chapter 4
780 Words
Mrs Rebecca had stopped caring a long time ago. Shame didn’t touch her anymore. Pain had eaten through her conscience until there was nothing left. On Friday night, as always, she put on her finest dress and went to the club. The music was loud enough to hurt. Smoke swallowed the lights. People danced, but nobody seemed to know why.
A group of rich men walked in, dripping with confidence and cash. Chief Obata was in front—rings on every finger, heavy gold chains, always surrounded by men like him. They sat down and called the manager over.
“Bring us girls,” one of them said.
The manager didn’t hesitate. He understood.
He picked five girls from backstage. Rebecca was among them. She stood tall, though her eyes looked tired. Her body still drew stares. The men watched them dance, drinking, laughing, eating as the party grew wilder.
Soon, they slipped off to private rooms.
Chief Obata chose Rebecca.
He paid her—more than she’d ever gotten before. Enough to make her hands tremble. That night, they slept together. It was rough, fast, empty. She didn’t care. She clung to the money like it could solve everything.
It was the only time she ever saw him.
She went home the next morning, feeling wealthy. She counted the money again and again, smiling for once. She told the manager, “Next time Chief Obata comes, tell me.”
The manager simply nodded.
Weeks passed.
Rebecca kept living the same way—drinking, smoking, sleeping around, spending her money as quickly as she made it.
Then her body began to betray her.
She felt weak. She lost weight. Strange rashes showed up on her skin. She was always tired. The fever wouldn’t leave. She tried to ignore it, but fear crept in.
Eventually, she dragged herself to the hospital.
The test result was blunt: HIV positive.
Her world froze.
She locked herself in the hospital bathroom and screamed into her hand. Her legs buckled. She sat on the floor, sobbing helplessly like a child.
Her mind raced to Chief Obata.
She hurried back to the club and found the manager.
“Please,” she begged, voice trembling. “I need to see Chief Obata.”
The manager looked confused. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I just want to see him. It’s been long.”
He shook his head. “I don’t really know him. He only comes once or twice a year.”
Rebecca left without a word.
At home, she broke down. Days passed. She locked herself inside, refused food, mumbled to herself. She blamed God, men, herself—anyone she could think of.
One night, staring at the wall, she whispered, “If I’m dying, I won’t die alone. I’ll share it.”
Something inside her broke.
She went out again, slept with men—no protection, no warning. She didn’t care. Her pain became poison.
Time crawled.
Her health collapsed. She had no money for treatment. Her body wasted away. Her sickness showed in her face and on her skin. People noticed.
Men who’d slept with her began to get sick too. Rumors spread. Fear spread. Her name became something people whispered with disgust.
Soon, nobody wanted her.
She died slowly.
Alone.
Unloved.
Meanwhile, Joy had no idea what had happened to her mother.
She closed that chapter of her life. Mrs Linda stepped in as the mother she never had—gentle, kind, protective.
Mrs Linda gave her everything—baby clothes, hospital visits, food, comfort, love.
Even in her pain, Joy found happiness.
Her pregnancy went smoothly. Mrs Linda took her to the hospital whenever she needed. She never let Joy be alone. She understood trauma. She knew what silence could do to someone broken.
Joy learned quickly in the estate business. She watched, listened, asked questions, and got better every day.
Soon, she began handling customers on her own.
Men liked doing business with her—she was beautiful and respectful. But Joy always kept her distance. She never let things get personal. Business, nothing else.
Inside, she hated men.
That night in the unfinished building haunted her. The face of the man who hurt her never left her dreams. Sometimes she woke up crying, shaking, gasping for air.
Mrs Linda noticed.
That’s why she never let Joy be alone. She stayed close, talked to her, prayed with her.
Joy still dreamed of meeting her father someday.
She didn’t know her mother was gone.
She didn’t know her father was crying in a prison cell.
Life had torn them apart.
But fate wasn’t finished with them yet.
- Writer
