THE BADDIE IN THE FAMILYCHAPTER 2: 8 MILLION SECRETSThe night after Sunday meeting, Zaya didn’t go home to GRA. She drove past her gate. Past the security man who always asked "Madam, you dey come?" with that look. Past the estate with generator noise and neighbors who whispered: _"That Zaya girl. No husband. No shame."_ She didn’t owe them anything. Not her time. Not her money. Not her peace. She drove to Evo Road. ZAYA LUXE was a 2-room space between a barbing salon and a phone accessories shop. The pink neon sign flickered when NEPA took light. The glass door had a crack from an okada last December. "Character," she told customers. Inside smelled like coconut oil, edge control, Got2b spray, and money. It was 11:47pm and her two girls were still there. Ireti, 19, from Delta. Hands always moving, mouth never stopping. Blessing, 21, from Imo. Quiet. Good with closures. Both learned hair from Zaya. Both ate because of Zaya. “Babe, rest,” Ireti said, steaming a closure. “We’ve closed already. Even NEPA has closed.” Zaya dropped her bag on the counter. Louis Vuitton dupe from Lagos Island. ₦35k. “Count the cash first.” The metal box came out. Dent from the robbery attempt last year. Zaya chased them with a hot steamer. ₦20,000. ₦50,000. ₦100,000. They counted again. ₦340,000. Today alone. Walk-ins: ₦120,000. Online orders: ₦80,000. 6 deliveries to Lagos: ₦140,000. Zaya took a picture. Not to post. She had a private album called "Proof." Proof that she wasn’t crazy. Proof that dropping out wasn’t the end. Proof that the "black sheep" could feed herself. Last year on days like this, she was sitting in UNIPORT lecture hall, dying inside. Taking notes on "Principles of Management" she would never use. _FLASHBACK - 4 YEARS AGO. UNIPORT, FACULTY OF MANAGEMENT SCIENCES. 300L_ The hall was hot. No fan. “Zaya Obi, why are you always on your phone in my class?” Dr. Bello shouted. Zaya didn’t look up. She was packaging an order under the desk. 2 wigs. Delivery to Yenagoa. “Because sir, I just made my first ₦100,000 selling wigs on WhatsApp.” The class erupted. Dr. Bello’s face went red. “This is a university! Not a market! Education is the key!” Zaya stood up. Crop top under her lab coat. Jeans. “Respectfully sir. But keys open different doors. This one is opening mine.” Phone buzzed. `CREDIT: NGN 75,000.00 - WIG ORDER - YENAGOA` “Ma, your wig is ready. I’m on my way.” She walked out. 50 people watched her. She never went back. That night, Papa called. 47 missed calls. When she picked at 2am, he screamed. “You have shamed this family! We paid ₦400,000 per year! And you want to be selling hair on the road like market woman?” Mama cried for 3 days. Amara came on day 4. “Zaya, please. Just finish. One certificate. Then sell hair.” Tunde, 16, asked “Sis, are we poor now?” Zaya looked at them and said: “We’ve been poor. I’m just the first person to do something about it.” She moved out 2 weeks later. ₦150,000 in her account. One suitcase. 20 wigs. Her aunt said “She will come back pregnant.” Her pastor said “We will pray for her deliverance.” She didn’t come back. Not like they thought. She came back every month. With rice. With money. With silence. _PRESENT. 11:59PM. ZAYA LUXE_ Phone buzzed. Bank alert. `CREDIT: NGN 2,500,000.00 - ZAYA LUXE WHOLESALE ORDER - ABUJA BOUTIQUE` Zaya exhaled. Third order this month from that Abuja boutique. They sold her hair for double and called it "Luxury Imported from Dubai." She did the math. 2.5m + 340k today = 2.84m this week. Minus rent 600k. Minus girls salary 120k. Minus stock 800k. Minus delivery 90k. Left with 1.2m. Her thumb hovered over "transfer" to Mama’s account. She didn’t press it. Not yet. Another buzz. Mama. `Call me when you reach house. We need to talk.` Zaya knew what that meant. _Tunde needs money for project._ _Light bill._ _Can you send something small?_ _Why are you not married yet?_ She sent 50k on Friday. "For Mama’s drugs." Seen. No reply. Ireti watched her. “Aunty, you okay?” Zaya laughed. “I’m good. Lock up. I’ll do transfers tomorrow.” Driving home, Port Harcourt was quiet. 12:30am. Phone buzzed. Unknown number. `This is Kola. From the market today. You left your card.` Zaya frowned. The tall man in black. Bought 3 bundles. ₦450,000 cash. No haggling. “Package it well. For my sister.” She didn’t reply. Baddies don’t reply first. She parked in GRA. 2-bedroom. Pop ceiling. Tiles. Generator. DSTV. 2 ACs. All paid by "the baddie." ₦1.8m per year. Inside, she opened her laptop. _Instagram_: 84,300 followers. 12 new DMs. 3 collab requests. 1 hate comment: "Prostitute." _Website 23 pending orders. _Bank app_: ₦8,230,450.00 Eight million. GTB savings. Zaya Obi Ventures. Opened at 20 with ₦20,000. She opened notes: _To-do:_ 1. Pay Mama’s hospital bill. "Anonymous donor." 2. Get Tunde laptop for NYSC. ₦650k. 3. Survive Sunday meeting. 4. Reply Kola? Maybe. Phone buzzed. Mama. `Zaya, ...,.

They called her the black sheep. The embarrassment. The baddie.Zaya Obi was 18 when she caught her father cheating and was told to "keep quiet for the family." So she did. And she left.At 24, she’s the one they talk about at every Sunday meeting. Tattoos. Late nights. A business they don’t understand. Her sister is the perfect lawyer. Her brother is the perfect doctor. Zaya? Zaya is the problem.But what they don’t know is: She’s the one paying her brother’s school fees. She’s the one paying her mother’s hospital bills. She’s the one who built an empire from ₦37,000 while they called her irresponsible.When her family stages an intervention, Zaya finally tells her truth. When her sister’s perfect marriage crumbles, Zaya is the one who picks up the pieces. And when a clean-cut banker named Kola chooses her in front of everyone, Zaya has to decide:Can the baddie be loved? Can the black sheep become the anchor?This is a story about family, forgiveness, and becoming too big to be silenced. About turning the name they gave you in pain... into the title you wear in power.For every girl who was called "too much." This one’s for you.follow for more ♥️from chapter one to chapter twenty... love you all