Chapter 1: When Shame Dey Watch Person

At Tolu Ajayi’s twenty-eighth birthday party, person get mind bring woman for am, right in front of me.

E be like say dem wan test my patience, just dey do am for my front, for face of our people. My chest tight, but I still manage keep my smile—the kind smile wey no reach my eyes. For somewhere, small whisper start; before e reach my ear, e don sharp like mosquito wey no wan let person sleep.

For my mind, I dey count to ten, but anger just dey boil like ogi for fire. Next thing, I forget my usual calm, I just smash wine glass, scatter the whole party.

I no even know when my hand move. The sharp crash loud pass DJ speaker. People jump. Some aunties hold their head, dey mutter, “O ga o!” under breath. That moment, the whole Ajayi compound freeze, mouth open. Red wine dey spread for Ajayi compound marble floor, soak my lace hem. My heart dey pound like NEPA just bring light after blackout.

I pack my load, move out by myself.

Nobody send me help, not even small, “Madam, make I help you with that box.” I waka like shadow for the corridor, ignore all the shocked look and whispers for back of door. For my chest, one small pride dey grow—maybe na foolishness, but e belong to me.

Everybody begin yarn, “This Madam Ajayi, nobody to back her, she no go last three days before she go crawl come back.”

Dem dey talk am like say na fact, passing it around like groundnut at the back of a danfo. Drivers and cooks get their own version: “She go beg come back, na sure bet. Who go save her for this Ibadan?” Even gateman shake head like person wey don see am all.

Tolu no even send. Girl without family—if she comot from Ajayi compound, where she wan go?

Tolu just dey behave like I waka go buy suya. Not even one text, not even one call, nothing. Even for WhatsApp, e dey post party pictures as if I no exist. For am, I be like old pure water nylon wey dem troway for gutter. I still dey hear him voice for my head, the way e dey dismiss things: “She go tire.”

But three days pass, then another three, people even begin gossip say maybe I don die outside.

Rumour begin fly—person say dem see me for Ojoo, another swear say I enter night bus go Lagos, while sharp-tongue ones dey mutter say I don craze or die somewhere. For hairdresser, na prayer point and gist: “God forbid, see as life be.”

Na that time Tolu finally call me for the first time.

He dial am with the same pride wey e dey use call driver, expect me to answer sharp-sharp. For him mind, maybe I dey somewhere dey cry, dey wait for him call like rain after dry season.

But na empty MTN voice greet am: “The number you are calling is not available.” E frown, jaw set, small irritation enter him tone. For the first time, e feel one kain pinch—new pain say e no fit reach me.

Later, for one big painter’s exhibition, na side-profile portrait make Tolu lose him composure.

He waka enter, chest up, but once him eye jam that painting, e steps just pause. The gallery noise disappear. The painting shine for light—familiar, but e no fit reach am.

He drop plenty money to buy the painting.

No even price, just drop big cash—enough to buy five Christmas cows. Crowd gasp. Even gallery owner raise eyebrow.

Seyi Wenika just smile, say, “This one na the portrait wey I like pass—na my wife I draw. I no fit sell am.”

Him voice calm, but him eyes get quiet pride, the kind wey only true love dey give. Tolu swallow, words stick for throat, hand dey shake. He see something inside that painting—peace wey e never get, peace wey e deny me.