Chapter 1: Welcome or Not

My mother remarried. On her wedding day, she sweet-talked me into calling that man “Daddy.”

She pressed my shoulders, her eyes shining with hope, saying, “Just call am, my dear. Call am ‘Daddy’ for me. Na your new papa now.” Her voice soft, like akara soak inside palm oil. I do am, but my tongue heavy, the word strange for my mouth. The laughter of guests, the smell of fried rice and stew, and old Fuji music from the speakers all mix for my head.

I do am, but his son just come kick me straight into the compound’s swimming pool. I nearly drown.

For a second, I just dey stand, no sabi wetin happen—then gbam, my body land for water. Water swallow me sharp sharp, cold like harmattan breeze. My head dey turn as I struggle, and all I see na bubbles and blue tiles. My scream just turn to small gurgle for under water. E be like say time freeze.

He look down at me, sneer for face, “You think say you fit belong here?”

Him face bend, one eyebrow high like person wey dey do competition. Some party children dey laugh, one aunty drag her pikin away, dey mutter, “Na wa o.” The sun hot for my wet body as I finally come out, and shame dey burn me pass the cold.

I was just seven that time. My mama dey paint picture of a bright future, dey promise say if I behave and listen, I go chop meat tire.

She use sweet mouth scatter my ears, dey tell me, “Just behave, na here your better life go start. No be like for village.” Her gele high, her smile wide like person wey win lotto. I just dey nod, my own eye dey look the big pots of jollof rice, goat meat dem dey serve for outside.

I wanted it so bad—back for our village, sometimes we no even see meat for months.

For there, even Christmas sometimes na only fish we go manage. The smell of stew for this Lagos compound nearly make my stomach dance. I swear, I fit do anything that day to belong.

But instead, on her wedding day, I nearly die inside water.

Instead of enjoyment, na water I see. I no know say wahala dey wear agbada too.

When dem finally pull me out, my mama vex say I disgrace her. She lock me inside one small, dark store room.

She no even look my side, just hiss, say, “You don embarrass me finish. Enter there, before I slap you.” My clothes still dey wet as cold catch me, my teeth dey shake. The store room smell of old yam and rat shit. I dey fear say rat spirit go bite me for dark, like dem dey talk for village.

She and her new husband dey do love up, dey whisper sweet things, while I dey inside, hungry so till my head dey turn, dey cry for darkness.

Their laughter dey leak enter the store room, mix with sound of generator and distant owambe music. My stomach dey turn, my body dey cold, shame dey catch me, my eye red from cry, I dey feel like stray cat for market.

Somebody pry open the window and throw one strong, hard agege bread inside.

Bread land for my leg with gbim! The room dark, but I smell am, that yeast, old, almost sour smell. My heart dey beat.

Even as hunger dey finish me, I still remember to talk, “Thank you.”

Na small voice I use, like say I dey beg air. I fit feel my throat dry, my tongue heavy with dust. Na the last pride I get.

The person outside just laugh coldly: “Na for dog I throw am.”

The laugh dey sharp, e cut me like blade. I hear footsteps waka commot, and for that moment, I feel say I really no be anybody for this house. Tears prick my eye again, but I swallow am. Hunger still win.