Chapter 4: The Owner’s Verdict

3.

“No wahala. You fit pay—as you don collect pass this from me.” I removed Tobi’s hand.

I made sure my voice was steady, looking him dead in the eye. My hands didn’t shake. My chest stayed high, just as my mama taught me.

Then I called community police, thumb pressing the button sharp-sharp. A hush fell—nobody expects you to actually call the law, but sometimes you must.

Both of them froze.

Tobi’s mouth hung open. Halima stiffened. The crowd parted, waiting for the next act. In Naija, police for small matter dey cause wahala, but today, I no fear.

Tobi started regretting, trying to arrange things. "Amaka, abeg now... e never reach like that," he whispered, scared of the commotion.

He still needed my help for his final year project experiment.

I smiled inside. So, all his gentle-guy forming dey expire when e reach his own benefit.

Without my results, he no go fit graduate this year. That one na fact.

If he vex me now, e go cost am well.

Police and the braid stand owner reached at the same time.

The officer wore his uniform like second skin, baton in hand. The owner, Mama Zainab, rushed in, wrapper flying, slippers slapping the floor, sweat beading her brow.

She just returned from PTA meeting to meet confusion.

Her eyes darted—me, Halima, POS, crowd. "Wetin dey happen for my stand?" she barked.

She begged police to let her settle the matter. She adjusted her headscarf, lowered her voice. “Oga police, abeg, let me handle my customers. E no go happen again.”

She threw sharp eye at Halima, who still dey form big madam.

Halima kept a straight face, but her hands trembled on her phone. She still dey peep Tobi, hoping for rescue.

But owner knew—stand near school, price too high, students go run.

Mama Zainab eyed Halima, realising students no dey chop nonsense here. Too much shakara fit chase customer, even if na Lekki level.

Na like picking small beans, dropping big melon—greed go cost you.

Owner’s face stayed tight. “Madam, na my fault. I no manage my staff well, na why this happen. I dey sorry. This hair na free. Next time you come, I go do am myself, plus 30% discount. Abeg, make we no disturb police.”

She clasped my hands, palms rough with years of work. “Sister, abeg, forgive us. You be better person, no let this wahala spoil your day.”

“Madam, you need change for your management. This your trainee suppose no dey here again, abi?” I looked Halima in the eye.

I didn’t raise my voice, but my tone was final. The crowd nodded, some even clapped softly.

Owner nodded, brought out her phone, typed something, then faced Halima. “Halima, take your money for today. Carry your load go. Our small stand no fit keep you.”

The decision landed hard. Halima’s eyes grew wide. She clutched her purse, staring at the ground, shame swallowing her words.

Halima no believe say na so e go end—anger and shame full her face.

She bit her lip, blinking hard. This time, the tears were real. No one comforted her. Even her friends looked away, quiet.

She wanted to talk, but the police officer cut in: “If you no wan go, follow me. Fraud dey carry fine times three, even jail dey.”

His words made her shrink. Lagos police no dey joke, even for market wahala.

She kept quiet.

I collected the owner’s offer and left fast—prep class dey start soon.

Bag in hand, I gave the owner a grateful nod, walked out head high. The sun outside felt brighter, the air tasted sweet—like small victory after war.

No need guess, Tobi go rush comfort Halima.

He lingered, guilt written all over his face. I watched him drift toward Halima, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

Bullet comments began flying again:

“God, na only me feel say supporting character get swag?”

“No be only you, me sef dey feel am. Supporting character too bold.”

“This protagonist dey too fragile.”

“So? Halima get main guy, na her right.”

“Ahhh, main guy dey pamper protagonist—sweet.”

Their voices mixed with Lagos breeze, scattered by danfo horns and hawker chants.

Make those two dey together, just no disturb my life.

If dem like, make dem marry for salon, e no concern me. I pressed my book tight to my chest, heart beating with new resolve.

As I dey go, I read bullet comments well and gather my thoughts.

Their words—half joke, half prophecy—trailed me, but I walked on, feet steady, steps sure.

So na so I be—the stepping-stone supporting character for campus novel.

Maybe my destiny na to play background for people wey sabi act front role. Life sometimes dey like that.

I give him all—my time, my results. When sickness catch me, na Halima he run to. Last last, I fade, while dem dey shine.

I pictured myself in the shadows, always behind the curtain, pushing others to the light while my own sun set quietly.

Tobi use my experiment results publish big paper, get big man support. After that, he dey use my feelings make I help am for experiments and project corrections. When sickness hold me, he ignore, and my pikin dey call Halima ‘mummy.’

I could almost hear my mother’s warning: "If you let them, dem go collect your name join." My future flashed—blurry sight, tired bones, small child calling another woman mother.

Last last, I die from sadness, while him and Halima live happily ever after.

Bitterness tinged my thoughts, but I swallowed it, letting the Lagos sun dry the tears that almost formed.

True, na virtuous wife help am reach top, I deliver both virtuous wife and side chick give am.

I wondered if they would remember me, or just use my name when dem wan beg God for forgiveness.