Chapter 1: The Rule of 49

My master once told me: for this life, I no suppose act more than 49 films. If I try do number 50, wahala go land for my head. So after my 49th movie, I just retire quietly. But five years later, my only pikin fall seriously sick. All the money wey we get finish for hospital. After plenty struggle, dem finally find organ wey fit match am—but by then, I no get shishi again.

I remember the way Chikamso go run come hug me after school, him teeth white, eyes full of wahala. Now, na drip and silence. For that moment ehn, my chest dey heavy like stone. I dey look my pikin, Chikamso, as e dey struggle for that white bedsheet, drip for hand. Hospital smell na mixture of Dettol and fear. Nurse dey pass, dey adjust their starched uniform, the smell of jollof rice from canteen dey mix with antiseptic. Every beep from machine dey drag my hope go down. For night, I dey dream say my boy dey call me, voice dey small like mosquito. Man no fit rest; all the prayers for church, all the fasting—still, money no gree come.

As I dey reason wetin to do, one stranger wey call himself producer come meet me. He say make I come back act one more film. The offer make sense: once I sign contract, he go wire one million naira enter my account sharp sharp. I no even think am twice—I gree, ready to use my own life save my son.

As the man dey talk, my ear dey ring. One million naira! I reason am—how many people go ever see that kind money for their account? Na so I tell myself say, if na sacrifice dey demand, make I carry am for head. My wife, Adaobi, just look me with tears for eye, but she no fit talk. Family wahala don choke everybody.