When the mask fell

Chapter Four

The week went really fast and before we knew it, my sisters and I were already at Aunty Sade, my mum's friend's house. We got there three days after my mother explained our new house to us. Aunty Shade's house is so beautifully decorated with modern home furnishings. The chairs are neatly crafted, unlike ours which is full of nail holes from different repairs. The curtains made the place look more pleasing. The ceiling, the table, the stool, and other furniture in the house looked different from the ones we've experienced all our lives. This was heaven to us and it was obvious my sisters loved it immediately. I can see them running around checking them out, comparing them with the ones back home. My mind was already made up about my new life. I was ready to start afresh. One thing I held so much before leaving home was my father's plea

" Make sure you become the best version of yourself. Be that great girl I've always seen in you, so that you can train your sisters here".

And truthfully, those words are like fuel in my spirit. I don't want to live the life my parents lived. I was lost in thought, sitting on the sofa when Aunty Shade called out my name from the kitchen. I could hear the clanging of spoons and pots in there. The aroma coming from the kitchen alone tells me the food is ready.

I rubbed my hands on my skirt and rushed to the kitchen to greet her, saying, "I'm coming, ma." The door to the kitchen was ajar. The aroma of crayfish, blended pepper, tomatoes sautéed in palm oil, and something more I couldn't immediately place—perhaps curry or thyme—was carried by the steam that leaked from the pot on the gas cooker. This particular scent caused your stomach to react before your brain did. In my father's home, this kind of treat is only made once. During the naming ceremony, that is. Aunty Shade used a wooden spoon to stir while she stood by the cooker. I knew she was aware of my presence even though she did not turn when I walked in. She was wearing her regular Iro and buba made from a blue Ankara.

"In this house," she began, her voice calm but deliberate, "everybody must have value." I swallowed.

"Yes, ma'am."

She reduced the flame and faced me properly. Up close, I noticed how firm her eyes were. Not wicked. Not harsh. Just a woman who had seen life and refused to bow to it.

"You are the first daughter," she continued. "That means you carry more than your own weight. You will help me in the shop. You will also focus on your studies. I don't believe in useless children."

"I'm not useless, ma," I said quickly, the words jumping out before I could filter them. A slow smile curved her lips. "I can see that."

That was the start of my apprenticeship. That evening, we all enjoyed the delectable meal and went to bed contented. The next morning, a ray of light peeking through the window's curtain line awakened me. Reluctant to get out of bed, I rolled up and down the edges of the bed. From Aunty Shade's room, I could hear her voice. We used to sing this song at church, and she was singing it. Anyone would think she was a musician because of the way her soprano voice filled the room. I was forced to sit up on my bed. On their bed, my sisters were still asleep. I blinked and sat up, temporarily perplexed, until my memories of my location returned. We were no longer in our old house with cracked walls and a leaking roof. By nine o'clock, I was standing outside the attached shop with a broom in hand. The air was cool, but the ground still held yesterday's warmth. I swept carefully, pushing dust into small piles and clearing the tiled entrance.

"Don't just sweep," Aunty Shade said from behind me. "Observe."

Observe what? I wondered, but I didn't ask.

The store was crammed with luxury bags, headwear, shoes, and various yards of clothing. They were arranged in various grades, divisions, and tints. Both the rich and the poor could easily shop in what seemed to be a two-story store. Although the store isn't very large, it is larger than those in our hometown. I started to take note of things like how patrons approached, the kinds of products they bought in the morning vs the evening, and how some people arrived with assurance while others hesitated, seemingly afraid of their own lack. Bundles of clothing were neatly placed near the door. The shoes on the shoe rack rested against the wall like dutiful children. By the second week, I was able to organize the shelves without being instructed. Aunty Shade detested using the calculator, so I learned to compute change swiftly in my brain. "If you depend on machines too much, your brain will grow lazy," she would say. Customers came in all shapes and temperaments. It's a place to experience both the poor and rich man's lifestyles. Some were polite. Some were arrogant. Some acted like five naira was a matter of life and death. But I watched Aunty Shade closely. She never allowed disrespect, yet she never insulted anyone. She would rather find something else to do. Her strength was quiet but unshakeable. One afternoon, a man tried to argue about the price of rice.

