Chapter 2: Respect Get Levels

2

But me, I no dey swallow my anger.

I be Amaka, and when something dey vex me, I no dey hide am.

My mother always told me, 'Amaka, your mouth dey sharp. Just dey careful.' But this one, ah, na my right. "Aunty, abeg, shift for me. This front seat get owner."

My words cut through the car like sudden thunder on a dry day. The air went stiff—like ogbono soup left too long on the fire.

She was shocked, obviously not expecting me to disgrace her the very first time we met.

Her hand froze on the car handle, her eyes blinking rapidly. The sweet smile vanished. Maybe my tone was too harsh, but Aisha Musa looked confused for a moment.

Her lips parted like she wanted to explain, but the words just refused to come out. In Lagos, respect is everything, but respect has levels. She must have realized her mistake too late.

"S-sorry, Madam Nnamdi."

Her voice shook, and she quietly moved to the back seat.

She clutched her bag to her chest and slid out, moving as if the car seat had suddenly turned to hot coal. The way she shifted, nobody needed prophet to know say shame dey catch am.

Odogwu Nnamdi finished his call and looked at us, realizing I was angry.

He looked at my face, and for a split second, his mask slipped. I caught the flicker of 'here we go again' in his eyes. A helpless, indulgent look crossed his face.

He leaned over and helped me fasten my seatbelt.

The gesture was tender, but I could feel the stiffness in his hand—a silent apology without words. When I noticed the seat had been adjusted, I quickly pushed it back myself.

My legs brushed the dashboard. I hissed softly under my breath, the sound sharper than mosquito in a quiet room. All this just made me more annoyed.

"So annoying. Who she be, moving my front seat?"

I muttered it loud enough for the whole car to hear. The car was now cold like freezer. The girl at the back was so scared, she didn’t even breathe loud.

You know those awkward silences that stretch and stretch, like chewing gum? That’s what filled the space, everyone pretending not to see each other.

Odogwu Nnamdi frowned a bit, his voice calm as he said, "If you’re not happy, let’s just go home."

He said it quietly, but the words landed heavy. Through the rearview mirror, I saw Aisha Musa quietly wiping her tears.

Her head bent, shoulders shaking as she dabbed her cheeks. The sight made my irritation burn even more.

"Aisha Musa, abi? I no even get mood to go again. You fit take keke go house. Chief Nnamdi and I are going home."

My voice was flat—no pity, no wahala. Her face turned white. She looked at Odogwu Nnamdi for help, but he just ignored her.

He kept his eyes on the steering, the way only a true Lagos man would when he doesn’t want to collect another person’s wahala. She got down from the car, hopeless.

Her steps were slow, the heels of her shoes making a dull sound on the pavement. She shut the door gently behind her, and for a brief moment, the whole world seemed quiet.