"The Screwed Up Plan"

Chapter 10: The Demanding In-Lawse

The morning of the family introduction arrived with a blazing Lagos sun that seemed to pin itself directly over the zinc roofs of Ajegunle. By ten o’clock, the heat inside the Eze family’s narrow parlor had reached an almost suffocating density. The air was thick, heavy with the sharp, stinging aroma of goat-meat pepper soup, frying onions, and the artificial sweetness of cheap lavender air freshener sprayed frantically over the damp, peeling walls.

To make the necessary impression, Mama had transformed the tiny space into a commercial battleground. She had aggressively borrowed ten white plastic chairs from the local church down the street and rented a massive, standing cooling unit that hummed like a broken generator in the corner, blowing out weak, lukewarm air. The entire theatrical setup had been funded by an emergency fifty-thousand-naira transfer Joy had practically begged David for the previous Tuesday, spinning a frantic lie about her father needing immediate, life-saving blood transfusions.

Joy sat on a low wooden stool near the passage curtain, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wore a modest, long Ankara dress with her hair neatly wrapped in a matching, voluminous scarf—the perfect, curated picture of a virtuous, submissive daughter from a disciplined Christian home. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her eyes fixed on her worn-out slippers. Every muscle in her body was tense; she knew that today, the mask had to hold, or the ground beneath her family’s feet would open up and swallow them whole.

The sudden, distinctive sound of a low, heavy car engine navigating the deep, treacherous potholes outside signaled their arrival. A few moments later, the rusty iron door of the compound creaked open, and David walked into the parlor.

He looked pristine, completely detached from the poverty of the street he had just walked through. He wore a crisp, white polished cotton senator suit with intricate gold embroidery along the high neck, his posture straight and confident. On his left wrist, a gold watch caught the dim parlor light with every movement of his arm.

He was accompanied by Chief Obinna, his paternal uncle who happened to be in Lagos for a timber business trip. Chief Obinna was a heavy-set man with a stern, weather-beaten face, dressed in a traditional red velvet Igbo cap and a flowing chieftaincy regalia that commanded immediate respect. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand and a carved walking stick in the other, stepping into the room with the unyielding gravity of a traditional elder.

"Welcome, welcome our in-laws!" Mama shouted, her voice dripping with an exaggerated, musical warmth as she clapped her hands together and ushered them toward the rented plastic chairs. "We thank God for journey mercies from the island! Please, sit down, sit down. Chidi! Bring the cold malt from the kitchen quickly!"

Papa sat across from them in his designated, frayed armchair, leaning heavily on his old wooden walking stick. Though his eyes were deeply yellowed from years of unmanaged illness and his frame was visibly frail, he carried himself with the rigid, unyielding authority of a traditional patriarch who still believed his word was law.

For the first forty-five minutes, the meeting followed the strict, slow choreography of traditional protocols. Kolanut was presented, blessed by Papa in a raspy, coughing voice, and broken. The cold malt drinks were poured, and the steaming bowls of goat-meat pepper soup were served. David sat politely, speaking in his polished, corporate returnee accent, nodding respectfully at every proverb Chief Obinna and Papa traded across the glass table. To anyone watching, it looked like a beautiful union of two respectable families.

Then, Chief Obinna cleared his throat, a deep, rumbling sound that instantly brought an end to the casual chatter. The atmosphere in the room shifted from polite hospitality to cold, transactional business. He adjusted his red cap and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees.

"We thank you for the warm reception, the kolanut, and the food," Chief Obinna began, his voice booming with cultural authority. "Our son, David, has brought us to your house today because he has seen a beautiful flower in this compound that he wishes to pluck. It is unfortunate that the circumstances require us to move with speed, but as traditional elders, we know that when a young woman is carrying a blessing inside her, we do not delay or allow the public to speak whispers. We have come today to ask for Joy’s hand in marriage so we can perform the traditional rites properly and bring her into our family."

Papa nodded slowly, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief before leaning back. "We hear you, Chief. David is a fine young man. He looks responsible, and he has shown good character since he started coming here. But you see, in our culture, a daughter is not given away like a cardboard box or a stray goat. Especially not a daughter like Joy. She is our pride. She is educated, she is beautiful, and as you rightly noted... she is already carrying David’s blood. Her value to this house cannot be quantified in a few words."

Mama stood up from her seat, her face set like flint beneath her headtie. She reached beneath her chair, her fingers wrapping around a long, rolled-up sheet of white paper tied with a dramatic, blood-red ribbon. She stepped forward with a slow, deliberate pace and placed the scroll directly into Chief Obinna’s hands with a tight, triumphant smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"This is our traditional bridal list," Mama said, her voice dropping into a register laced with an underlying edge of steel. "As the family of the bride, this is what our village and our ancestors demand before David can legally take our daughter away to his house."