"It was cheaper last week," he insisted loudly.

Aunty Shade crossed her arms. "And last week fuel was cheaper too. Should I sell at a loss because you refuse to understand the economy?"

The man grumbled but paid.

I realized something new that day: volume is not necessary for firmness. A single phrase, a single deed. She gradually started letting me use the counter while she took care of other things. My heart raced the first time she did it, like I was going to take a test. I thought, the entire store was only for me? However, I had a different feeling about myself by the conclusion of that day. I was more than just a person's daughter. I was starting to be reliable. I was growing up to be my father's daughter. We were enrolled at a private school close to the house two weeks after we arrived. My breath caught when I entered the compound for the first time. The classrooms had blue and cream paint jobs. They swept the compound. The neat uniforms that the students wore did not appear to have been handed down from three generations earlier. It wasn't the typical pinafore dress I was accustomed to. There was a noticeable difference. Teachers were constantly beating pupils, and there was a lot of noise at my previous school. Teachers, particularly Mr. Eze, yelled more than they instructed. There were broken desks. Books were taken. Various tales of cults and conflicts. The classrooms here, however, were well-organized. Before speaking, students raised their hands. Instructors genuinely waited for answers while writing nicely on the board. Each of us has a textbook for convenient identification and individual study. For a moment, I felt small. I was literally asking myself if I would survive here. The first week was kinda difficult. Relating to my new classmates, the environment, their way of life, and all. Their English was smoother, not like ours where we pronounce words the way we like. Their confidence was sharper. Some students had private tutors. They spoke about extracurricular activities I had never experienced—debates, spelling bees, and science exhibitions. The only extracurricular activities I knew were cultural dance, Ayo game, and some other ones that can't stand here.

During Mathematics class, the teacher solved equations with speed that made my head spin. What do you mean there's no counting sheet or pebbles? When she asked a question, hands shot up instantly. Mine remained on my desk, either still trying to solve the question or I didn't understand at all. That evening, after helping in the shop, I opened my notebook and stared at the day's lesson. I resisted giving in to intimidation. My eyes began to water as I studied. The next day, I was ready for my teachers. One of the teachers asked a question, and I raised my hand. My heart beat was so fast. My voice trembled slightly, but I answered that everyone was surprised at this. I was literally speechless too. The teacher nodded approvingly. It has never happened before. It seemed like a trophy, that little nod. Dramatically, I rose slowly. Not in a day. During breaks, I started to stay back and ask questions. I used my classmates' textbooks as loans. I read more than the allotted pages. I wrote in my notebook. "I wouldn't stand unarmed if life had thrust me into a new battlefield." I put my pen down and lay my head on the desk.

Tolu adjusted differently from me. She was quieter and more observant. While I battled academically, she discovered her space in the school's cultural dance troupe. She has always been the girl who has a life in her. Everyone can say this at their first encounter with her. I remember the first afternoon she returned home excited, her braids slightly loose and her face glowing. Only God knew what was over here.

"They chose me for the lead in the inter-house dance," she screamed at the top of her voice.

I blinked in surprise. "You?"

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you sounding shocked? You don't believe in your sister ?"

I quickly laughed and hugged her.

Watching her practice in the compound later that week was like discovering a hidden version of my sister. Her feet moved like a professional dancer. Her steps were ordered like she's been doing it all her life. Her hips followed the rhythm naturally. Even Aunty Shade paused from washing plates to watch.

"You are so talented, Tolu," she told her. "Don't waste it."

Kemi, the youngest here, found her territory socially. The sanguine part of her came out so fast than I ever expected. Within days, she had friends from three different senior classes even though she is still in the junior class. She knew who was dating who, she knew most of the teachers' favorites, which teacher favored which student, and whose lunch was always the most attractive. She would come home and narrate events with evidence and witnesses.

