CHAPTER TWO: THE CITY OF SUGAR
The bus from Ijebu to Lagos was crowded, loud, and hot. The smell of roasted corn mixed with exhaust fumes drifted through the half-broken windows as hawkers pressed bags of gala and sachets of water against the glass.
Zainab clutched her small handbag to her chest, the only thing she owned that wasn't second-hand. Inside were two changes of clothes, her mother's worn photograph, and a folded note of prayer Mama had written the night before she left.
"My daughter, may God guide your steps. Don't forget where you come from."
The bus jolted over a pothole, and she closed her eyes, gripping the seat tighter. Lagos was close now. She could feel it — the pulse of the city growing louder with every mile.
When she finally stepped off at Ojota park, the noise hit her like a wave. Horns blaring, people shouting, traders calling out their goods. Buses crammed with passengers, danfos painted with slogans like "No Condition is Permanent" and "God Dey."
Zainab stood still for a moment, lost in the chaos. Then she heard a familiar voice.
"Zee baby!"
Tomiwa came running toward her, looking like she had stepped straight out of a music video — hair sleek and glossy, nails painted gold, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her head though the sun was barely out.
Zainab gasped. "Tomiwa! You look… different!"
"Different good, I hope!" Tomiwa laughed, hugging her tightly. "You, my dear, look like you've been through life and back. But don't worry — Lagos will change that soon."
Tomiwa's car — a silver Lexus that gleamed like money — was waiting nearby. A driver opened the door for them, and Zainab slid inside, her heart pounding. She had never been in such a car before. Everything smelled of perfume and air conditioning and the kind of life she'd only seen on Instagram.
As they drove toward Lekki, Tomiwa chattered nonstop — about her "business," about rich men who paid for trips and gifts, about parties in Banana Island. Zainab listened quietly, her stomach twisting.
"So… what kind of work exactly do you do?" she finally asked.
Tomiwa grinned. "Networking. Let's just say I make rich men happy, and they make me richer."
Zainab blinked, unsure if she was joking. "You mean like…?"
"Babe, please," Tomiwa interrupted. "Don't act naïve. Everyone in Lagos is using something — beauty, brains, body — to survive. The question is, what are you using?"
Zainab didn't answer. Her throat felt dry.
They arrived at Tomiwa's apartment — a sleek, modern flat on the third floor of a gated building. There were marble tiles, scented candles, and a balcony overlooking the lagoon. Zainab had never seen anything like it.
"Feel at home," Tomiwa said, handing her a cold drink. "You'll stay here until you find your feet. Tomorrow night, I'm taking you out. There's a dinner — big men, big money. Just look pretty, smile, and talk less. You'll thank me later."
Zainab tried to smile, but her heart raced. She didn't understand what she was walking into, only that she needed the money. Mama's hospital bills were still unpaid, and her siblings were depending on her.
That night, as she lay on the soft bed in Tomiwa's guest room, she sent a voice note home.
"Mama, I reached safely. Tomiwa is helping me find work. Don't worry, I'll send money soon."
But long after she sent it, she stayed awake, staring at the city lights flickering outside the window. Lagos sparkled like a promise — beautiful, deceptive, and full of hidden teeth.