Chapter 1: Gist Scatter Lagos

Dem expose Ifedike Okafor—Okafor family pikin—say e dey hide wife and pikin. Gist scatter everywhere.

For Lagos, gist dey waka fast—before evening, even Mile 12 market women dey argue am for bus stop. You go hear: “Shey na true? Okafor pikin get wife wey we no sabi?” Everywhere just full of wahala, like harmattan dust wey dey enter eye for December.

Ifedike rush come out, wan clear the air.

Next morning, as Lagos dey wake up—outside, Keke dey horn, suya smoke dey rise for junction, but everybody eye dey for TV—every major station dey play his press statement on repeat.

"I’m not secretly married, and I don’t have any daughter.

Everybody knows I’ve been single all these years."

The way he talk am, e be like say cold breeze just pass that studio. E no blink, him voice steady like stone wey no dey move. People wey sabi Ifedike know say, once he talk like that, e hard to shake am.

I dey stare him cold face for TV, then I look my pikin—her eyes red, confusion and tears just dey run down her cheek.

For parlour, small generator dey hum for backyard, so the noise blend with my worry. But na only Titi cry I dey hear. Her lips dey shake, her body dey tremble as she hug her faded teddy bear. My heart heavy, like bag of cement for head.

All the years wey I dey hope, dey pray, dey hold on—everything just scatter for that moment.

I feel something snap inside my chest—like wrapper wey tear for edge. All the hope, all the silent begging wey I dey do for God since, just disappear. I no even bother hide my pain again. This one don pass my power.

When he come house, I no carry Titi go greet am as before. I no dey wait for am with excitement again—even if he just step out for small time.

Before, once horn sound for gate, me and Titi go rush outside, Titi go dey shout, “Daddy don come!” I go arrange my gele, set my wrapper, smile dey ready. But now, everywhere cold. Titi no even look window, I just sit down like say nobody dey come.

Instead, I open the few messages wey still dey my phone: record of vasectomy surgery from six days ago, and one line:

The message dey heavy for my hand—like secret wey no suppose leak. Vasectomy? For Naija, you hardly hear man talk that kind thing. As I read the message, my hand dey shake.

"As long as you agree, from now on, Titi will be my only child."

That line just dey ring for my ear like morning bell. Na short message, but e heavy—if I gree, na only Titi go be him pikin. No other woman go born for am again. I read am again and again, my mind just dey lost.

With tears for my eyes, I reply: "Come carry me go. I no wan stay for Okafor family again."

As I press send, my heart dey pound. I no know wetin future hold, but that moment, only one thing clear—me and my pikin need leave this place.