Chapter Seventeen -- Obstacles in Her path
1305 Words
By the time I’m in the car, my palms are trembling around the steering wheel. I hate driving when I’m emotional, but the alternative is sitting still while Alda is locked up somewhere. That is just unbearable. She took me in when everything happened and I was nobody but a scared girl with too many bruises to hide. She fed me, protected me, and still loved me without ever asking for anything. She refused to take commision from sales. And now because of me. Because of my things, she’s—
No. I can’t even finish that thought.
The station is twenty minutes away, but it feels like a lifetime. I rush in so fast security actually steps back. “I’m looking for an older woman who was brought in—Alda —someone from here called me—her son—” My sentences sound like they’ve been shredded. I don’t care.
A man at the front desk eyes me with that tired, unimpressed look people in uniforms seem born with. “State your relation.”
“She’s my—” I catch myself before saying mother. Alda always insisted I shouldn’t. She once said, “I didn’t give you life, but life gave me you.” My throat tightens. “She’s my guardian. I’m here to post bail or whatever you need.”
He frowns at the screen, clicks a few times, then nods toward a hallway. “She’s being held for retail fraud.”
Fraud.
The word slices through me. “That’s impossible.”
“She was selling counterfeit luxury goods.”
My mind blanks. For a second everything goes white noise. “They weren’t counterfeit,” I finally manage. “They were mine.”
And just like that, his expression shifts. Not fully, but slightly—interest, calculation, the beginnings of confusion. He propbably was beginning to suspect my identity. “You’ll need to speak to the officer in charge.”
I exhale shakily. “Take me.”
They lead me to a small room where Alda sits on a plastic chair, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed. The sight hits me so hard I forget how to breathe.
Before I can rush to her, a sharp voice stops me.
“That’s her,” a woman says. A very well-dressed, very smug woman. Blonde wig, tiny purse, sunglasses perched on her head even indoors. She looks me up and down like she’s scanning a barcode. “You’re the owner of those… what did she claim? Limited edition pieces?”
I turn to the officer. “What’s going on?”
The woman speaks before he can. “I bought a few items from her. I suspected they were fake. People like her”—she gestures dismissively at Alda without even glancing—“don’t usually have access to those kinds of pieces. And I wasn’t going to let myself be scammed.”
I feel heat rising in my face, rolling under my skin like lava. “Did you test the items?”
“They looked fake.”
My laugh is sharp and humorless. “So your eyes are better than authentication certificates?”
The officer clears his throat. “The issue is that she couldn’t prove ownership. And the complainant insisted—”
“I’m the proof.” My voice slices the air. “Those items were mine. Gifts to Alda. She is allowed to sell whatever belongs to her.”
Alda looks up then, her eyes swollen, her voice small. “Naya, I didn’t want to call you. I didn’t want them dragging your name into anything. I didn’t—”
The woman scoffs. “So you’re claiming you just donated thousands of cedis worth of goods to her?”
Before I answer, something in her tone pricks my instincts. She’s too sure. Too eager. Too rehearsed.
And then it hits me.
She didn’t want a refund.
She wanted to walk away with the goods—free.
And she thought accusing a poor, older woman would make the police hand everything over.
“You didn’t want to pay,” I say slowly, watching her flinch. “That’s why you did this. You saw she had more pieces. You wanted all of them without spending another coin.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Is it?” I step closer, eyes locked on hers. “Because if you truly thought they were fake, you would have demanded your money back and walked away. Instead, you tried to seize everything she had.”
The officer glances at her sharply now.
I go in for the kill.
“And you never expected me to show up. Because in your head, someone like me doesn’t exist. Someone who has the money and the proof and the receipts. Someone who can expose you.”
The woman’s mask slips. Just for a second. But enough.
She clears her throat, forces a weak smile, and turns to the officer. “Maybe I overreacted. Emotions run high when money is involved. I didn’t mean for her to be arrested. I’ll withdraw the complaint.”
She tries to walk out, but I block her path.
“Apologize.”
She freezes. “Excuse me?”
“You put an innocent woman in a cell. You humiliated her. You made her son cry. You almost ruined her business and reputation. So you’re going to look her in the eye and apologize.”
A tense silence hangs in the air.
The woman exhales sharply, then turns toward Alda. “I… apologize. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
Alda nods without looking at her.
It’s not enough, but it’s something.
The woman slips past me and hurries out, her shoes clicking against the tile like she’s running from her own reflection.
The officer sighs. “Miss Alda, you’re free to go. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
I kneel in front of Alda. Her hands shake as I take them into mine.
“Alda… why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want trouble finding you again,” she whispers. “You know how your life has been… watched. Judged. I didn’t want anyone linking the items to you. If they knew you were selling…” She swallows. “I thought they’d say you were broke. I thought they’d drag you through the mud.”
The fear in her voice is old. It has roots. It comes from years of seeing how society treats girls like me—girls who grew up in wealth, shine too brightly, and fall too publicly.
I squeeze her hands tighter. “I don’t care what they say. I care about you.”
Her eyes glisten, but she tries to hide it with a small smile. Her pride is stubborn. It always has been.
Once we’re outside, the air feels different. Colder. A little cruel.
Alda keeps shaking her head. “I should have stopped earlier. I knew selling those things was risky.”
“No,” I say firmly. “The risk wasn’t the items. It was greedy people. But now we know better.”
She sighs deeply. “So what now? How will you… manage?”
I hate that question. I hate that she has to ask it. I hate that everything closed in on me so fast.
But I can’t keep risking her like this.
“Stop selling for now,” I say quietly. “I’ll figure something else out.”
Her brow furrows with worry, but she nods.
That’s what Alda does—she trusts me, even in my worst moments.
We walk to her car together. The sun is setting, streaking the sky with orange and purple, but all I feel is exhaustion. The kind that settles in your bones.
When she drives off, I stand there for a long moment, just breathing.
- Writer
