Beneath His Wings

Chapter 2 The Landlord's Wrath

The morning sun rose lazily over the compound, casting golden light on the rusted zinc roofs and uneven walls. Beauty’s father had left early, his work bag slung over his tired shoulder. He was a civil servant, one of the many government workers whose pay came late and never stretched far enough. His dignity remained intact, but the reality was bitter: his salary could barely feed the family, let alone cover the rising rent.

Beauty had rushed out before dawn, too, heading to the restaurant where she spent long hours balancing trays and wiping tables. Her siblings, dressed in their faded school uniforms, had left with worn-out sandals flapping against the dusty road.

That left Mama Beauty alone in the compound.

She sat on a short wooden stool, arranging her wares on a low table in front of the house: fresh pepper, tomatoes, onions, garri, palm oil, okra, vegetable oil. The colors of the produce brightened the compound, and for a moment she hummed softly, trying to keep her spirits alive. This petty trade was her lifeline; it was what kept food in her children’s mouths on days when her husband’s meager pay was already swallowed by debt.

She had just spread out her wares neatly when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed. A shadow fell across her stall.

It was the landlord.

Chief Adeyemi was a man with a round belly that pushed against his richly embroidered agbada, his gold wristwatch flashing like it was meant to blind. His face carried permanent arrogance, his lips curled in disdain as if everyone beneath him were dust. Two young men trailed behind him—boys he used as errand hands, quick to intimidate tenants whenever he snapped his fingers.

“Mama Beauty!” His booming voice carried through the compound. “How many times have I warned this your family? Ehn? How many times?”

She stood quickly, smoothing her wrapper. “Good morning, landlord.”

“Which kind morning? Na morning food I go chop? Abi na greeting go pay my rent?” He advanced, his nose wrinkled as though her stall polluted the air. “Where is that your husband that always carries civil service salary like trophy, yet never pays on time? Where is he?”

Her heart thudded. “He has gone to work, sir. Please, give us small time—”

“Time?!” Chief’s voice rose, drawing the attention of neighbors. Heads popped out of windows, whispers began. “I have given you people more time than you deserve. Two months! Two months I no see my money. Is this how civil servants behave? Lazy and useless!”

Tears stung her eyes, but she held her ground. “We are not lazy, sir. My husband works, I sell my goods. We are trying.”

“Trying?” He barked a laugh. “This one you call trying?” He gestured at her table with contempt. “Look at these rotten tomatoes, small-small pepper, nonsense onions. You call this business? You think I built this compound so you can turn it to Mile 12 market?!”

Before she could speak, one of his boys stepped forward and shoved the table roughly. The tomatoes rolled into the dirt, peppers scattered, oil bottles toppled and spilled.

“No! Please!” Mama Beauty cried, falling to her knees to gather what she could. She reached for the garri basin, but the second boy kicked it over, sending the white grains spilling into the dust. Children who had been playing nearby squealed and ran, while some neighbors gasped and shook their heads.

The landlord folded his arms, unmoved. “From today, stop this your nonsense selling in front of my house. If you cannot pay rent, at least don’t turn my compound into market.”

“Please, sir!” she begged, her hands trembling as she tried to save a few onions. “This is how I feed my children. Have mercy.”

“Mercy?” His voice dripped with scorn. “Did you show me mercy when you refused to pay rent? I give you two days. Two days only. If I don’t see my money, you and your husband will sleep outside. Useless people!”

With that, he turned, his agbada sweeping the ground like the robe of a wicked judge. His boys laughed as they followed him out, slamming the wooden gate of the compound so hard it rattled.

Silence followed, broken only by Mama Beauty’s sobs. She crouched on the ground, hands covered in spilled palm oil, staring at her ruined wares. Neighbors whispered but no one came to help. To them, this was just another spectacle in Lagos—a poor tenant against a wealthy landlord.

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Evening – Beauty Returns

By the time Beauty trudged home that evening, her legs ached and her back burned from carrying trays all day. She clutched a nylon bag of leftover food her madam had generously given her. At least her siblings would smile tonight, she thought.

But the moment she stepped into the compound, the smile vanished.

Her mother sat slumped on the veranda, eyes swollen from crying, her wrapper stained with palm oil. The little table where she sold her goods was overturned against the wall. No peppers, no tomatoes, nothing.

Beauty dropped the food bag instantly. “Mama! What happened? Where is everything?”

Her mother tried to speak, but her voice cracked. “The landlord…he came.”

Beauty’s heart pounded. “And?”

Her mother’s lips trembled as she explained—the insults, the shouting, the boys scattering her wares, the final warning. Two days. Only two days.

Beauty’s hands shook as rage surged through her. “He did that? To you? Mama, he scattered everything?”

Mama Beauty nodded, tears spilling freely. “He said we should get out if we cannot pay.”

Beauty clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. The picture of her hardworking mother on her knees, begging a man who showed no pity, burned itself into her mind. She wanted to scream, to fight, to curse, but all she could do was swallow the bitterness choking her.

Her siblings came out quietly then, their faces sad and hungry. The youngest clung to her wrapper, whispering, “Aunty Beauty, are we going to sleep outside?”

Beauty knelt and hugged them tightly. “No. Never. We will not sleep outside. I promise you.”

But inside, her heart quaked. How would they raise the money in two days? Her father’s salary was months behind, her mother’s petty trade destroyed, her own wages too small.

She stared at the ruined table, at her mother’s weary face, at her siblings’ frightened eyes, and something hardened within her.

Life had mocked them long enough.

If money was the language of power, then somehow, she would learn to speak it.

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That night, as she lay awake on her thin mattress, Beauty whispered into the darkness:

“One day, we will not beg. One day, we will not cry before men like him. One day, I will make money enough to silence people like Chief Adeyemi.”

She didn’t know yet that fate was already moving, preparing to throw her path into that of a cold, powerful billionaire whose life was as far from hers as heaven from earth.

But the fire had been lit. And soon, the world would see what Beauty was capable of.