Forgiveness came easily to me. I had learned it from my mother. She often asked, “If I didn’t forgive, would you and your siblings exist?” With forgiveness as her anchor, she overlooked my father’s many shortcomings, his tendency to take offence at the slightest provocation, and the unspoken expectation that his transgressions would be forgiven without question.
She forgave him every time he staggered home from Mama Sole’s shop, reeking of kiakia and palm wine. She forgave him when he unleashed his agitation in blows and slaps, his drunken rage a tempest that ravaged her cinnamon skin and tangled her dark, curly hair in its fury. His lips spewed words — sharp, venomous words — that could pierce the soul, words he would later deny or claim to have forgotten once sobriety returned.
She forgave him because he was jobless, a man crushed under the weight of rejection and unfulfilled promises. He lost his previous job because he refused to call his boss Mummy, an indignity he couldn’t stomach. One morning, he left for work and returned with a sack letter. The words: “We’ll get back to you soon”, “The position has been filled”, and “Your application wasn’t accepted” became a chorus that fuelled his frustrations. Every failed interview added another log to the fire of his despair. And, so, he found solace at the beer parlour, squandering stolen change and naira notes he filched from my mother’s purse.
Yet, my father wasn’t a bad man — not in the moral or societal sense. He was a man withered by the storms of a crumbling economy, rising inflation, and the government’s indifference to the plight of its people. He was flawed, yes, but at his core, before life became unbearable, he loved my mother. We saw it in fleeting moments, in the softness of his gaze when he wasn’t consumed by anger. It was a love twisted by hardship, stretched thin by circumstances, but love nonetheless. Perhaps, this was why my mother stayed when she could have left — why she stayed not once, not twice, but every time she had the chance. She clung to hope, a fragile belief that things would get better.
But how long could hope sustain her? Her trade dwindled under the weight of inflation, her profits disappearing as quickly as they came. Now, she partly relied on the secret source of income I dared not reveal. What would she say if she found out? Would she sigh and mutter, “Times are hard. Everyone is doing what they can to survive,” or would her heartbreak mirror mine? I couldn’t bear to know.
This morning, she frayed the edge of her wrapper and retied it around her waist with the deliberate precision of someone trying to hold their world together.
It was August, the season of the annual Women’s Union meeting in our community. On any other year, the last day of the event would see her giddy with excitement, her sash of “Young Mother” draped proudly across her chest. But, today, her movements were slow, her mood as heavy as the humid air that clung to us.
She bent to scoop her little purse, her fingers fishing through its contents with mechanical precision. Out came ₦200 notes, five in total, and a crisp ₦1,000 note. The gesture was painfully clear — the money wasn’t enough.
I sighed, shifting on the sofa as my hand moved to my pocket. I had been saving for this moment, anticipating her unspoken plea. Without counting, I placed the money on my palm and stretched it towards her.
“Chukwu gọzie gị, nwa m,” she praised, God bless you, my child, her fingers sticky with saliva as she dampened them to better grip the money.
I nodded silently, glancing at my phone to check the time. Still early.
“There’s an uncooked yam in the cupboard. If you’ll cook it—”
“No need, ma. I’ll be leaving soon, but I’ll leave instructions for Obinna and Adannaya before heading to work,” I interrupted.
She nodded, her scarf fluttering as she scuttled out of the room. She had never asked what kind of job I did to earn the money I gave her. All she knew was that I worked in ‘a big place’. That hollow lie was enough for her, and yet the guilt clawed at my insides, leaving fresh wounds each time. Her indifference to the details made it worse.
How could she not wonder what her 22-year-old son did every night in a brothel?
…
As the week trudged by, the weight of my mother’s frustration became impossible to ignore. Her money vanished into thin air, her goods sat unsold, and her spirit dimmed. Each day brought another lament about how hard it was to sell even a single product. Customers preferred to buy on credit, promising to pay later, promises they rarely redeemed. She came home early most days. With no profit to show, there was nothing for my father to snatch from her purse, no loose naira to pilfer.
Every morning, she tied her scarf tightly and ventured out, moving from one debtor’s house to another, urging them to pay what they owed.