Chief Obinna unrolled the paper, his eyes scanning the neatly typed rows. As he read further down the page, his heavy, dark eyebrows knitted together into a deep, sharp frown. He didn't utter a word; he simply shook his head slightly and passed the paper over to David.

When David’s eyes dropped to the page, his breath literally caught in his throat. A sudden, cold sweat broke out along his collarbone, soaking into the premium cotton of his white senator suit.

The list was not a standard, respectful bridal requirement; it was a predatory extortion mechanism carefully engineered by Mama over nights of desperate financial calculation. The demands laid out on the page were staggering, designed to milk an island millionaire dry:

· Two live, full-grown premium northern cows to be delivered directly to the family's village square in the east.

· Fifty wrappers of original Hollandis High-Target Wax for the maternal aunts and women's group.

· Twenty bags of imported long-grain rice and twenty gallons of kings-brand groundnut oil.

· One million naira cash specified as the mandatory 'Father’s Special Blessing' fee.

· Five hundred thousand naira cash for the 'Mother’s Milk and Care' compensation.

· An assortment of luxury home appliances, including a double-door deep freezer and a brand-new soundproof generator delivered straight to the Ajegunle flat.

· A separate cash envelope of three hundred thousand naira for the local village youth, elders, and maiden groups.

The total estimated cost of the list, when calculated with logistics, transportation to the village, and mandatory penalties, was well over three and a half million naira.

David’s hands began to shake violently against the crisp edges of the paper. He stared at the words, his mind spinning into a chaotic, terrifying vacuum. He had exactly twenty-three thousand naira left in his primary bank account. His digital loan apps were already sending automated, threatening text messages to his phone every thirty minutes, hounding him for overdue interest. He was living on a knife-edge of total financial exposure, and here was a demand for millions.

"Ma... Chief..." David stammered, his voice dropping out of its confident, polished register, his throat suddenly dry. "With all due respect... this list is incredibly heavy. Given the very short notice of the situation and the current economic climate in the country, I don't know if we can... if we can negotiate or adjust some of these items. It is quite sudden."

Before Chief Obinna could offer a diplomatic, elder's response to soften the blow, Mama cut in. She stepped into the center of the room, her face hardening instantly, her eyes flashing with a calculated, insulting sharpness that sliced through the remaining warmth in the parlor.

"Heavy?" Mama laughed mockingly, clapping her hands together in a sharp, dramatic rhythm that filled the quiet room. "Ah-ah, David! A whole Victoria Island big boy like you? You drive a Mercedes-Benz, you live in a luxury flat where you turn on air conditioning all day, you wear gold watches, and you are telling us that three million naira to marry your pregnant wife is heavy? Are you telling us that our daughter is cheap garbage? If a big man of your status cannot afford a basic traditional list to honor the woman carrying his child, then perhaps we have completely misjudged who you are and what you have."

The word 'status' tore through David’s fragile ego like a razor blade. He felt Chief Obinna’s sharp, questioning gaze on the side of his face. He felt the crushing weight of Papa's arrogant, judging eyes staring down from the armchair, waiting to see if he would prove himself to be a weakling. His toxic, deeply rooted pride—the very insecurity that had driven him to borrow millions to fund a fake, glittering lifestyle—completely overrode his survival instincts. The fear of being exposed as an absolute fraud, a broke mainland boy playing dress-up right there in front of his uncle and his in-laws, was a million times more terrifying than the threat of actual financial ruin.

He swallowed the bitter, metallic lump of panic in his throat, straightened his spine, and forced an arrogant, artificial smile onto his face, looking Mama dead in the eyes.

"It is no problem at all," David lied smoothly, his voice steady even though his heart was screaming in absolute, unyielding agony. "The list is perfectly fine. I was just surprised by a few of the specific village logistics, that’s all. A man of my caliber does not argue over traditional rites. I will take care of everything. We will host the traditional wedding in exactly four weeks."

Mama’s face immediately illuminated with a greedy, victorious glow, her teeth bared in a wide triumph. "Excellent! That is what we like to hear! A real man protects his name and his family!" Joy looked up from her stool, a brief wave of relief washing over her, entirely unaware that the victory she was celebrating was an absolute illusion.

Two hours later, after the formal goodbyes had been said and the guests had finally departed, David stood outside the compound gate by his white Mercedes. The afternoon sun beat down on the vehicle’s pristine hood, making it look like a mocking monument to his lies. His chest felt incredibly tight, his breathing shallow and rapid. He pulled out his phone with a trembling thumb, scrolling past the frantic red notifications from his bank and his digital apps until he reached a contact name he had swore on his life he would never look at again: Kelechi (Obalende).

Kelechi wasn't an automated digital app that sent text threats; he was a notorious underground loan shark tied to the local port gangs, a dangerous man who collected his debts with shattered bones, iron rods, and blood.

David pressed the dial button, placing the vibrating phone to his ear as the engine of his luxury car hummed in the dark, dusty street of the slum.