The days melted into weeks, and weeks stretched like chains around Amara's fragile neck. What began as gratitude for shelter soon became a nightmare she could not wake from.
Madam Okonkwo had a sharp tongue and a sharper hand. If Amara made the tiniest mistake—salt too much in the soup, clothes not ironed straight, floors not shining—she paid with lashes of the cane or harsh words that cut deeper than whips.
"Na so your mama teach you? Or you think say this house na playground?" Madam would sneer, her rings flashing as she pointed.
Amara would bow her head, muttering, "Sorry, ma." She learned quickly that tears only made Madam angrier.
But it was not Madam's anger that haunted her most. It was the shadow of Mr. Okonkwo. His footsteps at night, his lingering eyes during the day, his sly compliments that poisoned her ears.
One evening, she sat in the backyard pounding yam, sweat dripping down her back. Mr. Okonkwo strolled out, his shirt unbuttoned, belly rolling as he walked.
"Ah, Amara. See as your hand dey strong. You be real woman material o. One day, ehn, na man go enjoy you well."
She froze, pestle hanging mid-air.
"Sir… I dey pound yam, sir," she muttered, eyes fixed on the mortar.
He chuckled, moving closer. "No fear. I dey protect you. Madam fit dey shout, but me—I fit take care of you." His hand brushed her shoulder.
Amara flinched, almost dropping the pestle.
From the kitchen window, Madam's voice thundered. "Okonkwo! Wetin you dey do for backyard with that girl?!"
Mr. Okonkwo withdrew his hand swiftly, forcing a laugh. "Nothing o! I dey check the food." He strolled away, pretending innocence.
But Amara caught the way Madam's eyes narrowed at her later that night, as though she were guilty of something she could not name.
The next morning, Amara woke up to Madam's shrill voice.
"You thief! You small witch!"
Amara sat up, startled. Madam stormed into the corridor, holding a missing gold earring in her palm.
"Na only you fit take this! Who else get access to my drawer?!"
Amara's mouth opened in shock. "Ma, I no take am! I swear—"
Before she could finish, Madam's slap landed hot across her cheek.
"You go confess today!" Madam dragged her by the arm into the sitting room, her gold bangles clinking furiously. "If you no talk where you keep my earring, I go call police. They go lock you up for kirikiri prison, you go rot there!"
Amara shook her head desperately. "I no take am, ma. I swear to God."
But Mr. Okonkwo, sitting lazily on the sofa, intervened with a smirk. "Leave the girl, na. You too dey suspect."
Madam spun on him. "So you dey defend her abi? Ehen! I know am! One day, I go catch both of una!"
Amara's chest tightened. Even in her innocence, she was trapped between fire and brimstone.
That night, as she scrubbed the tiles till her fingers bled, Amara whispered to herself.
"Papa… Mama… una see me so? I no fit cry for anybody here. Na only God fit save me."
Her tears dropped onto the soapy floor, vanishing into the water.
But the city had more cruel lessons waiting.
A week later, Madam sent Amara on an errand to the market. It was her first time leaving the compound alone. The noise, the crowd, the chaos swallowed her. She clutched the money tightly, buying pepper, onions, and fish as instructed.
On her way back, a young man bumped into her. His smile was charming, his eyes sly.
"Ah, sorry small madam," he said, steadying her. "You fine o. Wetin be your name?"
Amara shrank back, shaking her head. "Leave me."
But he followed, smooth-talking in Pidgin. "No fear. I fit help you for this city. Money dey. Work dey. You no go suffer like this."
She quickened her pace, clutching her basket tighter. But his words crawled into her ears. Was he lying? Or could he really offer freedom?
At that moment, Amara did not know that scam artists prowled the streets of Lagos like hungry lions, searching for lambs like her.
Back at Madam's house, trouble brewed hotter than market stew.
That evening, Mr. Okonkwo cornered her in the corridor again. His face glistened with sweat, his breath heavy.
"Amara, listen to me. If you no gree for me, your life go hard for this house. Madam go finish you. But if you gree…" He dangled a crisp N500 note in front of her. "I go give you better life."
Amara's body trembled. She wanted to scream, but her voice stuck in her throat. Just then, footsteps echoed—Madam descending the staircase.
Mr. Okonkwo stuffed the money back into his pocket, stepping away.
But Madam's eyes were sharp. She had seen enough.
"Okonkwo!" she barked. "So na true?!"
Silence fell heavy. Amara's heart pounded like a drum.
For the first time, Mr. Okonkwo did not laugh it off. His face darkened, and in that silence, Amara understood: this house was not just chains. It was a battlefield, and she was standing in the middle of war.
