Chapter 2: Wahala No Dey Finish

“Leave me alone! Let me go right now!”

“If you no let me go, I go shout!”

Half-awake, I heard a woman’s desperate cries. I looked over, shocked.

Her voice cut through the early morning air, sharp as blade. Even okada riders slowed down, looking but refusing to interfere. My heart dey race, remembering how this same sound once scatter my life.

Inside a dim alley, a yellow-haired guy dey rough-handle a girl in school uniform.

He looked like every agbero in Lagos—yellow hair, sagging jeans, red eyes from too much codeine. The girl, her uniform torn, struggled and screamed. The alley stank of urine and damp cement.

The scene looked too familiar.

It was like God dey give me second chance, but this time, my spirit no gree. Wetin concern me? But my spirit no gree.

I looked down at my own school uniform, then glanced at the alley again.

Sweat gather for my forehead. My mind dey play tricks: should I move or stay?

For one moment, I just freeze. I bite my lip.

My mouth tasted blood. I could feel the old anger and fear trying to rise. I fought to stay still.

Reborn.

I’d been reborn.

Back to that crucial turning point.

I muttered a quick, "Jesu, take control," under my breath, wondering why fate drag me back here.

That scene in the alley made all my memories rush back.

Everything come flooding—the police, the shame, my mother’s death, the cold nights in cell. My chest tight with old pain.

In my last life, when I saw this injustice, I picked up a stick and rushed to help Halima, who was being attacked.

I no even think. Something inside me just push me to act. The stick rough, heavy, my hands dey shake as I grip am.

I hit the yellow-haired guy a few times, and he pulled up his trousers and run, holding his head.

The slap of wood on flesh, the surprise on his face—those memories haunt me. He no even look back, just run, leave him one leg of slippers.

But Halima collapsed on the ground, crying that her life was finished.

She sobbed, holding the torn blouse. Her tears mix with Lagos dust. People dey peep from windows, shaking head, whispering.

I removed my jacket to cover her, telling her none of it was her fault.

My jacket too small for her shame. I keep repeating, "No be your fault. God go fight for you." She just cry louder, no gree for comfort.

She was just a victim.

Nobody deserve that kind pain. I wish I fit swallow her pain and spit am for the world to see.

I encouraged her to face everything bravely.

I try steady my voice, quoting my mama: "Lion no dey fear goat. Stand gidigba."

With my encouragement, she chose to call the police.

I dialed for her, put the phone for her ear. She stammer, but at least she find her voice.

Afterwards, I followed her to the police station to give statement.

The station full, hot, and noisy. Policemen dey bark questions, some dey size me, but the DPO listen well, dey jot down things.

When I got home, I tell my mama say I do something brave and good that day.

I think she go shout or vex say I risk my neck, but she just hug me, tears of pride in her eyes.

My mother was so proud, she praise me over and over.

She call neighbours, dey shout how her Femi don become real man. She cook my favourite amala that night, her eyes dey shine.

But I never know say that one act of bravery go drag my whole family into wahala.

How I for know say the price for helping person fit be this high? My spirit, that time, still pure.

The next morning.

Sunlight stream for my window. I waka go school with joy, no know say my world go scatter before afternoon.

I reach class as usual, but Halima suddenly carry police come, and in front of everybody, accuse me of being the one who attacked her yesterday.

She burst enter, eyes red, hair scatter. Police follow, dey scan classroom. My classmates mouth hang open.

She said after attacking her, I come back to collect my forgotten clothes and overheard her calling police, so I threaten to kill her family.

Her story twist the truth till I no recognize myself. She wail, dey beat chest. Police dey jot, no even look my side.

Halima start cry serious, say she no gree refuse me because she fear for her family.

She fall for floor, dey roll, her friends gather to console. I stand like statue, world dey spin.

She point at me, shout:

“He’s not a witness—he’s the one who harassed me!”

Her finger dey shake as she aim me. The crowd draw back. Some girls gasp, others just dey shake head.

My head just blank.

Everything stop. My ear buzz, I no hear anything but my own breath.

Before I fit talk, police step forward, handcuff me, drag me out of class.

The cuffs cold, heavy. My classmates’ eyes dey burn for my back. I felt shame swallow me whole.

When I finally come back to my senses, I struggle, shout, “I’m innocent! Why you dey do this to me? Na me save you!”

But nobody listen. The corridor echo with my cries, but police just grip me tighter.

But she only cry louder, “Which girl go joke with her own dignity?”

She scream those words like say na truth go cover the lie. Girls around her dey sob. Boys dey mutter curses.

Everybody believe her.

No matter wetin I talk. For this Naija, woman tears fit drown man truth, especially when you no get money or connection.

I was labelled a predator, cursed by everyone as a criminal.

My name turn poison. I watch as friends delete my number, neighbours cross road when they see me.

My classmates carry the gist go WhatsApp and Facebook:

“U don finish! Femi, abeg relocate!”

“E be like say na cultist o.”

Screenshots, memes, voice notes fly everywhere. People mock my pain, twist my story.

Soon, e go viral.

People from far dey message my old friends, ask if dem know the 'beast' for their area. My name trend, but for all the wrong reasons.

I become target for online mobs.

Strangers threaten me, some talk say dem go find me finish am. My mother phone no rest, insults dey ring all night.

They curse me, say I no fit be human, ask why I never just kpai.