The responses were always the same: “Come next week. You know I’m waiting for money too,” or “I wish I could pay you now, but things are hard. Money has become scarce,” or even the biting retort, “Madam, am I your only debtor? Do I have your money hidden somewhere?”
Their words stung with indifference, each tone laced with a shared frustration at a crumbling economy. What hurt most was that these were the same people who had used honeyed words to coax goods from her on credit, but turned sour when it was time to repay. It enraged me. But what could we do? If she refused them, the goods would rot, leaving us with nothing but losses.
Today, like every other day, left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. The air at home was thick with unspoken despair when I left minutes ago for “work.” My job felt more taxing and soul-draining with each passing night.
The sun seemed confused, its usual ferocity softened as it hid behind streaks of milky clouds. The breeze carried the scent of rain, a reminder that the rainy season still lingered. At least, the weather offered a fleeting comfort amid the chaos.
When I arrived at the brothel, the thrum of heavy-bass music greeted me, blasting from the speakers in the corridor. The front yard was alive with activity. Women were clinging to their men at round tables, others were dancing with bottles in their hands, and a few were scanning the scene with sharp eyes, hunting for new customers. Conversations buzzed like restless flies punctuated by laughter. There were also half-heard whispers and the occasional clink of glasses.
A secret brothel masquerading as a mini-restaurant.
“Abekee, how you dey?” I greeted, playfully slapping the backside of a lady weaving through the tables with a tray of drinks balanced in her hand.
She turned her head, her eyes rolling dramatically. “You’re early today sha.”
I shrugged as she walked away, her words barely registering.
Being early was my habit, though my reasons went beyond punctuality. Maybe it was my desperate attempt to avoid familiar faces, a futile hope that I wouldn’t see anyone who knew me here. I made my way to the pavement, high-fiving three women seated on their chairs, drinks in hand. They grinned lazily, their eyes heavy with the weariness of this life we all shared.
Nkiru cradled a glass of red wine in one hand, while the other held a cigar, from which she puffed perfect rings of smoke into the air. Her skin bore patches of dark spots on her ankles, knuckles, and knees — the unmistakable scars of relentless bleaching. No one, it seemed, had the courage to tell her that her efforts to alter her skin were failing spectacularly. Perhaps it was her generosity, her rare kindness in dealing with others, which silenced any criticism. That generosity was what made me consider her a friend, though I doubted she saw me the same way. She smiled at me, her thin cheeks carving hollowed shadows into her face. On any other day, I might have pondered what led her to this kind of life.
Ógè’s bald head always drew attention. Her smooth scalp shone under the dim lighting, a feature as striking as it was enigmatic. When asked why she kept it shaved, her answer was always the same: “I dey mourn the huzband wey I no get. If I get am and he come die nko? Make I start now oh.” Each time, I searched her face for traces of humour but found none. That only deepened the oddity of it all. How could someone mourn a husband they never had, as if preparing for grief that might never come?
Chinelo was the one who greeted me with a side hug, her warmth palpable. Maybe it was because we had started on the same day. Or maybe it was the way we had each other’s backs, checking in when things got rough. She didn’t judge me for being the only guy in this line of work, a sanctuary I often needed from the sharp stares and hushed whispers of the other women.
Chinelo was different. She was a steady presence, a shield against the world’s judgment. She leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear as she whispered, “Your favourite customer dey wait for you oh.”
A chill coiled down my spine. I wondered who she meant. It was far too early to get a customer right now. I nodded quickly to mask my discomfort. She stepped back, grinning, and tapped my chest lightly with a wink.
I moved down the corridor, my steps heavy as I made my way to the dressing room. Changing into my uniform — a black singlet, sneakers, socks, and the ever-present face mask — felt mechanical, a necessary ritual. The mask was my shield, the unspoken rule, anonymity above all else.
When I opened the door to the room, I rolled my eyes. A man was already inside, naked, and waiting. He was stroking himself, a smug smile plastered across his face.
I swallowed a groan that threatened to escape. Why a man, and why now?
“You’re here?” His voice was light, almost sing-song, tinged with the unbridled excitement of a child granted forbidden freedom.
I nodded, unwilling to trust my voice.