The silence that followed Madam's outburst felt like thunder before a storm. Amara froze, her heart thumping in her chest, while Mr. Okonkwo shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"Na wetin you talk?" he asked, pretending not to understand.
Madam descended the stairs slowly, her wrapper dragging on the tiles. "So all this time I dey suspect, na true? Na this small girl you dey follow for my house?!"
Amara shook her head immediately, tears already burning her eyes. "No ma! I swear—"
"Shut up!" Madam snapped, pointing a finger at her. "You useless orphan! So this na your plan? Na why I give you shelter, food, and work, make you come snatch my husband from me?!"
"Madam, abeg… I no do anything…" Amara cried, dropping to her knees.
But Mr. Okonkwo's voice boomed across the corridor. "Nne, leave this matter! Na you dey overthink. The girl na small pikin. Wetin she sabi?"
Madam spun on him, her eyes blazing. "Overthink? You dey craze? You no see the way you dey waka follow her up and down? You no see the way you dey look am like goat wey wan chop yam?!"
Her words cut like knives. For the first time, Mr. Okonkwo's mask slipped, and a dangerous look crept across his face. He stepped closer to Madam, his voice low and threatening.
"You better mind wetin dey come out from your mouth, woman. I be your husband. You no get right to disgrace me inside my own house."
The air was thick, suffocating. Amara's knees felt weak, her tears flowing. She wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor.
But Madam was not done. She turned back to Amara, her voice rising like thunder.
"From today, I go make sure you regret the day you step into this house. You hear me? You go work till your hand break. You go chop last. You go sleep last. Nonsense girl!"
She raised her hand and slapped Amara so hard the sound echoed through the hall.
"Madam, abeg!" Amara sobbed, clutching her burning cheek.
"Carry yourself go wash all the clothes wey dey backyard now!" Madam shouted. "If by night dem never dry, I go flog you till your skin peel!"
Amara scrambled away, tears blinding her eyes. Behind her, she heard Madam and Master's voices clashing again like thunder and lightning.
That night, while Amara knelt in the backyard scrubbing piles of dirty clothes, she whispered to herself.
"God, wetin I do wey life dey punish me like this? If papa and mama dey alive, I for no dey suffer so…"
Her hands trembled in the soapy water. Her back ached. But worse than the pain was the fear—fear of Mr. Okonkwo creeping into her corridor again, fear of Madam beating her for crimes she didn't commit.
She finished hanging the clothes long past midnight and lay on her thin mattress, too exhausted to cry. Sleep pulled her under, heavy and restless.
But before dawn, she felt it—the heavy hand on her shoulder, the hot breath on her ear.
"Shhh… na me."
Her eyes shot open. Mr. Okonkwo crouched beside her bed, his face shadowed, his eyes gleaming.
"Don't shout. If you make noise, your life go spoil pass as e dey now. You hear me?"
Amara's lips trembled, but no sound came out.
"From today, you be mine," he whispered. "If you no gree, I go tell Madam say na you seduce me. You know she go believe me, not you. Then she go throw you comot like dog."
Amara's whole body shook. She wanted to scream, but her voice was trapped. He pressed closer, his words like venom.
"Na me go protect you. But you must gree. No talk, no tell anybody. Na our secret."
Her heart broke into pieces she could never gather again. She lay frozen, tears slipping silently down her face, while the darkness of the house swallowed her cries.
The following days became a blur of torment. By day, Madam treated her like a slave, beating her for mistakes, accusing her of stealing, calling her names that cut like knives. By night, Mr. Okonkwo crept into her space, whispering threats, taking what he wanted, and leaving her hollow.
And the cruelest part? Madam began to notice the way Amara's eyes avoided her husband, the way she trembled whenever he entered the room. But instead of protecting her, suspicion grew like poison in her heart.
One afternoon, Madam cornered her in the kitchen.
"You think say I be mumu?" Madam hissed. "You dey eye my husband abi? All this your pretence—na small girl you be, but you don wise pass your age."
"No ma! I swear to God, I no—"
Another slap silenced her.
"If I catch you near my husband again, I go tear your skin open. You hear me?"
"Yes, ma…" Amara whispered, her voice breaking.
But deep inside, she knew—there was no escape. No matter what she did, she was already guilty in Madam's eyes and trapped by Master's threats.
Still, destiny has a strange way of moving. One night, while Mr. Okonkwo tried to sneak to her mattress again, a noise interrupted—a sudden knock at the gate. Loud, insistent, urgent.
The guard's voice rang out, "Madam! Madam! Police dey for gate!"
Everyone in the house froze. Amara's heart leapt wildly. Could this be her chance? Or was it another twist of fate waiting to crush her even more?