The Voice.

Bolaji stared blankly at the gala man as he chased after a speeding vehicle, his desperation a stark contrast to the indifferent traffic.

The gala man shouted “Stop!” at the top of his lungs and other profanities in a language she had never heard before but guessed was Ijaw.

The poor man had apparently been robbed, as the driver sped off without paying him. An event that occurred countless times on the highway.

She chuckled inwardly at the way the gala man went after the car, but her laughter soon turned to sorrow when she saw the dejected face of the man, his expression as forlorn as a stray dog that was denied its last morsel of food.

A lump formed in her throat. After all, just like everyone else, the gala man was trying to survive in the bustling, unforgiving streets of Ibadan.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder if he would continue to carry boxes of gala placed delicately on his arms, chasing after unattainable dreams. Only to eventually fade away, unknown and unmissed?

The weight of this thought pressed down on her, and she turned her attention from the gala man’s plight, and studied her surroundings lethargically.

It was that time of the year when dust and gas fumes penetrated the air, stinging eyes and scratching throats. Yet the people trudged on, faces hidden behind face masks, seemingly indifferent to the harsh environment.

Like the dust and the garbage that plagued the area, the fumes were just another thing for the people to ignore, another discomfort to be endured in their day-to-day lives.

So, a gala man being cheated on was just as insignificant as the dust beneath their feet.

Turning her attention to women who roasted corn and boli on their skewers, she watched as they chattered happily with each other. She wondered about their lives, the homes they returned to each night. Did they, too, feel the weight of expectations, of lives half-lived? Sighing, she looked up at the sky and watched as the sun hid behind a cloud now and then as if ashamed of its existence.

She sympathized with it. Tired of the smell of roasted corn and gas fumes, she wound the car up but soon after regretted it and hastily wound back down.

The car was practically on fire. She wiped away the beads of sweat on her forehead and looked longingly at the gaping hole where the air conditioner once rested, its absence as stark as her displacement.

The driver was a young man in his late twenties, light-skinned— too light, his skin seemed to absorb the son's fury, turning an angry red. He withdrew a dirty handkerchief and wiped his bald head with it before using it to capture a sneeze. Her stomach turned as he pocketed the soiled cloth.

He was her uncle. At least, that was what he had instructed her to call him. He had materialised with promises of a better life one morning. Two days later, he appeared again and took her away. He looked at her through the rearview mirror, and she averted her eyes.

They had been driving for a long time, and her silence hung heavy in the air. Their destination mattered little to her as she longed only for respite from her exhaustion.

As Splash FM's commercial jingle filled the car, Bolaji closed her eyes, her heart aching for home. She could almost smell the pepper her grandmother would be grinding for Ekuru. The radio crackled back to life with a lady's lilting pidgin as the commercial break ended.

“How you dey my people? I thank una wey join us this afternoon on Splash FM. My name na Adaeze rukayat.”

A pause, then she continues,

“Today I get tori wey I wan tell una. One girl wey be about fifteen years old, man for her area molest am. Dem talk say na the girl waka enter the man house. Dem don carry the matter go police station but evidence no reach, so dem don release the man. We no sabi where the girl dey now, and dem no talk her name.”

“My people, this matter serious well well, abeg protect una pikin well. Many mad people dey waka for street these days, we no sabi who dey mad and who dey sane. Wolf wey wear sheep cloth.” “The world don bad well well.”

The world was indeed evil. Bolaji listened intently as the presenter continued on, her stomach churning with every word. Uncle abruptly silenced the radio, his eyes meeting hers through the rearview mirror.

Annoyed, she turned away, a silent prayer on her lips for his continued silence. The car veered off the highway, entering a desolate neighbourhood.

She scrunched up her eyebrows at the sight of a little boy defecating on the floor. It wasn’t the sight of the boy defecating that irritated her; the unattended boy was playing with his faeces.

A rusty sign proclaimed, “Welcome to “Arewa community”, but there was nothing remotely beautiful about the area.

The streets were lined with dilapidated buildings, their walls crumbling and stained with age. Litter accumulated in gutters and along the edges of the potholed roads. The few people visible moved like zombies, their faces etched with the hardships of daily life, and she wondered if she would soon wear that same defeated expression.

