Billionaire's Secret Bride

The sun was scorching that afternoon at Ojaoba market, no mercy at all. The heat pressed on everyone there, making sweat run down faces and backs like little rivers. Red dust clung to skin and clothes. Shade came only from old umbrellas or stall edges. Danfo buses fought traffic, horns blaring, okadas weaving through narrow paths. Sellers shouted: “Buy my own! Fresh Ankara, aunty come see!” Bright fabrics danced in the dusty breeze. Akara sizzled in hot oil. Roasted corn left fingers greasy. The air was thick: sweat, diesel, overripe fruit, and that hard Lagos smell that never really goes away. My name is Omolola Adebayo, but everyone calls me Lola. Twenty-five, no husband, no kids. The only things I carry every day are my sick mother and debts that keep growing. I stood behind my little wooden table—one leg shorter than the others, so it wobbled every time someone touched it or the wind blew. I’d promised myself a million times to find a stone or wood to fix it, but never did. My adire drawings were laid out neatly: blue and white patterns of old warriors on horses, spears raised high, and queens with eyes full of secrets and power, just like my grandma used to tell me. I drew those pictures the night before, when sleep wouldn’t come. The fan in our room spun slowly, and my mind kept counting money instead of resting. The total debt was now three hundred and twenty thousand naira because the hospital bill came again yesterday, and Mama’s diabetes was getting worse with no sign of stopping. A young girl, maybe twelve, stopped in front of my table. Colorful beads in her braids clicked when she tilted her head. She pointed at a drawing of a woman carrying a calabash, hips swaying in a graceful curve like she was dancing. “Aunty, how much be dis nah?” she asked with a shy smile. I smiled back, even though my stomach hurt from hunger. I Neva see anything put for mouth since daybreak. “Two thousand naira,” I answered, “but for you, with your bright, star-like eyes, I’ll take one thousand five hundred. Is that okay?” She felt happy, reached into her purse, pulled out crumpled notes. I took the money quickly, folded it, slipped it into my bra where no one could see it. I looked around, making sure no one noticed. The girl walked away holding her new drawing close to her chest. A small, warm feeling grew inside me, fragile like a candle flame. For a moment, I thought maybe today I could buy Mama’s insulin or even a small bag of garri to get us through the week. My phone buzzed in my wrapper pocket. Unknown number. I let it ring. E fit be another creditor calling o. My heart felt heavy. “God, please, why me? This wahala don too much for my head” I whispered, but the market noise was too loud. No one heard me. The phone stopped, then buzzed with a message. I glanced at the screen. Kunle B. The words were short and cold: “We will not keep asking nicely.” My hand went cold. Kunle Bamidele was one of the men my father had borrowed from. They didn’t forget debts. I looked around at the people. Women argued loudly about prices with fire in their voices. Men walked carefully with heavy sacks of rice on their shoulders. Little kids ran between everyone’s legs like shadows playing games. Plenty of people who might buy my drawings if I could catch their eyes. Then I saw him coming. He didn’t belong. Tall, black suit spotless, no dust clinging to it. Shoes shiny, catching the sunlight. Dark sunglasses. People moved out of his way without him asking. He walked straight to my table, and my heart started to race like a yellow Keke Maruwa in Oshodi. I quickly straightened my wrapper and touched my hair. Maybe he was a big buyer. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Do you want to buy an adire sketch? These are fresh. Look at this particular one; it shows Queen Moremi. I can draw anything you like, just pronounce your interest.” He stopped right in front of the table and slowly took off his sunglasses. His eyes were dark and deep, no smile, no anger, just a cold look that made me feel like he knew everything about me before he even spoke. He looked at me without saying anything for a long moment. “I didn’t come to buy drawings,” he said in a low voice. My smile got smaller, but I kept it on my face. “Then how can I help you, sir?” He looked around at the shouting sellers, the smells, the chaos, and his face showed he didn’t like it. Then he looked back at me. “Omolola Adebayo,” he said. I went cold. “How do you know my name?” A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I make it my business to know important things,” he answered. He reached inside his jacket and took out a black card with gold letters. He placed it on my table. It read: Angel Qlerilx. CEO, Qlerilx Group. The name hit me. Everyone in Lagos knew Qlerilx. The tall towers, the oil business, the money that controlled things. What was a man like this doing here, talking to me? “So, what’s in it for me?” I asked. “A wife on paper,” he said, giving a little shrug like it was no big deal. “My family’s got rules. They want me to look married, stable, and respectable, without any drama. See, no messy past, no boyfriend to cause trouble, and you look good enough