Dear Neighbour

CHAPTER 1 - Introduction to Elizabeth

CHAPTER 1

Elizabeth

I want to kill all the men in my life.

Sometimes, the thought comes quietly, like smoke slipping under a locked door. Other times, it crashes into my head so loudly that I have to bite the inside of my cheek just to stop myself from screaming.

My stepfather. My biological father. My stepbrothers. Even the stupid handsome neighbor that has suddenly decided to exist.

Every single one of them has left fingerprints on my life, whether they know it or not.

People always talk about daddy issues like it is some funny internet joke. Something girls laugh about while making t****k videos or tweeting nonsense online. Nobody ever talks about what it actually feels like. Nobody talks about how it twists your brain until you no longer understand yourself.

Nobody talks about how a girl can become too aware of things she should never have known as a child.

I was exposed to things too early. Far too early.

By the time I was four years old, my innocence already had cracks in it.

And now I am fifteen, carrying around confusion, shame, anger, fear, and desires that fight each other inside my chest every single day.

Sometimes I hate myself for the thoughts I have. Sometimes I hate men for putting those thoughts there in the first place.

It is strange how trauma works. It can make you fear something and crave it at the same time.

I hate men. But I still notice them.

I still stare. Still wonder. Still imagine.

Which is exactly why I nearly lost my senses the first day I saw him.

The new neighbor.

Or maybe he was not new. Maybe I was just too busy surviving my life to notice him before.

I saw him stepping out of the compound next door one hot Saturday afternoon while I was in my mum's provision shop. The sun and heat were harsh enough to roast skin, and sweat had practically soaked through my faded top, but the moment my eyes landed on him, every other thing disappeared.

Jesus Christ.

The guy was beautiful.

Not fine. Not cute. Beautiful.

Tall enough to make everybody around him look compressed. Fair skin that basically glowed under the sunlight. Broad shoulders. Veins in his arms. Low haircut. Sharp jawline. He looked like the type of person that should have background music following him around.

And his scent...

Dear God.

Even from where I stood, I caught the scent of his perfume drifting through the air. It smelled expensive, clean, masculine. Like danger wrapped inside luxury.

I froze completely.

He walked past my mum's shop with this calm confidence that irritated me immediately because why was he walking like that? Why was he existing so perfectly in public? Why did his white shirt fit him like that?

I quickly looked away before he noticed me staring.

Not that someone like him would ever notice someone like me.

Please.

I was fifteen years old, exhausted, emotionally unstable, and permanently annoyed. Half the time, I looked like somebody who had fought spiritually before leaving the house.

Oh, and don't forget my physical appearance. I just finished from a public school, so my once low cut hair is just growing, and I'm nowhere near pretty.

There was absolutely no hope for me.

Still, even after he was long gone, I stood there like an i***t for another full minute.

Then I finally entered the shop to sit.

Reality waited for me immediately, because I had to go in and wash my dad's car.

That was my life.

There's no time to daydream. No time to admire beautiful men. No time to breathe.

Just survive.

Especially because Monday was waiting for me like a threat.

I hated Mondays.

Mondays meant work.

I honestly regret ever choosing tailoring as the handwork I wanted to learn.

Back then, it sounded like a good idea.

I imagined myself becoming this rich fashion designer that would sew beautiful clothes and save my family from poverty. I imagined opening a big shop with bright lights and fancy mannequins. I imagined people begging me to design dresses for weddings.

Now?

I could barely look at a sewing machine without irritation.

The work drained the life out of me.

My boss, popularly known as Oga Amaka, was one wicked Igbo woman that looked permanently offended by human existence.

Nothing ever pleased her.

If you sew too slowly, she insults you. If you sew too fast, she says you are careless. If you greet her without enough energy, she complains. If you smile too much, she accuses you of unseriousness.

The woman could find fault in oxygen.

Every morning, I woke up tired.

Sometimes while ironing clothes at the shop, I would stare at the pressing iron and imagine throwing it through the window.

Other times, I would imagine running away completely.

But the only thing keeping me sane was the hope of university.

Once I gain admission, I am leaving.

Leaving Lagos. Leaving the compound. Leaving Oga Amaka. Leaving everybody.

At least, that was the dream.

"Elizabeth!!"

I heard my name before I saw the owner of the voice.

Esther.

Immediately, my mood brightened.

"Estherrrr!"

She rushed toward me dramatically, almost slipping on the dusty road.

"See your life," I laughed.

"Shut up jor," she replied, laughing too.