The car came to a stop at a decrepit house, a torn, dirty net hanging where a door should be.

His car sputtered to a stop, and he alighted, retrieving Bolaji's small bag from the trunk. She took it gingerly, careful to avoid any contact with him, her heart pounding with uncertainty.

As the net squeaked open, Bolaji's eyes widened in shock. A massive woman emerged, her body barely contained by a short, revealing gown.

She glanced nervously at Uncle as she approached them, but he looked steadfastly straightforward. Bolaji's gaze darted nervously between Uncle and the woman, taking in her badly bleached legs and the single gold ring on her nose.

When the woman spoke, her high, raspy voice surprised Bolaji almost as much as her appearance.

“John, shey na the girl be this?” She regarded Bolaji like one would regard a pile of shit.

“I no like this girl, she look like wahala. You go pay me extra.” She frowns and huffs, her ample blossom heaving as Bolaji watches them in amazement and fright.

“Na the amount wey I get abeg. Help me manage am Stephanie, peperempe. Fine woman.” His attempts to sway her was disheartening to Bolaji as she looked up at him in pity.

Stephanie huffs again, this time more aggressively and this time Bolaji is genuinely scared for him. She would certainly pin him down in seconds as his body compared to hers was that of an underfed dog.

“I no want o. Who you wan sweet talk? Look how una just dey talk, all your mouth don rotten finish. Wo the sun too hot for all this nonsense. If you no wan pay make una carry the girl dey go abeg.”

She snarls. John looked offended and firmly closed his mouth. He reached into the back pocket of his oversized trousers, pulled out a surprisingly new leather wallet, took out five thousand naira notes, and handed them to her.

She snatched them and swiftly tucked them in her bosom. She frowned in Bolaji's direction, who avoided looking directly at her.

“Alright, I’ll be off.” Uncle turns to Bolaji, who doesn't even glance at him. He says nothing more, gets into his beat-up car, and zooms off, leaving a trail of car exhaust behind.

For some reason, her eyes began to water, but she held back her tears. Crying wouldn’t do her any good now.

“Come inside before I change my mind,” Stephanie growled, waddling back into the house. Bolaji followed meekly, watching as the woman's bottom swayed like a pendulum clock.

The smell of decay hit her like a ton of bricks, and she struggled to breathe. Stained walls and peeling paint revealed patches of crumbling plaster. Cobwebs hung in every corner, and a thick layer of dust covered the worn-out furniture.

A few plastic chairs were scattered around, and a battered wooden table was pushed against one wall, covered with an assortment of items: a half-empty bottle of soda, a stack of magazines, and a few crumpled bills.

The place reeked of neglect and poverty. Bolaji was beginning to wonder what uncle’s motive had been for bringing her here.

Stephanie suddenly stopped before a door and turned, causing Bolaji to freeze in her tracks. The woman's eyes bored into her, searching and calculating. She then attempted to converse in English, and Bolaji watched silently and pitifully as she painstakingly tried to do so.

“What's your name?” She finally demanded.

“Bolaji, ma,” she responded quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“In this house, there are two rules you must follow. Never talk back to me, and always do as you’re told.” She says so, as a matter of fact.

“I also don’t want any boys in my house. Do you understand?” She adds.

As Stephanie laid out more rules, Bolaji's mind wandered. She thought of her grandmother's stern warnings about boys and sex, delivered when Bolaji was barely old enough to understand.

Her grandmother had birthed her first child, Bolaji's mother, at the tender age of seventeen. Her grandmother, therefore, had to drop out of school. Bolaji didn’t want that kind of life and ultimately steered clear of boys.

Bolaji was also taught about abstinence during Sunday school at the church just across her street. Her grandma, on the other hand, was a traditionalist who believed that all pastors were agents of the devil who came to take the souls of gullible people.

Bolaji, a firm believer in Christ, would often wake to the sound of her grandmother’s rituals at odd hours of the night. One unforgettable night, where she woke up to wetness on her face and the sound of a gong. Her crazy grandmother was performing some kind of crazy ceremony over her.

Bolaji screamed and immediately went to take her worn-out bible, which she always kept under the pillow, and began to recite Psalm 23.