Everywhere I look, na hate. The pain dey press my chest like stone.

Rumours become more wicked.

Story grow wings. Some say I be cultist. Others say my mama na accomplice.

They start to insult my mother.

That one pain pass. She be my only comfort, yet now people call her all sorts. Neighbours dey whisper behind our gate, voice sharp as knife.

They call her prostitute, say I born because she waka anyhow.

That insult break her spirit. She start to pray all night, fasting, crying, begging God.

Under all the pressure, school expel me to keep peace.

No hearing, no chance to talk. Principal just hand my mama letter, say, "For the good of all, Femi no fit remain."

I lost my guaranteed admission to University of Ibadan.

My dreams scatter like dust. Years of struggle, gone with one letter.

When everybody turn back, my mama still believe me.

She stay awake, hold my hand, pray make God show the truth.

To prove my innocence, she break into school with letter written in her own blood and, in front of internet, jump from tall building.

She no fit take am again. The pain, shame, gossip. She want the world to see her sacrifice, to know her son no be criminal. That blood-stained letter na her last hope. She wrote, "God, let my son’s name be cleared. Olorun maje ki oruko mi baje."

She use her death to show I be innocent.

People watch live, some cry, some even laugh, but nobody fit ignore am. My mother last act shake even the heartless.

The livestream suicide bring more attention.

Twitter, Facebook, Instagram—everywhere, her face dey. Influencers dey argue, journalists dey visit, reporters dey call every night.

Public opinion start to change, people begin question the truth.

Hashtags trend. People dey dig, pick holes for Halima story.

Dem analyse Halima’s story word by word. One lawyer for Facebook write thread, break down all the lie. Some even say dem see agbero lurking that day.

Under all this pressure, police reinvestigate and finally release me for lack of evidence.

I waka out, broken but free. Nobody come welcome me. My house empty, cold, full of my mother’s prayers echo.

But what did it matter?

Freedom no mean anything. My name dead, my mama gone.

I’d lost my admission. I’d lost my only family.

Even food no get taste. I go sit for her chair, hold her wrapper, wish say I fit turn back time.

Anywhere I waka, people dey whisper, ‘That’s the rapist.’

Even market women wey dey call me 'my son' before now look away. I feel their eyes dey burn my skin.

They say I was released because I get connection.

Some believe say na bribe. Others talk say my mama sacrifice herself with juju.

No study, no job, no family.

All doors close. I knock, nobody answer.

I just manage survive for my mother house.

Some nights, I go sleep for compound, dey hear rats for ceiling. I count days by how many times NEPA bring light.

I waka street, empty, pick plastic bottles, sell scraps to live.

My pride gone. Small pikin go laugh when dem see me for dustbin. I keep my head down, pray nobody recognize me.

Until one day, I see Halima again.

I freeze, heart dey race. She dey new boutique, dey show off for her friends. I wan hide, but my legs move on their own.

She was completely different.

Gone was the frightened girl. Her nails painted, hair in curls, dey laugh loud like say she own Lagos.

Her hair permed, perfume strong, designer clothes, expensive bag.

Every step, people dey look. Small crowd dey snap selfie.

She was back.

Nobody remember, but I do. The pain, loss, all return.

After the scandal cool, she disappear. Now, when case forget, she reappear.

I realise then, some people dey move on, but not everybody fit do am.

My heart beat fast.

Anger, confusion, need for justice—all mix till I no fit breathe.

I drop bottles for hand, rush at her, almost mad, ask why she betray me.

My voice break, but she just pinch nose, turn her back.

She back off, pinch nose in disgust, ready to waka.

She act like say I be area boy, not worth her time. The smell of my sweat, my dirty clothes, dey shame her.

I block am, question her again and again.

I beg, I shout, but she no answer. Her friends dey laugh, dey record me with their Tecno phones, posting straight to WhatsApp status. "People dey film am, e go trend today."

She vex, snap, “You know who harass me? Na the son of the richest man for area! I no fit offend am!”

Her voice full of pride. Like say suffering na for people like me.

I almost shout, “What about me? I lose everything for your lie!”

But she answer, “I still wan study hard, enter better university. I no fit enter wahala.”

She talk am like say na simple maths: her future vs mine. Her friends nod, dey agree.

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

Pain grip my chest. That line go haunt me forever.

As she finish, the agbero swagger come, throw arm around her, kiss her deep.

He stare me down, wicked smile. The perfume from him body mix with her own, choke the air.

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

He talk with contempt, like say he never suffer one day. His boys laugh, dey jeer.

“Na better to be baby girl, just dey enjoy life.”

Halima giggle, shyly push am.

She cover mouth, blush, act like small pikin. Agbero laugh, hold her tight.

What else remain?

I finally get am: for Naija, good deed fit be curse.

My mind blank. I collapse.

World spin, knees give way, hard ground welcome me like old friend.

Back of my head hit ground hard.

Pain shoot through, but nothing reach the ache inside.

When I wake again, I dey back at that moment.

Sunlight for eye, alley ahead, voices loud. Another chance, but this time, I no ready to suffer.

I glance at them for alley.

Their voices echo, but I harden my heart.

I turn and waka away.

Each step heavy, but I no look back. My chest feel light for the first time in years.

Behind me, faint cries for help.

But wetin concern me?

I force myself block out the sound, remind myself: sometimes, to survive for Lagos, you must mind your business.