Chapter 1: The unexpected reunion

It was a cool Thursday evening — everywhere was supposed to be buzzing with the kind of energy that announces Eid is in the air, but no. Everywhere was just dry. No noise, no unnecessary drama from people rushing home to celebrate. Nothing.

I sat calmly on a small stool in front of my little stall, when a black SUV suddenly pulled up and parked right in front of me.

"Do you have cold pure water?" the woman inside asked.

I stood up with joy because at least here was someone willing to buy from me today.

"Ma?" I moved closer to the car so I could hear her properly.

"Kí le fẹ́ ra?" (What do you want to buy?)I asked politely — but the moment I caught a proper look at the customer, I froze.

What? My old time friend!

"Omosalewa!"

"Toyosi!"

We both called each other's names at the same time, voices laced with pure shock.

"Haaaaa, ore mi o!!!" (My friend!!!)I rejoiced and quickly rushed to the side of the car where she sat, grinning from ear to ear.

Who wouldn't rejoice seeing an old friend? Especially someone you shared real memories with. Ten years of no contact is no child's play.

"I've missed you, ore mi." I pulled her into a warm hug the moment she stepped out of the car.

My friend was now ten times more beautiful than I remembered. Back then she was already the most beautiful and the most intelligent amongst all of us — but now? She is Super, duper beautiful.

"Me too. I didn't even think you'd still be in this town. Wow — is this your shop?" she asked, eyes sweeping over my small stall.

"Yes ooooo, this is my shop, and my house is that one there." I replied, smiling wide and pointing.

"Ehyah. That's serious." She said it softly, but I caught the look on her face before she straightened it.

"Anyway, I came to celebrate Eid el-Fitr with my parents. They practically begged me to come since it's been so long since I spent time with them. I'll be here for about a week before leaving, so feel free to come and see me before I go." She said it all casually as she handed me her contact card, and I collected it like it was something precious.

"Do you have cold bottled water? I need one, please." She was already stepping back into the car.

"Yes, I have some, but it's not that cold o — you know NEPA people are not giving us light around here." I replied, and she nodded for me to bring it anyway.

"Hmm, Ope — oya, bring one bottle water." I called on my first son, who is about five years old.

"Ha, ore mi, oti wa fine o." (Wow, you are now more beautiful.) I complimented her while waiting for my son to come back with the water.

"Of course I know," she said with that signature pride of hers, smiling along.

"Awelewa!" (Beauty!) I hailed her and I could see her head swell a little.

"Joor, sanu emi naaa, gba mi lowo iya." (Please pity me and save me from this poverty.) I pleaded dramatically and she laughed.

"Ma worry." (Don't worry.) "Anytime you come, we will talk," she assured me as I handed her the bottle of water.

"Ok, I will come tomorrow then. And greet Alhaji for me o." I said. But before she drove off, she counted some one-thousand-naira notes and handed them straight to my son who had brought the water.

"I'll be expecting you," she said, then started the car and zoomed off. I stood there waving until she disappeared completely from my view.

---

The next day came, and I could barely wait. When my husband came home the night before I had gisted him everything, and he was genuinely happy for me. I told him I would be visiting her at her parents' house, and he approved without any argument.

So after taking care of the children and tidying up the house, I made sure I called her first before stepping out — because I am the type of person who hates embarrassment, especially from rich people. The moment she confirmed I could come, I dressed myself and my children up and we set off for her family home.

By the time we got to Alhaji Olorunwa's house, I could no longer recognize the place. If she hadn't sent someone to meet us at the gate, I would have walked right past it. The entire compound had been completely renovated — fenced, quiet, refined. The few tenants still living there were clearly people of means.

"Alhaji, Alhaja — Assalamualaikum." I greeted her parents respectfully.

"Wa Alaikum Salam," they responded, their eyes scanning me with polite uncertainty. They no longer recognized my face.

"Daddy, that's my friend — the one we went to secondary school with. Omo iya ologi. Her mother used to sell Akamu under an orange tree back then." She described me and, like a switch being flipped, their faces opened up.

"Haaaaa! I didn't recognize her at all!" they said warmly, welcoming us with open arms.

"She has added weight," Alhaja observed with a kind smile, and I laughed along because it was true.

Yes. I had added weight. My husband, poor as we were, made sure we never slept hungry. We had little, but we always ate.

"Are these your children?" Alhaja asked, peering fondly at them.

"Yes ma." I replied.

"Wooow. What a wonder. I hope you are well? And how is your husband?"

"He is fine, thank you ma."

We were treated like family. They entertained us with food and drinks, and my children ate to their satisfaction before running off to play around the compound with the other children visiting.

***

Later in the day, Salewa called me up to her room and I followed.

"Oluwatoyosi!" she called happily as we stepped inside. The room had been expanded — no longer the cramped little space I remembered. It was neat and spacious, with a big bed, a large wardrobe, and curtains that looked like they cost more than my rent.

"Ore miiii." I replied, grinning.

