Chapter 2: Five Years for Darkness

Five years ago, na Musa Okoye beat me, carry the pikin wey I born, then vanish. Since that day, wahala no rest. My body dey carry wound wey time no fit heal. Each scar for my skin dey tell one story, like old women dey warn pikin for compound. The silence for the cell too loud—sometimes e loud pass thunder for my ear.

Day by day, night after night, dem lock me for darkness—just four walls and one plastic bucket. The cell hot like boiled moi-moi, everywhere dey smell of old urine and burnt garri. The bucket self don turn my only friend. I dey use am mark days—when e full, I pour am, then start afresh. Sometimes, I dey count wall tiles, dey mark imaginary calendar. For Naija, if you no get sense, suffering go teach you.

Sometimes, when loneliness too much, I go dey gist with rat. I even name one Smallie. E go run come, nose dey twitch, like say e dey reason my story. Na only Smallie dey visit me steady. Sometimes, na with rat I dey share food, because both of us dey fight for survival.

Say I never craze after these five years na miracle. I dey always tell myself say na God hand dey hold my mind. For this kind darkness, some people for don tear cloth dey shout for street. But I still dey, still dey remember my name.

But my body don change. Inside, everywhere weak. My skin pale like cold pap. My hair dey fall for ground—each strand na reminder say life dey waka pass you if you no fit grab am. Years without sun, damp air, rotten beans and garri—every part of me dey pain.

Even the air heavy, e hang for my lungs like load. Hunger na my constant companion, pain na my alarm clock. If no be God, my spirit for don waka since.

That little girl na the first human being wey talk to me for five years. Her voice clear for the darkness like church bell. I almost believe say na dream until I see her shadow move.

She repeat: "Mummy, Daddy don drink kai-kai, e dey cry dey call your name say e miss you."

The way she arrange her words, e sweet and raw. She get that Yoruba-Hausa accent, like pikin wey don waka many places. My spirit shake; wetin be this?

I no understand. Why she dey call me Mummy? Who be her Daddy?

I wan answer her. I open mouth, but after all this silence, voice no gree come out. The words choke for my throat, like yam wey no soak well. My lips tremble, tongue dry like harmattan ground.

Worry grip me, I start to cough anyhow. The cough come from deep, like spirit dey try commot. My chest dey burn, like fire dey under my ribs. Blood spray for the girl white dress—red splash for white, e shock her. I try reach her, hand weak. She panic, run. Her slippers dey slap cement, her scream echo for corridor, my own fear join. Wetin I don do again?

Na wah. I don cause another wahala.

For this place, small thing fit trigger beating. I just dey pray say her cry no go bring Musa Okoye or one of the mad boys come rush me. When dem vex, dem fit rush enter, beat me like thief. No be ordinary slap—koboko, boot for ribs. My spirit dey use prayer cover body.

Because five years ago, I give police information wey wound them well.

I remember the day like yesterday. Rain dey fall, my heart dey race. My hand dey shake as I pass info—believe say I dey do the right thing for country, for family, for my unborn pikin.

Plenty die, their base scatter, and their oga, Musa Okoye, run go Ghana with me and loyal boys. Na real wahala start then. People wey trust me before begin curse my name. Musa Okoye eyes red, e swear say I go pay.

Later, dem discover say I be undercover police. From that day, I be bone for their throat. I turn to their bad luck. My presence dey vex their spirit, like pepper for open wound.

Dem dey call me betrayer. I hear am every day—'traitor', 'witch', 'snitch.' For their world, to betray street na bigger sin than to kill. But I no betray my oath. How I go be traitor? I dey always whisper—'I dey serve my country.' Even when my body dey bleed, my mind still dey hold hope.

Musa Okoye try every torture. Sometimes belt, sometimes cold water. I go bite lips, swallow pain, dey count seconds till morning. I beg am make e kill me. One night, I use all my energy beg, say make e end am. E just laugh—wicked laughter like broken bottle for dark. E say e go keep my useless life. As long as I dey alive, Inspector Tunde go dey find me.

That threat dey heavy. My pain na bait for another man. Inspector Tunde—my husband. My heart still dey call am, even for my darkest moment. Sometimes, I go wonder if e dey eat, if e dey sleep at all. E be police, my teammate. Na him be my partner for life and for street. We dey share secret, laughter, pain—all. The only one wey fit see my inside. And na Musa Okoye main target be that. All the violence, all the wahala—na to break Inspector Tunde spirit, force am show face, make dem finish am. As I dey rot for cell, na my husband life Musa dey target.