Esther had been my friend since secondary school. Somehow, we clicked immediately.

Maybe it was because both of us were always laughing at inappropriate times. Maybe it was because we both liked trouble too much. Or maybe it was because she understood certain parts of me without needing explanation.

She lived just a few streets away from my house, so over time, we became inseparable.

"Omorhhh, I dey o," she said excitedly. "You cannot imagine the madness happening in my JAMB lesson."

My ears sharpened instantly.

"Tell me everything."

And she did.

God.

The way Esther gossiped deserved an award.

According to her, the lesson center was practically a reality TV show.

"These people are dating left and right," she said. "One boy there is following three girls at the same time. Then there is one fine girl called Sandra. Fine girl no pimples. Her shape? Madness. But one boy named Harris is always around her like housefly."

I burst into laughter.

"You sure say you dey go lesson?"

"My sister, na entertainment center be that."

She continued talking while I quickly finished up washing the car tyres.

She told me about the teachers, the students, the fights, the friendships, the gossip.

And with every word, my envy grew.

I wanted that freedom.

I wanted to wake up and dress for lessons instead of work.

I wanted to carry books instead of fabric.

I wanted to sit with people my age and laugh.

Not spend all day getting shouted at by customers that behaved like sewing one gown was a life-or-death situation.

For the rest of the day, the thought refused to leave my head.

JAMB lesson.

Maybe I deserved that too.

That evening, I carefully brought it up to my mother while she cooked.

"Mummy..."

"Hmm?"

"I want to attend lesson for JAMB. Esther already started going."

She stayed quiet for a moment.

I already knew what she was thinking.

Money.

Everything in our house eventually returned to money.

School fees. Transport. Food. Electricity.

Money sat in every corner of our lives like an unpaid debt.

"Talk to your father," she finally said.

Immediately, my stomach tightened.

I hated talking to him.

Hated it.

My stepfather was the kind of man that could ruin your entire day just by entering a room.

Nobody relaxed around him.

Not my mother. Not me. Not even his own children sometimes.

He had this heavy presence that filled every corner of the house.

And anger.

So much anger.

Sometimes he provided for us. Sometimes he acted normal.

But most of the time, he made life difficult.

The memories I carried because of him were not memories that disappeared easily.

There were things he said. Things he allowed. Things he ignored.

Things that changed me permanently.

And even though I tried to act strong most of the time, there were nights I still cried quietly into my pillow because of everything this family had done to me.

I wanted to leave Lagos so badly.

Not because Lagos was ugly.

Lagos was loud and stressful and chaotic, yes, but it was also alive.

Yellow buses speeding past. Women shouting in markets. Streetlights blinking weakly at night. Music from nearby shops. Children running barefoot. The smell of roasted corn during evening traffic.

Lagos breathed loudly.

But my memories here suffocated me.

And I needed escape.

University felt like escape.

The next day, I finally gathered enough courage to ask him.

I stood awkwardly near the sitting room entrance while he watched television.

My heart was beating ridiculously fast.

"Good evening sir."

"Hmm."

"I want to attend JAMB lesson."

Silence.

He did not even look at me immediately.

Then finally:

"How much?"

I told him.

Another silence.

Then surprisingly:

"Okay."

That was it.

No shouting. No insults. No lecture.

Just okay.

I nearly fainted from shock.

And somehow, just like that, my life changed direction slightly.

By Tuesday morning, I was already trekking with Esther toward Legend Tutorial Centre.

The sun had barely settled properly in the sky, but Lagos was already awake and noisy.

Meanwhile, Esther could not stop talking.

"Today ehn, you go see everybody. But warning first, there are too many fine boys there. Compose yourself."

I laughed.

"Abeg free me."

But secretly, excitement bubbled inside me.

For once, life felt different.

I was not going to work.

I was not carrying fabric.

I was not preparing myself mentally for Oga Amaka's insults.

I was going somewhere new.

Somewhere full of people, drama, gossip, possibilities.

And maybe that sounds small.

But when your life has been drowning for so long, even tiny excitement feels like breathing again.

As the building for the lesson center finally came into view, Esther grinned beside me.

"Welcome to Legend," she announced proudly.

I stared at the busy compound, already hearing noise from inside.

Students standing in groups. Girls laughing. Boys shouting. Music playing faintly somewhere.

A slow smile spread across my face.

Maybe this place would not change my life completely.

Maybe it would still come with its own problems.

But at least it was something new.

And honestly?

I was ready to bring my own madness into the mix.

Your mother is on her way, bitches.