"Today, one boy tried to form a big man and fainted during assembly," she would say, spreading her arms for effect. The fact that she would say it like it's just happening.

"The girl he was toasting just looked at him and hissed." We would burst into laughter. Despite our separation from home, laughter still found us.

As promised, my mother came to visit every weekend. She usually showed up on Saturday afternoons, exhausted but determined from her work that week. She never complained about the difficulty of traveling from one place to another, and in her nylon bag were small gifts like roasted groundnuts, oranges, or even burnt popcorn. However, what we looked forward to the most were the letters from Chioma, who writes to my sisters and me every time she comes to visit. Mama would carefully pull them out as if they were delicate treasures, wrapping them especially as if they were a scroll with God's word on it. The first time I opened one in that home, my chest tightened. Chioma's handwriting was unmistakable. Slightly slanted, deep into the lines, and impatient. She wrote about everything, everything we need to know. About a teacher who wore mismatched shoes unknowingly. About a fight between two SSS 2 girls over a boy who wasn't even serious. About a rumor that Mr. Eze might be transferred from the school soon. She exaggerated, dramatized, and mocked. Reading her words felt like sitting beside her again. She is just like my younger sister, Kemi.

"She said one boy fell inside the gutter while trying to show off," Kemi read aloud one evening, struggling to contain laughter. Mama joined in the laughter. She watched us with soft eyes. I noticed each time she came, she looked thinner. It looked like life was still wrestling her back home.

"Are you people okay?" she would ask repeatedly.

"Yes, ma," we answered every time. And we meant it.

* * * * *. * *

One customer in particular stood out among all the others who inexplicably visited Aunty Shade's store. Mrs. Danjuma was her name. Her perfume caught my attention the moment she entered; it was delicate, sophisticated, not overpowering, and not overpowering. She just has a scent that makes people want to be around her. She dressed simply, it was a perfect suit for her. She stood erect, self-assured but not cocky. Her hair is styled in a tidy ponytail. One could mistake her lengthy hair for attachment. "Good afternoon," she said in a silky voice. She takes her time, unlike other clients. She walked slowly through the shop, examining items, asking questions not because she doubted us but because she seemed genuinely interested. She does this all the time and I enjoy talking with her whenever she comes around.

"How long have you been here?" she asked me one day.

"Not too long, ma."

"And you combine this with school?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She studied me carefully, as though measuring something invisible.

"You speak thoughtfully and smartly," she said eventually. I didn't know whether that was a compliment or an observation. I just composed myself to avoid her asking more questions. She began coming twice a week. Sometimes she would linger longer than necessary, engaging in light conversations about school subjects, books, and even politics. I enjoyed being around her yet curious what the familiarity is all about. She put a little book called "Little Did I Know" on the counter on one of the days she visited. "You might enjoy this," she remarked nonchalantly. I grabbed it. "You forgot your book, Ma." She gave a small smile. "No. I purposely left it. A part of me was moved by that novel. It narrated the tale of a girl who, while remaining dignified, ascended from poverty to influence influential men. In two nights, I finished it all. Two nights of insomnia. I really thanked Mrs. Danjuma when she came back. "You sharpen your mind by reading," she remarked. "And in the wrong hands, a sharp mind can be dangerous." I thought about the word for a long time before I forgot it. The word lingered for a while before it escaped my mind. There was something about her that felt layered. Like she was more than just a regular customer. My curiosity began again. I wanted to know more about this woman and her closeness to me. Sometimes she would ask about my father, my ambitions, and personal stuff a random person is not meant to ask.

It was a Thursday evening when something unusual happened. Business had been slow that day. The sky was heavy with rain clouds. Most market men and women are seen packing their goods in their shops. My sisters were inside doing homework while I stood behind the counter, rearranging the bundle of fabric materials. The bell above the shop door chimed softly.

I looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Danjuma. But I was surprised when I saw a tall young man step in. He was not dressed like our usual customers. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up just enough to show defined forearms. His wristwatch gleamed under the fluorescent light. His eyes scanned the shop before settling on me, obvious enough even though he was wearing a shade.

