SHE CALLED ME SIS

Chapter thirteen – Let Them Talk

There was a strange stillness that followed Madam’s apology.

We were not expecting her—of all people—to come looking for us.

It was like the air had been sucked out of the world, leaving only silence and breath. Lani and I sat side by side on the thin mattress in our cramped room, still stunned. We were trying to process everything—the ₦10,000 she handed us, the softness in her voice, the look in her eyes when she said:

“I was once you. I was in love with a woman first.”

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like hope, and we didn’t know what to do with hope.

We didn’t talk for hours. The only sound in the room was the occasional honk of danfos in the distance and the soft creak of the fan blades. Lani sat close to me. I could feel her watching me, waiting for me to exhale the fear.

“I’m scared,” I finally whispered.

She shifted closer. “Of what?”

“Of how easy it is to want you like this… now that someone finally didn’t scream at us for it.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood something deeper than what I said. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it? How a little kindness can make you bold?”

I let out a dry laugh. “I feel like I’m about to jump off something. And I don’t even know how high it is.”

Lani turned to me, her eyes steady. “Then let’s jump together.”

Her voice was soft but certain. Not loud, not dramatic—just true. Like something solid I could finally hold on to. I didn’t realize I was crying until she reached up to brush my tears away.

That night, we kissed like it was the first time all over again.

Except this time, we didn’t stop.

There were no more footsteps to fear. No doors to swing open. No slaps. No shouts. Just us. Just breath and heartbeat and skin.

Lani’s hands moved slowly at first, tentative and trembling, like she was afraid I’d vanish. I leaned into her, kissed her neck, her collarbone, the soft curve of her shoulder. She moaned—quiet, but deep—and I felt it ripple through me like a wave I’d been drowning under for weeks.

We fumbled. We laughed. My leg got caught in the bedsheet, and she had to drag me back before I rolled off the edge of the mattress. But even that felt beautiful. Because it was ours.

Her mouth on mine felt like a promise.

Her hands on my waist felt like freedom.

Her body pressed against mine felt like a rebellion.

I whispered her name over and over like a prayer. She whispered mine like a song.

And in the darkness, with the sweat between us and the sound of her breathing growing louder, I realized something: this—this—was the moment they feared. This was the love they had been warning us about.

We hadn’t even had s*x before and they already hated us.

Now we had.

So let them talk.

⸻

The next morning, I woke to Lani sitting upright on the mattress, holding her phone tightly.

Her face was pale.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, heart already thudding in fear.

She turned the screen toward me.

A blurry photo.

Us.

Sitting close together on the edge of the compound wall. Our heads tilted toward each other. Our hands almost touching. It must’ve been taken weeks ago—before anything even started. Back when we were still pretending nothing was happening.

But it didn’t matter now.

It was already everywhere.

“These are the girls that were sent away from their home. The ones disgracing her house with lesbian sin. No shame.”

My stomach dropped.

“It’s going viral,” Lani said, her voice flat. “There are already over 200 shares. Some people are saying they know where we live.”

My whole body went cold.

The photo wasn’t even recent. We weren’t doing anything in it. Just sitting. But even that was enough for them to burn us.

I looked at Lani. Her lips were trembling.

“Now we’ve actually done it,” she whispered.

We sat in silence, both of us understanding that nothing would be the same again. They already hated the idea of us. Now they would destroy the reality.

“Do you want to give up?” I asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Never. But I’m scared of what comes next.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

⸻

That day, we tried to stay indoors. But by afternoon, we couldn’t anymore.

I needed to go work at the buka to earn something. Lani had to return to the tailoring shop to continue her apprenticeship. Life doesn’t stop for shame.

But the street didn’t forget.

As I approached the buka, the eyes followed me.

Whispers behind hands.

A woman selling vegetables muttered loudly, “That’s the one. May God protect our children from her spirit.”

A group of men sitting at a table clucked their tongues and shook their heads. One of them even laughed.

I served two customers before I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain sat heavy on my chest like wet fabric. I walked out and cried all the way back to the hostel.

Lani saw me from the window.

She ran downstairs barefoot, pulled me into our room, and just held me.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

⸻

That night, she opened a blank document on her phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked, curled up beside her again.

Her eyes were fierce, burning. “Telling our story.”

I blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” she said. “From the beginning. From the day I moved in. The fear. The punishments. The silence. The love.”

“You want to post it?”

“Yes. If they want to tear us apart with half-truths, then we’ll tell our whole truth. Maybe someone out there will read it and help us. Maybe someone will see we’re not evil.”

My chest swelled.

It was reckless.

It was dangerous.

But it was brave.

“I want to write it with you,” I said.

She smiled. “You can. But I get to write the part where I said ‘Let’s jump together.’ That was my line.”

I laughed.

And we began.

⸻

We wrote the first few pages in silence.

Then we cried.

Then we kissed.

Then we wrote some more.

The story came out like water breaking from a dam. Every moment we’d swallowed. Every shameful silence. Every stolen look. Every night we spent wondering if we were cursed.

We wrote it all.

Not because we wanted pity.

But because we wanted freedom.

Even if it was just on a screen.

Even if no one read it.

By the third day, we had nearly five chapters written.

We hadn’t shared them yet. But we would.

Soon.

⸻

But the world wasn’t done with us.

At the buka, the whispers became open mockery.

A group of boys from our old school came around, pretending to order food but really just making jokes.

“Is the lesbian show still running?” one of them called out, loud enough for the whole street to hear.

I snapped.

I shouted. “Can I breathe?! Can I live?! Why are you people so obsessed with me?!”

One woman hissed and crossed herself.

I ran all the way home.

This time, I was shaking with rage.

Lani didn’t say anything when she saw me.

She just held my hand.

We sat there for a long time.

Then she said, “We need to decide. Do we hide forever… or fight for something bigger?”

My throat was tight.

But my answer was already in my chest.

“We fight.”

⸻

We had nothing.

No rich auntie. No passports. No connections.

But we had a story.

And the courage to tell it.

And sometimes, that’s how revolutions start.