“That is your side of the room,” Stephanie says, snapping her out of her thoughts as she points to the other bare end of the room. A small window with dirty white curtains stood hanging. Standing lonely by the right corner of the room was a long shelf.

Bolaji was certain that in its former glory, the shelf must have been magnificent. Now, it was just a sad wooden piece of furniture.

A curtain-like partition divided the room into two. At one side of the room, which she guessed was Stephanie’s side of the room, were different beauty products, some strange objects that Bolaji had never seen before and a pack of condoms, all arranged neatly in a corner.

“Do not go near my things”, She warned, and Bolaji wondered why she thought she would touch something like that in the first place, but she nodded slowly.

After Stephanie's departure, Bolaji's shoulders sagged with relief. She afterwards tackled the dishes with a vigour born of desperation, her mind churning with questions. Why had Uncle brought her here? Just who exactly was this woman?

Afterwards, she retreated to her corner of the room where a pitiful mat lay rolled up, a poor excuse for a bed.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, she unrolled it and sank down. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, and she succumbed to sleep at the incessant chirping of grasshoppers and the bellows of bullfrogs.

Her respite was short-lived as she woke up in a pool of sweat, her clothes damp as she tried to control her erratic breathing. She had had a nightmare.

The night was quiet, but mosquitoes mercilessly feasted on her. She lay still in bed, a prayer that the sun would quickly come up on her lips.

Stephanie's thunderous snoring ricocheted off the walls, transforming the small room into a chamber of auditory torture. Just as soon as sleep began to reclaim her, A groan escaped her lips as she curled into herself, a pitiful ball of misery.

Her bleary eyes snapped open, fear and pain etched on her face as she beheld the source of her discomfort.

“Lazy girl, you think you came here to sleep. This place resemble Hotel Abi? Abaghi uru.“ Stephanie’s words sliced through the air like a whip.

Swallowing a whimper, Bolaji forced herself to rise. “Good morning, ma,” she mumbled, dropping to her knees, a gesture that made her back scream in protest. Stephanie's derisive snort was her only response.

Stephanie, on the other hand, looked terrible. She was clad in a transparent nightgown that left little to the imagination.

“Wetin you dey think about jare, stupid girl? Which girl John con bring me again bai?" Stephanie's bellows snapped Bolaji back to the present. She gazed at her, careful to avoid lingering on her yellow-stained teeth.

“Visitor go soon come now, go enter kitchen cook”. The command brooked no argument.

Bolaji threw herself into her tasks, working until every muscle screamed in protest. Never in her young life had she laboured so intensively.

When, at last, Stephanie declared satisfaction, she finally made her way to take a bath. But fate, it seemed, had one final indignity in store. The taps were dry and silent. With leaden feet, Bolaji trudged to the community tap.

As she filled her bucket with murky water, she realised that the phrase “From frying pan to fire” best suited her predicament.

Over the past month, Bolaji had grown accustomed to Stephanie and her loose lifestyle. On one particular morning, as Bolaji read her Bible, Stephanie sneered, “Oh, you think you're righteous abi, virgin Mary? I'm a sinner now abi? All these hypocrites sef.”

Bolaji's heart clenched, but she remained silent, eyes fixed on the worn pages before her. She had wanted to preach the gospel to Stephanie but her tongue always remained tied.

Stephanie's nightly visitors brought strange sounds that made Bolaji's skin crawl. She dreaded nightfall, burying her head under her thin pillow to muffle the noises.

One Saturday morning, she was ready to go to the market, which was a few streets away, and as soon as she had gotten ready, a man’s deep voice startled her. “What's your name?” She turned slowly, heart racing.

A hulking man with a chest tattoo and gold teeth stood before her, eyes roving hungrily.

Stephanie sauntered in, draping herself over him. “Abeg no mind her jare, na house help. Oya make we do another round before you go.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied, gaze still fixed on Bolaji. “I hope to see her again.”

Bolaji's voice quavered as she addressed Stephanie,

"Ma, I'm going to the market now. Do you need anything else?”

Stephanie waved her away dismissively. "Just go, and don't forget the pepper this time, you hear?”

"Yes, ma. I won't forget," Bolaji mumbled, scurrying out.

Every Saturday, Bolaji made her usual trip to Ipinle market, which was just a few streets away.

