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Chapter 6 - CHAPTER SIX: THE GOLDEN CAGE

CHAPTER SIX: THE GOLDEN CAGE

Two days after that message, a black SUV pulled up outside Tomiwa's apartment.

The driver stepped out, crisp in a dark suit.

"Madam Zainab?" he asked formally.

"Yes."

"Chief sent me. He asked me to bring you to his office."

Tomiwa winked from the doorway. "See? I told you. Lagos is finally smiling at you."

Zainab forced a smile, but her hands trembled as she climbed into the car.

Chief's office was unlike anywhere she had ever been: glass walls looking out over the Lagos skyline, polished floors, framed photos of him shaking hands with politicians and celebrities. He welcomed her warmly, as though she were a visiting daughter.

"I wanted to see you properly," he said. "You impressed me the other night. Sit."

He asked about her mother, her schooling, her dreams. He listened carefully, nodding, occasionally jotting something in a leather notebook. Then he reached into a drawer and slid an envelope across the desk.

"Take this. For your mother's treatment. Don't argue."

Zainab opened her mouth to refuse, but the words died. It wasn't a small amount; it was enough to clear every hospital bill and pay rent for months. Her throat tightened.

"Thank you, Chief. I don't know how to—"

"By staying focused," he interrupted gently. "There are people who will want to use you. Don't let them. I see potential in you. Learn. Grow. Help your family. That's enough for now."

He smiled, and for a moment, she almost believed he was simply kind.

Over the following weeks, Zainab's life changed quickly. Chief arranged a small apartment for her in Surulere — neat, quiet, fully furnished. Money arrived regularly. Tomiwa took her shopping for clothes and phones, saying, "Now you're looking like a real Lagos babe."

Zainab visited her mother in Ijebu with new medicine and a calm smile. Mama looked healthier already.

"Where did all this come from?" she asked softly.

"From work," Zainab lied. "A good job."

For the first time in years, Zainab felt something close to relief. Yet every night, lying on her new bed, she felt the same dull ache in her chest — a sense of being owned by something she didn't understand.

Weeks turned to months. Chief called often — sometimes to check on her, sometimes just to talk. He invited her to charity galas, dinners, quiet weekends on his estate outside Lagos. Everyone treated her with subtle respect, but also curiosity. "Chief's girl," they whispered when they thought she couldn't hear.

The gifts kept coming: jewelry, designer bags, a small car. Each one felt heavier than the last.

One evening, after another event, she found herself sitting alone in her apartment, surrounded by everything she'd once dreamed of. Her phone buzzed with a message from Tomiwa:

"How's the sweet life treating you?"

Zainab looked around — at the gold watch on her wrist, at the silence of her perfect flat — and whispered,

"Sweet, but bitter."

She didn't tell Tomiwa that she felt more trapped than free, that every time Chief smiled, she saw the shadow behind it. She didn't tell anyone that she sometimes woke in the night hearing her mother's voice say, Don't forget where you come from.

That same week, Zainab met a man at one of Chief's business functions — a journalist named Kunle. Unlike the others, he spoke to her as if she were a person, not an ornament.

"You don't seem like the type who enjoys these gatherings," he said quietly.

Zainab smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm still learning."

He looked at her for a long time before replying, "Just don't learn the wrong lessons."

His words lingered long after the party ended.

For the first time in months, Zainab wondered if it was possible to still have a choice — or if she had already given it away.

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