“I came early just to see your face,” he continued, his smile broadening. “Paid extra for it, as you can imagine. I want you fresh, no draining your energy on anyone else.”
His words churned my stomach, but I said nothing. This wasn’t the first time he had made this request, offering more money just to unmask me. But the rule was absolute, and I had no reason to break it. To do so would jeopardise my safety. Maybe, when I leave this life behind, I would let him see me. But not now. Not while I still needed the money.
“So, it’s a VIP session, then,” I said, my voice steady. I already knew the answer, but speaking filled the silence as I glanced at the mirror to ensure my mask was secure.
“Of course,” he replied, his tone smug. “I paid handsomely this time because I want to feel you inside me.”
The words hit me like a punch. I turned sharply, disbelief clouding my thoughts. Did I hear him right? I had always prided myself on versatility — swinging both ways made me adaptable in this line of work — but I reserved certain boundaries for the rare moments when intimacy felt real. For that one person who didn’t see me as an object.
Guilt slammed into me again, unrelenting. My mother, blissfully unaware of my choices, haunted my thoughts. And then there was the other person in my life, the one who loved me without judgment, but who didn’t know this version of me. Their ignorance weighed on me, pressing down like an unbearable weight.
He stepped closer, his body brushing against mine as he pulled me into an embrace, his hardness pressing against me. The longer I delayed, the harder it would be to claw out of this moral quicksand.
Nigeria happened to me.
…
Grief is a peculiar thing. It hollows you out, a searing emptiness that invades every part of your being. Maybe that’s why people describe it as feeling void, like the soul itself is wrung dry, leaving nothing behind but a husk of apathy.
Adannaya’s death had gutted us. My younger sister died in a dingy clinic, her body surrendering to the complications of an attempted abortion. My mother’s shock wasn’t just from her passing — it was the secrets that followed. Adannaya had carried a growing child under her roof, right under her nose, and she never knew. The father was a stranger who had vanished after promising her wealth, leaving her with nothing but desperation.
The doctors saved the baby, delivering it prematurely and placing it in an incubator. But they couldn’t save my sister. She had been gone an hour before we found her.
My mother sat on the sofa, her gaze distant, her hands clutching a bundle of condolence cash. People spoke words of comfort, but I doubted she heard them. Her lips trembled, too weary to even mutter a “thank you.”
My father paced like a restless storm, his muttered curses a low, ominous growl. His grief manifested in sharp, unpredictable movements — snapping fingers, spitting, and cursing at shadows. And then, without warning, he stormed into the bedroom and reemerged with his rifle. The room erupted into chaos as people scattered for safety.
“How can I let the man who did this to my daughter live while she’s dead and buried? Huh?” my father roared.
My brother clung to our mother, his small frame trembling with fear. I watched my father as he stormed through the throng of sympathisers, his steps heavy and deliberate, his rage palpable. The murmurs of the crowd faded in his wake as people shuffled nervously, their eyes avoiding his fiery glare.
“Nna Chibuike, please, put down that gun. You’re scaring everyone,” one of the men in the crowd pleaded, his voice laced with caution.
A few others joined in, their words echoing the shared fear of an unlicensed weapon in the hands of a grieving man. I sometimes forgot that my father was once part of the community’s vigilante group, a protector who had now become a storm of grief and vengeance.
Without a word, my father turned and stomped back into the house, slamming the door so hard the walls seemed to shudder. Perhaps he sought refuge in his grief, drowning it with the sharp burn of kiakia, while my mother remained rooted to her chair, her gaze distant. She was there, but she wasn’t. Her spirit seemed to drift somewhere far away, tethered only by the faint whispers of pain.
Fresh tears welled in my eyes, cascading down my cheeks like a torrent of regret. “Mom,” I called softly, my voice cracking under the weight of my sorrow.
I wanted to reach her, to pull her back from the void that had swallowed her. But what right did I have? I had failed her. I had failed Adannaya. The guilt gnawed at me, sharp and unrelenting. While my sister had suffered in silence, I had been lost in my world — reckless, indulgent, and blind. I wish I had been there for her, to hold her hand, to be her anchor. Would it have made a difference if she had confided in me about the pregnancy? Would I have listened without judgment, without scorn? The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered and haunting.
