The city had a way of deceiving the eyes. From afar, its lights sparkled like scattered diamonds on black velvet, promising life, riches, and glory. But once you entered its belly, you discovered it was no paradise—only smoke, noise, and hunger wearing a mask of beauty. Amara was about to learn that truth.
She stood at the akara woman's stall that morning, holding her small bundle. Mama Esther's hot oil sizzled as she dropped another spoon of batter into the pan, the golden akara balls floating and browning as if they had no care in the world. Amara's stomach growled again. She tried to ignore it.
"You come early, my pikin," Mama Esther said, wiping her forehead with the edge of her wrapper. "Na so I like am. Person wey wan make am for this city no dey sleep anyhow. You gatz wake before cock crow."
"Yes, ma," Amara answered, her voice soft, polite.
Mama Esther studied her for a moment, her sharp eyes softening. "Hmm. I see your spirit strong, but your body dey fragile. This city go test you. No fear, sha. I go carry you go meet one madam wey dey find house help. She no too good with mouth, but at least you go get roof over your head and food chop."
"Thank you, ma," Amara whispered. She clutched her bundle tighter, as if it held her courage.
They walked together through the market, weaving between stalls where traders shouted like soldiers going to war. "Tomato! Buy tomato, na correct one! Pepper dey fresh oh! Madam come buy yam, last price!" Amara's head spun with the noise. She felt as though the whole world was pressing against her from all sides. Dust rose from the ground as wheelbarrow pushers fought for space with buses honking endlessly.
Mama Esther moved fast, her hips swaying, wrapper tied tightly around her waist. Amara followed like a shadow, afraid she would be swallowed by the crowd. When they finally reached the tall blue gates of the compound, Amara's heart skipped. The walls stretched high, clean, and intimidating. Inside, she imagined palaces and princes. Maybe here, she could finally find safety.
The security man at the gate squinted at them, his teeth busy cracking roasted groundnuts. "Wetin una dey find?"
Mama Esther greeted warmly. "Morning, oga. Na me come last week. I bring one small girl for the house help work wey Madam dey find."
The man eyed Amara from head to toe, his lips twisting. "This one? She too small oh. Madam fit no gree."
Mama Esther waved her hand. "Open gate first. Na God dey help person. She no get papa or mama again. This work fit save her life."
The man shrugged and swung the gate open lazily. Amara's heart raced as they stepped into the compound. The sight stole her breath. The house gleamed white, tall windows reflecting the morning sun, flowers trimmed neatly along the walkway. She had never seen such beauty. It looked like something out of the stories her father once told her.
They knocked, and soon a woman appeared. She was tall, fair, with gold earrings swaying gently as she moved. Her lace gown shimmered like water under the sun, but her eyes were sharp—too sharp, like knives hidden behind a smile that never came.
"Yes? Who are you people?" Her voice was curt.
"Good morning, Madam Okonkwo," Mama Esther said, bowing slightly. "I hear say you dey find house girl. Na why I carry this pikin come. She no get papa, no mama, but she sabi work. She go serve well."
Madam's gaze swept over Amara slowly, coldly, as though she were inspecting an animal at the market. "Hmm. She too small. How old are you, girl?"
"Twelve, ma," Amara whispered, almost inaudibly.
"Twelve?" Madam frowned. "And you think you can handle work? You even dey look like leaf wey harmattan go blow away. But sha…" She paused, as if weighing the trouble against her need. "We go try. Come inside."
Amara's heart leapt. At last—shelter, food, maybe a place where she could rebuild. She turned to thank Mama Esther, but the woman had already started leaving, waving goodbye. "No fear, my pikin. Just dey strong. City no easy. But God dey."
The door closed, and Amara stepped into her new life.
The first few days blurred together. Amara swept floors that stretched endlessly, washed plates that seemed to multiply, and fetched water from a distance she had never walked before. Madam Okonkwo's voice never stopped. "Amara, bring water! Amara, you dey deaf? Amara, come here this instant!" The woman's tongue was sharp, but Amara bore it silently. At least she had food—even if it was Madam's leftovers—and a thin mattress in the corridor to call her bed.
But it was the master of the house who made her skin prickle. Mr. Okonkwo was a large man with a booming voice and a belly that strained against his shirt buttons. At first, he seemed kind, smiling at her, asking, "Amara, you dey try? You go see, life go better for you here." But his eyes lingered too long. His laughter was too heavy, too knowing.
One evening, as she washed plates in the kitchen, he strolled in. "Amara," he said, his voice low. "You dey try well well. You sabi work pass all those yeye girls wey don pass through this house."
"Thank you, sir," she muttered, not looking up.
He leaned closer, his breath thick with beer. "No fear. I go take care of you."
Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to keep washing. Something in his tone unsettled her deeply, like shadows creeping across her soul.
The household was no paradise. At night, Amara sometimes heard Madam and Master fighting upstairs. Their voices rose like thunder.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?!" Madam shouted one night.
"Woman, lower your voice!" Master barked.
"You dey disgrace me for this house, Okonkwo. One day, I go catch you red-handed!"
Amara's heart pounded as she mopped the sitting room floor, their voices echoing. In her fear, she dropped the bucket. Water spilled across the shiny marble, the sound crashing into their argument.
Within seconds, Madam stormed downstairs, her eyes blazing. "You this foolish girl! So you dey hide ear for my matter abi?!" She slapped Amara across the face. "From today, if I catch you where you no belong, na cane go finish your body!"
Amara's cheek burned. Tears welled up, but she bit her lip and kept silent.
That night, she lay on her mattress in the dark corridor, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. Every creak of the house made her body stiffen. Then she heard it—the slow, heavy footsteps. They stopped near her corridor.
Her chest tightened. She shut her eyes, pretending to sleep.
The steps drew closer. Then she felt it: a hand brushing against her blanket. Her eyes shot open.
Mr. Okonkwo stood over her, smiling. His teeth glistened in the dim light, his face shadowed. "Shhh," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "No talk. If you shout, na you go regret am."
Amara froze, terror slicing through her body.
The next morning, Madam studied her carefully as she entered the kitchen. "Why your face be like person wey cry all night?"
Amara stammered, "N-nothing, ma."
Madam leaned closer, suspicion hardening her eyes. "If you dey hide anything for this house, better talk now. Because if e be wetin I dey suspect…" She paused, letting the silence stretch like a blade. "Na you go suffer pass."
Amara's heart raced. Did Madam already know? Or was she just guessing?
Either way, Amara was trapped.