A Dangerous Offer
I was sitting by the village well that afternoon, dizzy from hunger and too tired to beg again. My lips were dry, my stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself, and my legs were too weak to carry me anywhere else.
That was when she came.
A woman—beautiful and clean, like someone from another world. Her wrapper shimmered in the sun, her gele was tied with pride, and she smelled like those imported powders the wives of rich men wear on festive days.
"You look hungry, my dear," she said, smiling as if I were her own daughter.
I nodded slowly.
"What is your name?" she asked, kneeling beside me.
I hesitated. People in the village didn't ask for my name. They only called me "omo were"—the mad woman's daughter. I was tired of repeating it.
"I don't have one," I whispered.
She sighed. "No child should be this lost. Come, let me help you. You'll eat well, wear good clothes, and sleep like a princess."
I stared at her. Her voice was sweet, her eyes kind, and the idea of food made my legs move before my thoughts could stop them.
She took me to a house far from where I used to roam. It was in the wealthier part of the village—where girls wore beads and anklets and where people held proper traditional weddings with drummers and palm wine.
Inside the house, everything smelled new. The floors were clean. The walls were painted. Other girls like me were there, but they weren't laughing. They wore revealing clothes and too much makeup. And when they smiled, their eyes didn't.
"You'll stay here," the woman said. "But you have to earn it."
I looked at her, unsure what she meant.
"You'll make men happy. That's how we live here. They come, they pay, they go. You give them your body, they give you money. Isn't that better than sleeping in dust?"
My heart dropped.
I thought of those women who wore too much perfume and stood at the market junction after sunset. I had heard them laugh too loud. I had also heard the old women in the village call them spoiled, lost, and used.
This woman was offering me the same life. But she had wrapped it in shiny wrappers and soft perfume.
"I can't do that," I said, my voice shaking.
She stepped closer, eyes no longer gentle. "Where will you go? Who will marry a girl with no background, no name, no dowry, and no family?"
In our village, even poor girls hoped for traditional marriage someday. A man would come with kola nut and wine, kneel before her people, and pay the bride price. That kind of honor—they said—gave a girl respect.
But me? I had no father to receive the wine. No mother to say a prayer. No uncle to ask for a list. And no one to sing for me on my marriage day.
Still, I knew this wasn't the way.
"I'd rather be hungry than lose myself," I whispered.
"You'll die on the street," she snapped. "No one will bury you."
"I'd rather die whole than live broken."
And I ran.
I didn't wait for her to pull my wrist again. I ran out of the house, past the women washing wrappers, past the compound gates, and through the bush path back to where my mother's broken hut still stood.
I collapsed there, shaking, crying, holding my chest like it would break. But I was still me.
I had no family. No dowry. No, clothe
s.
But I still had my soul.
And I would fight to keep it.