"Ore mi olowo. Kashi madam." (My rich friend. Cash madam.) I added, and she smiled along.

"You haven't stopped this your hyping habit," she said, settling onto the bed as I sat beside her.

She was right. Back in school, I was the one who could easily relate with anyone regardless of who they were. I loved hyping people. I never begged directly — but once I hyped the life out of you, something would always find its way to me. Salewa, on the other hand, never sent anybody. President or pauper, she believed that once you saw her, you would fall in love and do anything she wanted — including the things she never even asked for.

I smiled quietly at the memory.

"You know I'm not as fine as you, I can't use beauty to do shakara for everybody. You now —" I pointed at her, "Omo oyinbo pepper and Omo Alhaji... so..."

"So what?" she asked.

"We are not the same ni o. You use fine face to collect things from people. Me, I use hyping. Beyen ni." (That's it.)

"You are not serious," she said, eyeing me with a grin.

"Ehnehn — what are you eating sef? Your body is just glowing like something..." I asked, genuinely curious.

"Well," she replied, with that unhurried elegance of hers, "Allah's grace."

"Allah's grace ko. Ore, iya maa nje mi o." *(See friend, suffering is eating me.)* I gestured dramatically at myself. "Look at me."

"Which suffering?" she shot back. "Didn't you hear my parents say you've added weight? Your black skin is even shining."

"Ha, Salewa — maa da Alhaja lohun. Packaging lasan ni o. Shishi I no get." (Don't answer Alhaja like that. It's just packaging. I have nothing.)

"Everybody is doing packaging," she teased. "Even me sef, I'm packaging myself."

We both burst out laughing.

"Anyway — how are you doing? Business? Family?" she asked when the laughter settled.

"Ha, we are fine o. Family is good." I replied. "How are you yourself? Your husband must be very rich o — see how you are glowing. This cannot be Baba Olorunwa's money alone. Ha."

She gave me her usual signature look.

"Well, it's obvious my husband is rich and he really spends on me," she replied in a slow, satisfied drawl.

"What about your husband?" she asked. "Where is he?"

"He's fine. He's gone to work. He's an okada rider — he comes back at night."

"Wow... a bike man?"

"Yes... you should actually know him. He used to carry us to school back in secondary school. That tall man that used to live at the back of our house." I replied, and I watched her face slowly work through her memory.

"Oh... you mean... that tall... dark man... the one that used to give you money back then?"

"Beeni." (Exactly.)

"What's his name again?"

"Kunle. Boda Kunle."

"Yeah... Boda Kunle." She paused. Then her face shifted. "What? That's a lie!"

"That old uncle — how did you end up with him?" The expression on her face was a cocktail of shock and something that looked dangerously close to disgust.

"Who?"

"Your... Boda Kunle or whatever."

"Oko mi." (My husband.) "He loves me and I love him naa." I replied calmly.

"Nooo — that is stupidity!" She was on her feet now. "He is way older than you, and he is not even rich. Why would you settle for him? Are there no other young, good-looking men out there?" She was yelling now, her voice filling the room like it wanted to escape through the walls. "And look at you — you didn't even go on to further your education. I'm not even sure you went back to complete your secondary school certificate. What?"

I sat in silence. I didn't know whether to apologise for falling in love with the man I married, or to blame the universe for writing my story the way it did.

---

"See... I'm sorry for yelling at you like that. I'm not happy, that's all. You are my friend — you deserve something better. You don't deserve to be here." She sat back down beside me, voice dropped low now, almost gentle.

"Why would you let a man brainwash you into getting pregnant for him — a man who is poor, who is old? I never even liked him when we were in secondary school. I only greeted him because of you, because you respected him and he acted like an uncle to you. But now... Toyosi, look at your life."

Small tears had formed at the corners of her eyes. Mine were not far behind.

"Are you happy with where you are, compared to everyone else we went to school with? How many of us do you still see in this community? None — because everyone has moved forward. Some are not even in Nigeria anymore. And here you are, still in the same place."

She exhaled.

"I'm not saying this to belittle you. I am saying it because I want you to wake up. There is still time. You can still make a move."

I nodded slowly, wiping the corner of my eye with the back of my hand.

But something about the way she said it — the ease of it, the smoothness — sat in my chest in a way I couldn't quite explain. Like a word you've heard before but suddenly sounds different in a new sentence.

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

The glow. The designer curtains. The card she had handed my son without even counting it first. The way she said *my husband is rich* without a single blink

And then — so small I almost missed it — her phone lit up on the bed beside her.

She reached for it quickly. Too quickly.

The screen went dark before I could read anything, but I caught the name at the top of the notification.

Not a husband's name. Not any name I had ever heard her mention.

She slipped the phone face-down under her thigh and smiled at me like nothing had happened.

"So what do you say? Are you ready to start making better choices?"

I smiled back.

"Yes," I said quietly.

But in my mind, a different question had begun to take shape — one that had nothing to do with me.

Who exactly was Omosalewa now, and where was all this money really coming from?