Taking a Keke napep to the second street, she would walk the remaining distance and tried her best to avoid the road safety men.

She noticed quite a number of policemen on the street, an unusual sight. Upon arrival at the market, she was reminded of her first visit and the big-bellied tomato seller’s reaction to her.

“Oh, you’re the new girl?” She says and sucks her teeth. “What’s your name?”

After Bolaji answered, the woman spat, her face similar to one that had bitten into sour lime.” That ashewo! Always bringing different men to her house. Promiscuous woman. Shame!”

The rest of the market women agreed to her and continued talking foul about Stephanie. Amidst their incessant gossip, Bolaji's eyes were drawn to a solitary figure — the melon seed seller—a quiet, thin figure with a neatly tied torn scarf. Unlike the vibrant stalls surrounding her, this woman's corner seemed shrouded in a veil of melancholy.

Bolaji approached, her footsteps hesitant. Her dark brown eyes, pools of untold sorrow, met hers briefly before darting away. Her weathered hands, testaments to years of labour, trembled slightly as she scooped the seeds.

"Good morning, ma," Bolaji's voice was soft, a gentle breeze in the market's thunderous storm. The woman nodded, her response a mere whisper. "Morning, child."

As Bolaji placed her order, the surrounding air shifted. A voice, sharp as a whip, cut through their quiet exchange. "Did you hear? Alewe caused Baba Okiki's divorce!" The troublesome pepper seller's words hung in the air, heavy with malice again.

Other women joined the chorus, their eyes darting towards the melon seed seller like arrows finding their mark. Bolaji's heart clenched as understanding dawned. The subject of their venom stood before her, shoulders hunched under the weight of their judgment. The woman's hands stilled, her eyes fixed on the seeds as if they held the secret to escaping this moment.

Moved by a surge of compassion, Bolaji spoke louder than necessary, "Your seeds look wonderful, ma. I'll take extra today." The woman's eyes flickered up, a glimmer of gratitude amidst the pain. As she measured out the additional seeds, Bolaji noticed a small, defiant smile tugging at her lips. Their transaction complete, Bolaji lingered a moment longer. "Thank you," she said warmly. The woman nodded, her eyes meeting Bolaji fully for the first time.

Lost in thought, she barely registered the swift hand that dipped into her pocket until it was too late. Her high blood pressure heightened as she spun around, catching sight of a young boy darting away, her precious money clutched in his fist. Without hesitation, she gave chase, her feet pounding against the dusty ground. "Stop! Please!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation.

The boy halted, turning to face her, his eyes wide with fear and something else—hunger. "I... I'm sorry," he stammered, his thin frame trembling. I'm just so hungry."

Bolaji's anger melted away, replaced by a profound sadness. His expression was one she was all too familiar with.

With a heavy sigh, Bolaji made a decision that surprised even herself. She held out her hand, not for all the money, but for half. "Take what you need," she said softly, "but no more."

Ajibola's eyes widened in disbelief, a flicker of hope igniting in their depths. As he placed half the money in her palm, their eyes met—two young souls bearing burdens far too heavy for their years. She later learned his name was Ajibola, the market’s notorious pickpocket. Ipinle market felt different today - eerily quiet and devoid of its usual bustle.

Bolaji's heart raced as she searched frantically for the carrots Stephanie had demanded, dread building with each empty stall she passed. At the usual gathering spot, she noticed the melon seeds seller's absence. Summoning her courage, Bolaji whispered, "What happened to the woman...?" The silence that met her question sent chills down her spine.

Relief washed over her when she finally spotted the Hausa man selling carrots. "Nagode," she breathed, clutching the precious vegetables. Lost in thought, Bolaji collided with Ajibola, his distressed face jolting her back to reality. "What's wrong?" she asked, concern creeping into her voice. He shook his head and scratched his head nervously and Bolaji knew something was wrong.

After a moment's hesitation, Ajibola's words tumbled out: "My mom has been taken by the apaniyans.” She then looked at Ajibola closely and noted their resemblance: the same brown eyes and small pout of the mouth. The melon seeds seller was his mother.

