some girls started whispering, some even began to cry. Boys shifted away from me as if I carry leprosy. My heart pounded inside my chest. The police officer’s grip was rough, like he’d already judged and condemned me.

I lost my guaranteed admission to University of Ibadan.

That news land like hot slap. All my years of reading with candle and lantern, all those nights my mother prayed over me, just wasted. The letter from the university, once my pride, now looked like mockery.

My classmates blasted me on WhatsApp and Facebook, accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit, and I was expelled from school.

The class group chat was on fire:

“U don finish! No dey show face for area again!”

“Femi na real beast. Na him spoil Halima life.”

“Shame dey catch your family?”

People that used to hail me for being sharp now called me animal, devil, and worse. The words cut deeper than any slap.

With nowhere else to turn, my mother left behind a letter written with her own blood and chose to livestream her suicide by jumping off the school building, using her death to prove my innocence.

My mother, my only comfort, went beyond what any parent should bear. She left a message so raw and painful, every word burned in my memory. On the paper, in her shaky handwriting, she wrote: "God, let my son’s name be cleared. Olorun maje ki oruko mi baje." That video—her jumping—haunted my dreams. Her last words, a desperate plea for people to see the truth, echoed in my ears whenever the house got too quiet.

Because of the public uproar and lack of evidence, I was finally released.

When I was finally let out, it was as if freedom had no taste. Reporters tried to crowd around me, people pointed from afar, but nobody fit look me for face.

But my life was already finished.

Even small children would cross to the other side of the street when they see me. I became a ghost in my own town, an outcast with no path forward. The shame, the gist, e follow me everywhere.

I couldn’t go to university, and I lost the only family I had.

My room was empty. My mother’s wrapper still dey hang for door. Sometimes, I fit almost smell her stew, or hear her humming old Yoruba gospel songs. The silence was too loud.

I found that female classmate and demanded to know why she paid me back for my kindness with betrayal.

I tracked her down after many sleepless nights. The sight of her waka freely, enjoying her life, stirred deep anger and confusion in me. I wanted answers.

She said the agbero was the son of the richest man in the area, and she couldn’t afford to offend him.

Her voice was sharp, eyes darting. "You no know who that boy be? He get power. If I cross am, my whole family fit suffer."

“I still want to study hard and get into a good university. I can’t let myself get into wahala.”

She dusted her designer bag, eyeing me like na me dey disturb her destiny. The world always bend for people wey get money. She didn’t even blink as she threw my own dreams inside gutter.

“Besides, na you choose to save me. I no beg you. Who send you?”

Her words cut deeper than any insult. That phrase—who send you—na real curse. People for Lagos dey talk am well: "No put mouth for wetin no concern you."

As she finished talking, the agbero swaggered out from the shadows, threw his arm around her, and kissed her deep.

He wore fake Versace slippers, gold-plated chain, and carried himself like king of the street. His perfume choke everywhere. He laughed, showing off his white teeth, and looked me up and down like say I be nothing. Halima blushed, giggling, holding onto him like say na her ticket to paradise.

“So what if you enter university? No be still my office slave you go be?”

He spat the words, laughing like say the whole world belong to him. His boys behind am dey mock, mimicking the way university students dey waka.

“Na better to be baby girl, dey enjoy life without stress!”

She nodded, cheeks flushed. Her friends gathered round, snapping pictures, posting am straight to Instagram and WhatsApp status. My heart just sink.

Seeing her blushing and shy, my head just blank.

The anger, betrayal, and shame all mix. I felt hot and cold at the same time. My legs weak. The noise around me faded, replaced by a dull ringing in my ears.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I saw the female classmate being harassed.

At first, I thought it was a dream. The smell of akara from the roadside seller, the shout of conductors in the distance, all brought me back. My hands, my uniform, everything looked the same as before.

This time, I chose to ignore everything happening outside the window.

I forced myself to face the front, heart pounding. No be me go play hero this time. My spirit talk: Femi, mind your business. Mind your own.