Chapter 3: The Price of Mercy

At last, the chief storm commot with vex, his face pale, as he talk each word slow-slow:

His slippers slapped the floor, agbada dragging behind. Even the compound dogs ran for cover, sensing the darkness in his spirit.

"If the madam die, all of una go follow am die."

The threat hung like thick harmattan fog. The elders nodded, knowing it was not an idle boast. In this compound, chief's word was law, and life hung by a thread.

Inside and outside, every house servant kneel together. Under hot sun, Sade and some others don already die finish.

We pressed our faces to the ground. Some dey mutter "Jesu, save me," others whisper "Olodumare, abeg." Our foreheads on cement, lips mumbling silent prayers. Some begged the ancestors, others called on Christ. Nobody wanted to be next.

The people wey dey beat them sabi work; each stroke na inside wound. People just cough small blood, so e no too messy, dem fit clean am sharp-sharp.

Blood spots dotted the earth, but the head maid moved quick, mop in hand, making sure the place looked presentable. Her hands shake, but she wipe like say na ordinary palm oil. In this compound, appearances meant everything—even death had to dress fine.

Soon, dem wrap the bodies for mat, arrange bench on top three-three, then one small boy carry basin come wash the cement floor.

He worked with the speed of someone who knew the price of delay. When he finished, he wiped his forehead, not daring to look up.

Everywhere clean like nothing happen.

It was as if the ground itself swallowed the pain. The smell of soap hung in the air, but you could still feel the sorrow sticking to your skin like old oil.

As I return enter the room, madam no dey cry again. She just lie for settee, dey vex dey hiss.

She lay stiff, one arm thrown over her eyes, wrapper kicked off her feet. I tiptoed, afraid to break the silence, but her anger filled the room like thick smoke.

"Ngozi, I want comot for this body. All this love and affection na scam—even the gist about clearing the wives’ quarters na lie, I no even become queen. He no love me."

She said it in English, then switched to Igbo, the words tumbling out. Her voice was tired, worn like old slippers.

"If I fit start again, I go far from compound, become rich, just dey enjoy."

She let out a dry laugh, bitter and sharp. Her dreams sounded far, like distant generator noise when NEPA take light—always there, but never reach.

"Ehn? To switch to merchant’s daughter dey cost that many points?"

She grumbled, calculating her options as if life was a market negotiation. The spirit world felt close, as if someone was watching.

"Then switch with Yemisi. That one dey loyal, dey humble. If her status change, she go just dey thank me. Make she give me money, maybe even make me princess."

Her eyes darted to me, sizing me up as if I was a yam for sale. The way she talked about my loyalty made me shiver.

"She fit rebel?"

She waited for an answer nobody would give, her tone half mocking, half worried. Even madam feared the unknown.

"Abeg, the world big—surely I go find true love."

She hugged herself, rocking gently. A part of me wanted to hug her, but I stood still, cold.

"Wuwu, see as the man just do anyhow."

She sniffed, voice small. Her dreams sounded like children’s games—fantasy spun to hide the ache in her chest.

I no even know how I dey feel that time.

Emotions scattered inside me like spilled garri. The taste of fear sat heavy on my tongue.

Confusion, fear, pain, hate, wahala.

Every feeling mingled together. My heart pounded as I replayed the violence, the unfairness, the madness of this house.

Sade blood stain just clean finish. Apart from her, nine others too.

The floor shone, but my mind kept seeing their faces—loyal servants now gone, names that would soon fade.

All of them serve her with loyalty and care.

Memories flashed: Sade singing in the kitchen, Bisi joking as she plaited hair, Ibrahim’s quiet smile. This compound ate good people for breakfast.

Bisi go Chief’s Council for her, all her ten fingers break—her hand never heal, she no fit use spoon again.

Bisi’s pain was legend in the house, her suffering a warning to the rest of us. Yet, she still managed a smile when she passed me, never blaming madam.

Ibrahim, the steward wey dey taste her food, swallow poison for her sake; his throat burn sotey he no fit even beg, only dey look with tears for eye.

They buried him quickly, before the cock crowed twice. I remembered his quiet strength, the way he watched over us all, even when nobody noticed.

All this talk wey madam dey talk, I no even fit process am.

My head spun. Her complaints sounded distant, like radio static. I wanted to scream, but I just stood there.

Wetin dey my mind na: we servants, we no be people?

That thought sat heavy in my chest. In this house, our lives were currency—spent and forgotten, swept away like dirt in the harmattan wind.