As Ajibola broke down, Bolaji led him to an abandoned stall, unsure how to offer comfort but unwilling to leave him alone. Bolaji didn’t know how to comfort him as she wasn’t comforted much as a child. Her grandmother never comforted her when she cried after beatings; instead, she simply ignored her, and after the tantrums stopped, she would offer snacks once the tears stopped.

Grandmother’s parenting philosophy was firmly rooted in “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” She would sometimes mutter to herself when she thought Bolaji wouldn’t hear, “Like mother like daughter.” Mama never liked to talk about her daughter. The only thing Bolaji knew about her mother was that she brought a lot of men home, too, just like Stephanie.

She suddenly felt the boy edge closer to her and place his hand on her body. She recoiled, hissing, “What are you doing?” she whispered angrily. With a mumbled “sorry,” he returned to his sleeping position.

Unease gnawed at her as she knew she had to get back home. After a while, she raised her head and looked at Ajibola, who was seemingly asleep. She noticed his eyes were closed—tightly closed. She left the stall and walked out of the market, feeling uneasy about the encounter.

She ran back, running through the muddy puddles. Stephanie stood waiting, hands on her hips. "Oh, so you're back. I thought you had run away, you stupid girl. Where are my carrots?" Bolaji dipped her hands in her pockets, and her stomach dropped as she realised her pockets were empty. The rascal had stolen them.

Before she could explain, Stephanie's fist connected with her face. Blows rained down as Bolaji crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain.

Stephanie edged closer. “You ate my carrots, abi? Foolish girl.” She landed a blow, which made Bolaji fall to the ground.

Blows continued to rain down as Bolaji withered in pain. “Go inside and prepare food for me.” Stephanie spat, “Once you’re done, stay in the room. Don’t you dare eat any of it. Next time, you’ll learn not to steal from me. Onye nzuzu.”

Bolaji's lungs burned with each breath, but she forced herself to stand. Stumbling to the outdoor tap, her fingers curled around the cold metal.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she should throw herself on the road - a quick end to her suffering. But something within her refused to yield. With a shaky exhale, she turned the tap, letting the cool water wash away the day's grime and tears.

As night fell, Bolaji retreated to her corner of the room, curling into herself like a wounded animal. The familiar creak of the bed and low murmurs from Stephanie's side set her teeth on edge.

It was him again - the man with the gold teeth and hungry eyes. She fought the urge to sleep, but exhaustion eventually won.

She was startled awake by the realisation of hands grabbing her breasts. Disoriented at first, she suddenly came to her senses when she felt the hand move down. She let out a stifled scream and attempted to move away, but the hand grabbed her, keeping her in place. “Relax, omalicha. You’ll enjoy this.”

She tried to free herself, but his strong hands didn’t allow it. He continued to roam her body, pinning her down, his hand on her mouth as she struggled to breathe, tears pooling at her eyes.

The man got to her panties and quickly began to pull them down. She struggled more vigorously, kicking him In the groin. He grabbed her violently, and she winced as his heavy hand came down upon her face.

“If you do anything funny, I will kill you,” he said through his teeth, holding her face, his thumb digging into each side of her cheeks.

Bolaji felt like a lamb held by a lion, weak as the lion devoured it. The lamb could do nothing but feel itself being eaten, pain tearing through its body until it was no more.

As the man continued to peel off the last of her clothes, she felt herself slipping away. Like the lamb, soon she would be no more.

Her mind faded to the past—his name was Phillip. He was their neighbour; he would do odd jobs for them, not asking for anything in return. He was friendly and always had a bright smile on his face. So Bolaji saw nothing wrong when he told her to come get a pair of scissors her grandmother had wanted from his house.

Grandmother wasn’t at home, so Bolaji obliged. He sat her down and offered her food, which she ate happily. She didn’t see anything wrong with it. Phillip’s friendly demeanour reassured her, and she was unaware of the danger she was in.

After finishing the food, she stood to leave, but Phillip gently guided her back to the chair. His touch lingered a bit too long, and his smile seemed different.

"Wait a moment, Bolaji. I have something to show you," he said, his voice low.

Bolaji hesitated, feeling an uneasy knot form in her stomach. "I need to go home, Phillip. Grandma will be waiting."

"It'll only take a minute," he insisted, stepping closer.

She began to feel something was definitely wrong. She tried to stand again, but Phillip’s hand clamped down on her shoulder, forcing her back into the chair.

