WIFE FOR SALE

CHAPTER 1: The Auction Theme: Brutal patriarchy, emotional trauma, survival Tone: Cinematic · Raw · Subtly horrifying --- In Nsukka, the rain never came clean anymore. It fell like dust—red, bitter, clinging to your lungs like shame. The elders said the earth was bleeding. The younger ones said it was just harmattan. But I knew better. This city had stopped being clean long before the sky did. And today, it would show us just how dirty it had become. Because today was Market Day. Not for food. Not for electronics. For wives. --- We were lined up behind the cracked stadium walls—seventeen of us, dressed in white lace gowns with collars so tight they choked the voice out of our throats. The younger ones wept quietly. The older ones, like me, stared forward with empty eyes. You stop crying after a while. Your tears rot inside you until they turn into something else. Acid. Rage. A large woman in a navy-blue uniform barked at us like dogs. > “All of you, line up! No one wants a lazy wife. Smile when you walk!” She struck one of the girls—Ngozi, barely sixteen—with a metal rod. The c***k echoed like thunder. Ngozi stumbled but didn’t scream. She had learned not to. --- We were branded on our wrists. Not with fire. With QR codes. Scanned, tagged, and priced like bags of rice. Above the stadium stage, a massive floating holo-screen glowed red and white, displaying each girl’s “assets” as they walked the auction floor. Name Age Height Purity Fertility Score Behavioral Risk Index They called it The Selection Panel. I called it the death menu. I was Contestant 7. --- They say your life flashes before your eyes before something traumatic. Not mine. What flashed before me was code—the programs I used to write, the encryption tools I once built, the face of my mother as she was dragged out in chains for speaking at a protest, and the lie my uncle told when he sold me to the Ministry. > “It’s for her protection. She’s too wild to live free.” --- Ngozi went first. She tripped as she climbed the steps. Someone in the crowd laughed. Loudly. Bidding started at ₦500,000. ₦1.2 million ₦3.6 million ₦5.1 million ₦6.2 million Sold. To a senator from Abuja. His fourth wife had just “gone missing.” --- Next came Amara. Skin like polished bone. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. She stared straight into the light like she was already dead. ₦9.1 million. Sold. --- Then they called my name. > “Contestant 7: Zara Ikenna. Mixed Igbo-Fulani heritage. GPA 4.3. Fertility score: 98%. Behavioral risk index: Moderate.” I took a breath and walked out. The crowd fell strangely silent. --- My name is Zara. I’m 19. And I should be dead. But instead, I was walking a red-carpeted platform in front of 2,000 elite men, most wearing ivory agbadas and bloodless smiles. Some brought monocles, others wore full-face masks. All had digital paddles in hand. ₦3 million ₦3.5 ₦4.8 ₦5.2 ₦6 million The numbers climbed. One man—a short, pot-bellied councilman—stared so hard I could feel his sweat from the platform. Another whispered something to his assistant, then smirked. ₦6.8 ₦7.5 ₦8 million Then a new voice rang out. ₦10 million. --- All heads turned. A tall man in a crisp white kaftan raised his paddle. He wore no mask. His face was clean-shaven, his eyes sharp. He was too young to belong here. He stared straight at me. Not like a buyer. Like a man reading a riddle. > “Final bid: ₦10 million. Going once…” No one countered. > “SOLD.” The gavel fell like a death sentence. And just like that, I belonged to him. --- They escorted me into a glass chamber backstage. The “ownership suite,” they called it. A sterile room with cold lighting, soft chairs, and biometric locks. He was already waiting. --- “You’re quieter than I expected,” he said. I stayed silent. “My name is Kalu. I requested you specifically.” I tilted my head. “That’s not how this works. Bidding’s random.” He smiled faintly. > “Not when you know how to write the algorithm.” My heart jumped. He leaned in. “I’ve studied your code. Your leaked protest files. Your fingerprint pattern on the metadata.” I stared at him now. > “You’re not just a girl with a voice, Zara. You’re a weapon. And they put you on sale.” --- The air turned heavy. “I want to know what you know,” he said. “And I want to show you something your uncle hid from you.” I opened my mouth—but the lights suddenly cut out. Darkness. Sirens. Screams in the hallway. Emergency klaxons rang. > “Containment breach. Repeat—containment breach.” --- Glass shattered somewhere nearby. The room shook. A CCTV screen blinked on behind Kalu. Footage rolled: a hallway, crimson-lit, a figure in black sprinting past armed guards. Blood on her hands. A woman in a black hijab. Her face was pixelated—but I knew the rhythm of her feet. The way she tilted her shoulder when running. It couldn’t be. Mama. No. No, she was gone. Dead. Burned alive during the resistance raids. I had seen the photos. Or thought I had. --- Kalu stepped toward the door. “We have to move now. I’m getting you out—” “I’m not leaving,” I snapped. He turned. “I need answers.” “And you’ll get them,” he said. “But if we stay, they’ll erase you—again.” I hesitated. I was used to control. Plans. Firewalls. This was chaos. I reached into the heel of my sandal, where I’d hidden a shard of microglass. Not for defense. For data transfer. He noticed. Smiled. “You don’t trust me,” he said. > “Good.” --- I didn’t know who to trust. Not him. Not my uncle. Not even the voice in my head telling me to run. But I knew this: The system had cracked. And the auction was just the beginning. --- END OF CHAPTER 1 ---