Chapter 1: The Prince’s Job

Seven years I don dey run tattoo shop for Alaba, draw pass ten thousand skin, but this one—chai, e different. E nearly finish my life.

Sometimes when I look back, I still remember the first time my hand hold tattoo machine for Alaba side, as I dey hustle for small change. I never imagine say wahala fit reach me wey pass police—spiritual wahala wey no dey show for face. Me wey believe say all body art na just drawing, I no know say tattoo fit carry serious matter. Na so e be for Naija street—one day, your hand fit enter big wahala wey pass your power.

One young woman say make I tattoo one strange five-headed deity for her lower abdomen, and na one young prince from Abuja big people dey pay for am.

As I hear 'prince' and see as the guy package—shoe pure Italian, wristwatch na gold, perfume strong like say e dey announce him papa na senator. Na so Abuja elite dey show—money dey shine for their body. My mind dey reason make I shine eye, but who go see big money waka pass?

"The design and materials na my own. Your own na just to use your skill."

The way he talk, e cold—like person wey dey used to command, no be street pikin. He drop cheque of fifty thousand naira for my front.

The small fan for my shop dey blow hot air, but as I see the cheque, cold sweat catch me. I no fit hide the happiness for my face, I just nod sharp sharp. "No worry, I go make sure say I no miss any detail."

My chest just dey dance azonto for happiness, as I dey reason which kin wahala or good luck dey inside this job. For my head, I dey calculate all the bill wey fifty k go settle this month. My brother for school, my mama hospital, even NEPA no go vex me again.

"Another fifty thousand go come after. Abeg, no dey ask too many questions. Remember—if your mouth dey loose, your life go short."

The way him talk that time, my body just cold, as if person pour ice water for my neck. I fit sense say this no be regular aboki. Na so Lagos dey—money and danger dey waka together. His pale hand come tap the hand wey I take hold the cheque.

I shock, force one kind awkward smile, and as I look up, I jam the young prince gentle, soft face. But under that smile, cold like harmattan dey hide for there.

Na there I know say this job no ordinary. But as hunger dey beat person, man gats risk am. In my mind, I dey pray say make e no pass my power. For Naija, sometimes, na only prayer and sharp sense dey save man.

Small voice for my head dey remind me my mama old talk—“No touch money wey get long story.” But hunger dey look me for eye. Last last, I tell myself, "God dey. I go do am."