“Obinna?” I whispered, my gaze shifting to my younger brother. He sat huddled on the floor, his face buried in his knees. “Did you know all along?”
He lifted his head slightly, his red-rimmed eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before he looked away, guilt etched across his features. His silence was answer enough. My heart sank, but I forced myself to stay calm. This was too much for him. For all of us.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd outside, drawing my attention. Peeking through the window, I froze. Figures draped in shimmering outfits sauntered into the sitting room, their presence like a gust of wind disturbing the fragile silence. My breath hitched as I recognised them.
Ógè was the first to step in, her sequined dress glittering like stars under the sun. The flowery design across the strapless neckline drew the eye, while the mini skirt left little to the imagination. Her long, bone-straight wig cascaded over her shoulders, its curled edges brushing against her face before she flipped it back with practiced ease. She wore sunglasses, a bold statement in a house steeped in mourning, and clutched a sleek black purse against her arm.
Nkiru and Chinelo trailed behind, their outfits just as revealing, their movements languid and deliberate. They were the kind of women who commanded attention wherever they went, their confidence an intoxicating blend of poise and audacity. But it wasn’t them who made my heart lurch — it was the girl who followed. Quiet and unassuming, her presence felt oddly misplaced. She wasn’t someone I had ever been close to, and her hesitant smile only deepened my confusion.
“OMG, I’m so sorry, Bụike,” Ógè gushed, wrapping her arms around me before I could protest. Her perfume, cloyingly sweet, enveloped me, and I stiffened under her touch. This wasn’t the embrace I needed, not now, not like this.
Nkiru and Chinelo flanked my mother, their voices low as they murmured condolences she barely registered. They pressed bundles of envelopes into her hands, patting her shoulders as though trying to anchor her to reality. Her response was mechanical — a nod here, a whispered “thank you” there. She was slipping away, and I was powerless to stop it.
“My condolences,” they chorused as they turned to me, their words dripping with sincerity that felt almost performative. Chinelo pulled me into a hug, and this time, I let the tears flow. They came in a rush, hot and unrelenting, until my body shook with the force of them.
When I finally pulled back, my gaze fell on the envelopes stacked on my lap. Their weight felt heavier than it should, like they carried more than just money.
The girl I barely knew stepped forward, her touch on my hand sending a chill up my spine. She placed another envelope on the pile, her voice soft but firm. “From us all. We offer our condolences.”
Us? I wanted to ask. Who’s “us”? But the words caught in my throat. Before I could make sense of it, they were leaving, their hourglass figures sashaying through the murmuring crowd.
I wiped my eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping the cold air could still the chaos in my heart. It didn’t.
“Let me escort you to the junction,” I offered. They said nothing, ignoring the murmurs that swirled around us as we left the compound.
…
My room was my fortress, locked against the coldness of the world and the strange adversities that sought to throw my family into chaos.
My father’s drinking habit had spiralled into an unstoppable thread of destruction. My mother, drained and despondent, no longer went to the market. We now subsisted on the money sent to her by her sympathisers, barely enough to scrape by. My brother, Obinna, had retreated into himself, teetering on the edge of madness. Night after night, his cries filled the air as he called Adannaya’s name, a name that lingered like a ghost in our home.
My father was rarely home these days. When he was, it was only to scrape empty pots, rummage through cupboards, or sift through my mother’s belongings in search of money. But my mother had grown wiser. She kept her money close, carried it everywhere, even into the bathroom. Left with little choice, I resorted to giving my father ₦2,000 a day, money that vanished into oblivion before daybreak.
I rummaged through the small wardrobe in my room, pulling out all the envelopes I had been given. Lying on my bed with legs crossed, I let out a slow breath and picked Nkiru’s envelope first. I unfolded it, revealing bundles of ₦500 and ₦1,000 notes, along with a slip of paper.
Curious, I smoothed out the paper. It was a letter. It read:
“Ah, Bụike m, omo, I weak oh. You told me about your sister, and I thought you were joking. Honestly, I figured you just wanted to dodge work, you know, to escape all those insatiable men eyeing your… well, you know (don’t laugh). But then Chinelo told me, and Ógè too. That’s when I knew you were serious. I’m so sorry, my guy. Take this to hold body small. Life no be firewood.”
