The parlor is buzzing with the sounds of a Yoruba movie. Someone's mother-in-law is about to confess to using juju. Miracle is on the floor, cross-legged, eyes glued to the TV. Aunt Linda is sitting on a low stool, her thick fingers weaving Mary's hair like she's molding clay.
I'm on the couch, scrolling through my phone. Minding my business.
Then Mary, the sweet, naïve child that she is, asks the kind of question that can summon thunder.
"Mummy, is it true that bad girls will not enter heaven?"
I freeze.
Miracle pauses the movie.
Aunt Linda's hands stop mid-braid.
The standing fan continues its useless rotation, blowing warm air that does nothing to cool the tension.
"Where did you hear that from?" Aunt Linda asks, eyes narrowing.
"Sister Nkechi said it in Bible study," Mary replies, blinking innocently. "She said bad girls will go to hell."
I already know where this is going.
Aunt Linda shifts, plants her feet firmly on the ground, and cracks her knuckles like she's about to enter the ring.
"Ah, Mary! Bad girls? Tufiakwa!" She claps her hands. "You see all those useless girls that cannot keep their legs closed? That are jumping from bed to bed like mosquitoes? That's how they will end up—inside hellfire, burning like suya!"
Miracle snickers.
I keep my eyes on my phone.
Aunt Linda is just warming up.
"In our time," she continues, "a girl will misbehave small, and shame will finish her! She will disappear! But now? You will see them walking up and down, still painting face! Still wearing short skirt! No shame! No dignity!"
She pauses. Then turns directly to me.
"Abi, Jade?"
I don't answer.
"You think we don't know what you're doing? You think people are not talking?" She claps again for emphasis.
"Do you know what the Bible calls girls like you?" she asks, voice rising. "Jezebel! Delilah! Rahab the Harlot! In fact, even dogs have more self-respect!"
My fingers tighten around my phone.
"Ah! Some girls are just too loose!" she exclaims. "Give them small attention—just small 'hello, hi'—and before you know it, preeq has entered! No self-control! No home training!"
Miracle is grinning.
Mary is confused.
Me?
I'm just tired.
I stand up. "I'm going to bed."
"Better! Go and sleep! Maybe God will talk some sense into you in your dream!"
I ignore her. Walk straight to my room. Lock the door.
Then I sit on my bed, knees pulled to my chest.
I don't realize I'm crying until I taste salt on my lips.
Not because of Aunt Linda. I've heard worse.
But because I'm remembering. Not the way they tell it. Not the way they whisper it in school corridors.
I remember how it really happened.
It was a blind date.
One of my friends had set it up, swearing up and down that the guy was a catch. "Babe, you'll like him! Fine boy! Smooth talker! Money dey!"
I didn't think too much of it. Just another evening out.
His name was Uzor. Or so he said.
And he was fine. Smooth brown skin, well-trimmed beard, white teeth that flashed when he smiled. He was attentive. Knew how to keep a conversation going. Made me laugh.
"You're even finer in person," he had said, smiling at me across the dinner table. "A whole goddess like you. What do you like to drink?"
It was supposed to be an innocent night.
But I remember how heavy my head started to feel. How the lights blurred. How my limbs felt detached from my body.
I remember him holding my waist as we left the restaurant.
I remember his car door opening.
I remember trying to speak but my tongue was heavy.
Then I remember waking up in an unfamiliar bed.
Clothes off. Body sore. Head still spinning.
And him.
Holding his phone. Smiling down at me.
"Damn, babe. You're wild."
I wasn't.
I didn't know what had happened. But I knew it wasn't right.
I didn't even know where I was.
I struggled to sit up. My head felt like cotton wool.
"Where's my phone?" I asked.
He tossed it to me. "Relax. You were amazing last night."
I checked the time. 6:37 AM.
I had to leave.
I put on my clothes. Walked out of that house. Ordered a ride.
And when I got home, I tried to text him. Call him.
"User not found."
I checked Instagram. WhatsApp. Twitter. Snapchat.
Blocked.
That was when I knew.
That was when I understood what had really happened to me.
But by then, the video was already out.