to be seen with.” My face got hot, like he was sizing me up in the market. “If I say no?” I asked. He moved his shoulder again, like it was a simple answer. “Nothing changes for you. You keep hustling, selling sketches for whatever you can get. Your mom stays sick, waiting in those long hospital lines. The bill collectors keep calling. The guys your dad owed might decide to come after you. You know how Lagos works.” I knew, at least, I understand how things work. My throat felt tight, but I forced the words out. “I need some time to think about it.” “You have twenty-four hours,” he said. He put another card down, with a phone number written in neat black ink. “Call me when you decide. Don’t wait too long, okay? Opportunities like this don’t hang around.” He paused, looking at my drawings. “Wow! You draw queens,” he added quietly. “They don’t often get rescued.” Then he turned and walked away. The crowd parted for him, then closed back up, and he was gone in seconds. My legs felt weak, so I sat down on the stool. I looked at the two black cards next to my drawings of strong queens who never had to make a choice like this. Fake marriage. A year of lies. Money that could save Mama and give us a better life. Or keep things the same. Watch Mama suffer. Continue with rubbish food every day of life. Lose our home. Wait for something worse. Hmmmmm. The market buzzed around me. A woman argued loudly about plantain prices. Kids kicked a ball, laughing as it bounced away. Suya cooked on a grill, sending spicy smoke into the air that made my empty stomach churn, reminding me I hadn’t eaten. It was a normal Lagos day. But my day had changed forever. I picked up the card. My hands shook so much I almost dropped it. I had twenty-four hours to decide if I was brave enough to say yes or smart enough to say no, and I couldn’t tell which was right anymore. The sun started to set, and long shadows stretched across the stalls. I carefully packed my drawings, folding each one like it could break—the warrior queen first, then the bride, then the calabash woman. Each fold felt like goodbye. The bean seller next to me asked, “Lola, are you okay?” I said yes, but it was a lie. She didn’t believe me, and I didn’t believe myself either. I flagged down an okada, and the wind hit my face as we sped through the traffic. I held on tight and thought about Mama, waiting in our small, dark room, the fan turning slowly, the generator ready to die at ten o’clock. Our room had paper-thin walls, letting in all the sounds of the neighbors—arguments, laughter, life we couldn’t afford. Mama lay on the thin mattress, her eyes closed, breathing shallow and slow. I sat beside her and watched her chest rise and fall in the dim light. “Lola?” she whispered. “I’m here, Mama,” I answered. She opened her eyes. Even sick, those eyes saw too much. “Wetin happen today? Your face no dy good.” I explained everything to her—the man, the offer, the difficult option. She listened without saying a word until I was done. Then she reached for my hand. Her fingers were thin, but she held on with surprising strength. “My mother told me something when I was young,” she said softly. “When help comes in a strange way, don’t run from it just because it doesn’t look nice. Look at what it brings.” I waited for her to continue. “This man brings money, doctors, comfort and a better place to live,” she said. “But he also brings something else. You have to decide if you can handle that too.” “I’m afraid, Mama,” I told her. “That’s good,” she answered. “Fear makes you careful. Use the fear. Don’t let the fear use you.” Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep. I sat in the dark room, the fan clicking above me. Sounds from Lagos came through the window—music, generators, people laughing in the next compound and the stupid men discussing betting outcomes of their wagered sports. The card felt heavy in my pocket. Twenty-four hours were ticking away. I remembered Grandma’s stories about strong women from Oyo who faced enemies with nothing but courage and built new lives. They didn’t have easy choices either. Morning came, and the call to prayer sounded from the mosque. I picked up my phone and looked at the number I knew by heart. My finger hovered over the screen. A year of pretending. A year for Mama’s life and a better future. Or the same pain, every day. I took a deep breath and pressed the call button. The phone rang once. Then again. A low voice answered. “Omolola.” I closed my eyes. “I’ll do it.” There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “Come to my office tomorrow at nine. I’ll send the address.” The phone went quiet. I sat in the soft morning light, the phone still warm against my ear, wondering what I had just done. Mama stirred on the bed. “Lola?” I turned and smiled at her. “Everything go dy alright, Mama. Na me talk am.” The words tasted strange in my mouth because they were a lie. But maybe that’s how survival tastes when there is no alternative choice. Outside, Lagos was waking up. The noise started again, loud and full of life. Somewhere in Ikoyi, a man with dark eyes was waiting for me. What happens tomorrow? Help or trouble? Next chapter...............the story gets bigger.