A chuckle escaped my lips, tainted with sorrow. Humour in the face of grief. Was this Nkiru’s way of coping?
I picked up the second envelope. It was from Chinelo.
“Hm… Me, I no go school oh, but no worry. I go hold your customers for you. Especially that yeye celebrity wey dey disturb us say he wants to see your face. No kwa m, my guy. Your customers go wait till you return. Enjoy yourself, you hear?”
I nodded as if she were speaking directly to me. Chinelo was always the same — steady, dependable, and insistent that I never slack off.
Next was Ógè’s letter.
“My dear, my deepest condolences on your sister’s demise. I know how much it hurts. Grief is a skin that clings to us, a second layer we can’t shed. For years, I’ve carried this skin with me. You must have wondered why I always keep my head bald. People ask me constantly, and while I give them the standard answer, the truth is deeper. My parents died in a ghastly accident years ago, leaving me to fend for myself.
Shaving my head became my ritual, a way to honour their memory. It’s my silent declaration to anyone who enters my life: grief is a constant companion. But I hope you won’t let it weigh you down. Life is still here, waiting for you to embrace it. Don’t worry about your customers. Trust Chinelo for that. That girl is a bad beyatch! Love you.”
A crooked laugh broke free, even as her words cut deep. Baldness as a reverence for the dead. It was both haunting and profound.
Finally, I reached the last envelope. Written on its surface was “From the ladies.” I braced myself for what lay inside.
“Dear Chibuike,
Eliza, Anene, Ngọzi, Evelyn, and I, Akuchinyerem, send our deepest condolences. Death has no master, and its choices often defy our prayers and pleas. It’s a cruel balance in this chaotic world.
We’ve thought deeply about your sister’s death, and we feel compelled to share our stories.
Evelyn here: I can imagine the turmoil your sister felt, realising another life was growing inside her. I was once in her shoes. I feared the world’s judgment and my parents’ disapproval. I made a choice — a desperate, irreversible one — that cost me my womb. I traded the possibility of motherhood for survival.
Your sister’s story resonates with so many women. Some survive unscathed. Others, like me, bear the scars. And some, tragically, don’t survive at all.
The rest of us have also reflected on our beginnings. We judged you once, Chibuike, for choosing this line of work. A man, selling himself. Why? It shook our preconceptions. We, too, were once naive, questioning why women entered this profession.
We blamed the government, society, everything, but ourselves. Yet, here we are, each of us, driven by forces beyond our control — hunger, emptiness, regret.
Why does the world condemn us so harshly? Are we not human? Do we not feel? Chibuike, we share this with you not to shame you, but to challenge you. Why do you do this? Does it align with your goals, your needs? If it does, then carry on without guilt. If it doesn’t… you know what to do.
We mourn with you, dear friend. Take care of yourself.
With love,
The Ladies”
My vision blurred, misted by tears I refused to let fall. Their words echoed in my mind, peeling back layers of my defences. Were my reasons for doing this truly valid, or were they an excuse, a desperate bid to survive?
My phone buzzed, jolting me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen and felt my heart skip. Cletus? He must have heard the news. Hesitating for only a moment, I picked up.
“My baby, obi m,” his voice was soft, laden with concern. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry. I heard it this morning.”
I sighed, pushing aside the heaviness of the letters for now. My grief had travelled far, and so had he.
…
I stared at my phone, the screen glaring back at me like a silent judge. My skin grew numbed with each passing moment, as though fear had found a home beneath it. I drummed my feet against the tiled floor, trying to ignore the unease gnawing at my insides.
When I arrived at the brothel, the sky had been a lucid blue, sunless, with a breeze that tousled hair and teased at comfort. Yet, now, a cold knot of tension slithered down my spine, tightening with every passing second.
Someone walked into the room. I looked up.
“Chibuike, OMG!” Abekee’s voice rang out before I could process her presence. She scooped me into her arms, her embrace as tight as a boa constrictor’s grip. I stifled a laugh. Wahala ni o.
