Chapter 2: A House of Masks and Lies

Since I transmigrated into the role of a maidservant betrothed by madam to the oga’s ill-fated bodyguard, I’d always planned to watch the whole show from the sidelines, happy to just live my life alone.

From the very first day, when madam’s voice cut through the morning air—"Ngozi, go fetch water!"—I knew my place. I learned to keep my head down, to dodge gossip, and to pretend not to hear when the other maids whispered about Musa’s bad luck. The other servants eyed me with a strange mix of envy and pity, as if I was both lucky and cursed.

But I never expected that not only would this bodyguard survive, I would even fall in love with him.

Sometimes, when the moon was full and the compound was quiet, I’d catch Musa staring at the sky, lost in thought. He was nothing like the other men—he never raised his voice, never boasted. Instead, he would help the old gardener with his yams or bring small gifts for the children in the house. It was hard not to notice him, hard not to care.

Three years after our marriage, tonight was finally the night we would truly become husband and wife.

I had waited for this night with a heart full of hope and fear. All the older women had given me their advice—some serious, some full of mischief. "Make sure you tie your wrapper well, oh!" "Put small shea butter behind your ears, e dey bring luck." I smiled and nodded, my stomach twisting with nerves.

A black veil covered my eyes, making everything blurry.

The cloth was soft, smelling faintly of smoke and Musa’s cologne. My hands trembled as he tied it, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. The darkness made my other senses sharper; every sound, every breath, every heartbeat seemed louder.

But when the man took off his mask, his fine features made me catch my breath.

For a split second, I thought I saw Musa’s eyes behind the mask—dark, steady, full of secrets. But as the mask slipped away, I felt something shift in the air, something I couldn’t quite name.

All the oga’s bodyguards—including oga himself—always wore masks. Musa was no different.

It was a strange tradition in this house. They said it was to protect against bad spirits and jealous eyes. The masks were carved from ebony, polished until they shone. Sometimes, I wondered what secrets they hid behind those wooden faces.

Half a month ago, after we confessed our feelings, I tried to playfully remove his mask, but he stopped me.

He caught my hand gently, his grip warm but firm. "No rush, my woman. Some things better small-small, abeg."

He said, “Let’s take it off the night we become husband and wife, abeg?”

He sounded almost shy, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. It made my heart flutter in my chest like a trapped bird.

His gaze burned through the mask. I didn’t insist.

There was something in his eyes—something that made me trust him, even when I shouldn’t have. I smiled and let my hand fall.

Now, my face was burning hot.

My cheeks felt like they were on fire, and I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. The air was thick with anticipation.

The candlelight flickered, making the whole room feel charged with something I couldn’t name.

The shadows danced on the walls, turning the small room into a place of secrets and promises. The faint scent of camphor and palm wine lingered in the air, mixing with my own nervousness.

Maybe I was too nervous, because the man before me said nothing—he just raised his hand and pushed me onto the bed.

His touch was gentle but insistent. I felt a strange mix of excitement and fear, my body tense with expectation.

Just as I wanted to say something, a strange, unfamiliar breath brushed my neck.

A cold shiver ran down my spine, making my skin prickle. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat.

On reflex, I tore off the cloth covering my eyes, and a shock ran through my whole body.

My hands shook as I yanked the veil away. My heart stopped, then started racing, wild and frantic.

Why was the oga, Dapo, lying on the bed with me, his eyes dazed as if he’d been drugged?

My whole body went numb. Dapo—the oga himself—was sprawled on the bed, his usually sharp eyes glassy, his breathing ragged. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs and something bitter.

"Oga, you enter the wrong room?" My heart felt cold, but I was surprisingly calm.

I forced myself to speak, my voice steady even though my insides were shaking. "Oga, abeg, you sure say you no miss road?" I asked, trying to make sense of the madness.

Looking around, the room was too fancy—definitely not the small compound I shared with Musa.

Silk curtains, golden candlesticks, rugs from Kano—all things I’d only seen from afar. This was oga’s private room, not the cramped space I called home.

But after my eyes were covered, it was him that carried me in.

The memory was clear: strong arms, the scent of sandalwood. I was sure it had been Musa.

Which means, my husband sent me straight to the oga’s bed.

A bitter taste filled my mouth. So this was the game. My heart twisted, but I refused to cry. In this house, tears were a luxury I couldn’t afford.