"Good evening," he said. There was something about the way he said it that made my stomach rumble. Not just a rumbling, it feels tight and usual.

"Good evening, sir."

He walked slowly toward the counter where I was. He stepped forward, then backward again like he lost his count.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Danjuma," he said.

My heart skipped. Mrs Danjuma? Why? Who is he to this woman..my head starts trying to find an answer.

"She's not here," I replied cautiously.

He smiled faintly. "I know." We both went silent for a few minutes. My younger sister paused and looked at us, also confused about what was going on.

"Who are you?" he asked suddenly.

"I… I help in the shop."

He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed.

"Tell her Emeka came," he said finally. Then he turned and left without looking back.

I was still. Why would someone come in search of a client? A client trying to find another client? Is he owned by Mrs. Danjuma? How could he have known she would be present? When Mrs. Danjuma finally showed up that night, I mentioned it in passing.

"A man arrived and asked to see you. He introduced himself as Emeka" Her poise broke for the first time since I'd known her. Her hand stopped in mid-stride. Making sure no one could hear, she murmured, "What exactly did he say?"

"That he arrived." Slowly, she nodded, covering whatever emotion had briefly appeared on her face. She appeared to be perspiring, but it wasn't very noticeable. "I'm grateful." But she did not stay long that day, unlike her. She only requested a particular dress pattern and left. Something is fishy and I could feel it.

I stayed up that night long after my sisters had gone to sleep. Emeka was who? What was the reason behind Mrs. Danjuma's reaction? And why did he keep staring at me like he was gauging my existence? God forbid, who are these people? I took care to avoid doing anything that would draw Aunty Shade's attention. I was preoccupied in school the following day. I detest starting something and not knowing how it will end. I felt like someone was observing me during break while I sat beneath a tree attempting to make connections. I raised my head. The young man was the same one. Emeka. He leaned against a black automobile outside the school entrance. I almost screamed at the shocking sight. Our eyes met, stared at each other, then looked away. A slow smile curved his lips. He looked so handsome and evil altogether. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. "What was he doing here?" Before I could process further, he straightened and walked toward the gate. The security man tried to block him. He said something I couldn't hear, demonstrating his hands. He even gave the security man some naira notes. After a few seconds, he turned and left. But not before glancing back at me. I swallowed hard, till my throat went dry. This was no coincidence. And deep inside me, I knew one thing with frightening clarity. Whatever story Mrs. Danjuma was part of, I had just been pulled into it. And something told me this was no ordinary chapter of my life. It was the beginning of a war I did not yet understand.

Should I discuss this with Aunty Shade? Am I overreacting? Maybe it's nothing serious. I tried to calm myself throughout my time in class. That evening, when Mrs. Danjuma walked into the shop again, her eyes found mine instantly.

"I need to talk to you," she muttered.

That evening, Aunty Shade was present and gave us a questioning glance. After carefully wiping my hands around my skirt, I followed her outside. The sun was getting ready to set, and the sky was turning orange. She wasted no time at all. She surprised me just as I was about to greet her. She looked directly at me. "Did he come over to you again?" she inquired. "Yes." She clenched her jaw. "You need to exercise caution," she warned. "Not everyone who enters your life is meant to be there. They arrive with a purpose. I whispered, "What kind of intention?" This is becoming more terrifying than I anticipated.. She studied me for a long moment. Then she said words that made my blood run cold.

"The kind of intention that destroys."

The sound of a car horn behind us interrupted my next query. We both turned at the same time, as if we had been told to. The black automobile parked across the street was the identical one from before. Emeka was walking out of it, but he wasn't by himself this time. From the passenger side came another man. He appeared older, familiar—too familiar, actually. My father was standing next to Emeka, and my breath seized in my throat. Furthermore, his eyes were not those of a guy in need. He was staring at me as if he had discovered something of value. Something that he was going to use. My whole world tilted and in that moment, I realized the new life I thought I was building might have been nothing but the beginning of something far more dangerous than poverty. This kind of danger breathes, it doesn't knock, and it walks in smiling.