“Chi, I missed you! How body?” she chirped, pulling me to my feet and spinning me around like a rag doll.
Her childish excitement made me giggle despite myself. It had only been a two-month sabbatical, but the way she carried on, it felt like I had been gone for years.
“Abekee, what’s up?” I asked, slumping back into my seat. My legs trembled under me, barely able to hold my weight. Is this weariness? Oh God.
“We missed you, seriously,” she said, but her tone betrayed the half-truth. I mumbled something inaudible. “It’s like our customers vanished when they noticed you were gone.”
I arched a sceptical brow. “Really? Who am I, again? Tinubu’s son?” I snorted. “Even Tinubu wouldn’t believe this.”
She rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “So, no wonder here look dry, abi?”
“Where the other gurls?” I asked.
“You mean those beyatches?”
We burst into laughter, sharing our slang for beyatch for bitch and gurl for girl. For a moment, the tension in my chest loosened.
“Are you back to work, gurl?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.
I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Go and change, joor, before your customers start coming,” she teased, giggling as she scampered off to the dressing room.
A few moments later, the other girls arrived, Eliza among them. They cast sly glances my way, but I didn’t attempt to change into my working dress. I didn’t know why, but my body resisted the routine, as if sensing something was amiss.
Then it happened. A sudden eruption of raised voices came in from outside, sending a jolt of dread through me. My heart hammered against my ribcage as a familiar voice cut through the commotion, sharp and commanding.
“Get out of my way now!” The voice was like thunder, shaking the air and making my stomach lurch. “I know she’s in there!”
My breath hitched. They have found me. They have found out. The guilt I had buried deep came rushing back, slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave. I stumbled to my feet, my legs wobbling like jelly.
“Oga, wait here! Where you think you dey go?” Nkiru’s voice rose in defiance, but it did little to calm the storm.
“Call security!” Ógè snapped. “Before this madman chases our customers away!”
Madman? Something snapped inside me. “My father is not insane!” I shouted, bursting into the open.
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to me, wide with shock.
“He’s my father,” I said again, my voice trembling.
Gasps rippled through like a wave. I froze as my mother stepped forward, her eyes blazing with fury.
“Papa Chibuike, so this is where you have been spending the money I’ve been giving you?” she hissed, storming toward my father. Before anyone could react, she slapped him. The sound echoed in the stunned silence.
“In this bro—” Her words faltered as her sad eyes landed on me. Her manicured hand hung mid-air, trembling.
She looked at my father, then back at me, torn between continuing her tirade and processing the realisation etched across her face. Behind her stood someone I hadn’t expected to see. It was Cletus. His arms were open wide, his expression a mixture of pain and curiosity. His eyes met mine, silently reminding me of the confessions I owed.
I swallowed hard, shame washing over me like a tide. I followed them outside, my mother dragging my father, who tried in vain to defend himself. “It’s not what you think!” he kept repeating, but her rage was deafening.
As I stepped out into the open air, I glanced back at the building, the place I had called my sanctuary for over a year. My chest tightened as I realised this might be the last time I ever saw it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the celebrity, one of our regulars, watching me with a knowing smirk. Recognition danced in his eyes like he had uncovered a hidden secret.
He knows who I am now, I thought bitterly.
I turned away, my steps heavy with guilt. The life I had adopted, the choices I had made, clung to me like shadows, refusing to let go. But my guilt ran deeper than their stares. I worried not about the judgment of strangers but about whether my family would believe me, whether they would forgive me.
Nigeria happened to us all. ♦
Ikechukwu Henry Chinedu (he/him) is an Igbo writer from Nigeria, who loves writings that experiment with styles. Every day, when he writes, he searches for an answer, pouring his frustrations into the stories he creates — stories that advocate for men’s mental health, fighting against the stigma that clings to their struggles. He writes, not just to ease his own burdens, but to keep afloat in a world that threatens to drag him under. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Erato Magazine, Lampblack Magazine, Saving The Daylight, Words-Empire Magazine, Kahalari Review, The Candid Review, and others. He tweets @Ikechukwuhenry_, and his works could be found here: https://taplink.cc/ikechukwuhenry.