Panic surged through her, and she tried to push him away. Phillip's friendly facade dropped, replaced by a predatory look that terrified her.

“Relax,” He said. Before she could scream, his hand covered her mouth. Bolaji's mind raced, and she struggled against him, but he was too strong.

“You’re going to enjoy this.” He said as his other hand roamed her body, and she felt a cold dread wash over her.

That evening, Bolaji returned home in silence and without the pair of scissors. She said not a word to her grandmother, who assessed her carefully and asked her what was the matter.

Minutes later, her grandmother marched over to Phillips’ house, but he denied everything. The matter was taken to the police, but she wasn’t believed, and Philip was never investigated.

She was accused of lying and seducing him, and the only thing he did was to resist. “No,” she thought, she wouldn’t be a victim again.

She scratched and screamed, mustering all the strength her little body could gather to push this tattooed monster off.

At that moment, pure, unbridled rage filled Bolaji’s body as she lunged at him.

Taking advantage of his moment of disorientation, Bolaji took hold of a heavy object in the room and smacked it on his head, and he dropped down with a heavy groan.

“What is going on?” Stephanie shouted, her sagging breasts bouncing under the thin cloth she wore. “Chineke!” She assessed Bolaji, who was half-naked.

Feeling self-conscious, Bolaji took her nightgown and covered her body. Stephanie’s attention turned to the man. “Chineke, Bolaji, what have you done?” She rushed to the man.

She looked at Bolaji with such an evil demeanour that Bolaji began to feel truly terrified. “M-m-ma, let m-me exp-plain.”

“If you say anything, I will cut out your tongue, you prostitute! You tried to seduce my man. You ugly thing. I will kill you tonight. Tonight you die. See her body. I knew you’d been eyeing him, you Jezebel.”

With fury red eyes, she moved to Bolaji and landed a slap that made her fall harshly. She clutched her burning cheeks, tears pouring down her face.

Stephanie didn’t stop there. She took the object Bolaji had used to hit the man. Bolaji edged away, frightened. “Please, st—” Before Bolaji could finish her statement, all she saw was the swing of Stephanie’s massive arms and then darkness.

It is said that in the moment of death, a person recalls things they had done in life.

Bolaji only saw darkness; she had only ever seen darkness.

She would soon join her grandmother.

Bolaji's eyes fluttered open, pulled from the darkness by unfamiliar voices. Everything hurt. Her body felt heavy like it was made of stone. Where was she?

A woman's face formed into view, worry etched in every line. “Doctor, she's awake,” the woman called out, her voice trembling with relief.

Bolaji studied her face. Double chin, a square jaw, too big lips, an oval face. Her natural hair styled beautifully, giving her an overall ethereal beauty.

The Bible never talked about angels wearing pink gowns and glowing dark skin.

“Am I... am I dead?” Bolaji's voice was barely a whisper, her throat raw and aching. The sharp smell of antiseptic stung her nose. White walls. Beeping machines.

She was in the hospital. The woman's laugh was soft, like a warm blanket. "No, sweetheart. You're alive. You're safe now.”

Bolaji blinked, confused, as she studied her kind eyes and gentle smile. For a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming.

Safe. The word felt strange, almost unreal. Tears welled up unexpectedly in Bolaji's eyes, a mix of relief and fear she couldn't explain.

She wiped her eyes, refusing to let them fall. She won’t cry in front of a stranger. Her grandmother would tell her it was unbecoming to shed tears in the presence of strangers. But she wants her, though.

"I'm Deborah Ojo, ” the woman said, her voice gentle but serious. "I'm here to help you, Bolaji."

Bolaji's heart skipped a beat. This stranger knew her name? How? Deborah's eyes were full of sadness and something else — hope, maybe? "You've been through so much, Bolaji. But you're not alone. There are others like you, and your story could help them."

Help others? Bolaji's mind reeled. All she'd wanted was to survive, to escape. The thought of her pain having any purpose felt impossible.

"Will you be their voice, Bolaji?" Deborah asked softly. "Will you help other children who are scared and alone?"

Bolaji closed her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks. For the first time in forever, she felt a tiny spark of something new. Not happiness, not quite. But maybe... hope?