LILY AMONGST THORNS

Amaka didn’t trust good news anymore. Not in Lagos. Good news was like a stranger who smiled too quickly — the kind of smile that made you check your pocket before you returned it. It was not that she was ungrateful. She had prayed enough to know what hope felt like. But life in the city had taught her something harsher than prayer: Nothing came without a cost. That morning, the sun rose like it always did, spilling light over rusted rooftops and unfinished buildings, over roadside kiosks and narrow streets already filling with noise. The world was waking up, but Amaka had been awake for hours. Sleep was difficult when your mind was full. Rent. Food. The unanswered applications sitting in her email. The way her mother’s voice had sounded on the phone two nights ago — trying to pretend everything was fine. "Amaka, don’t worry about us. God will provide." But Amaka knew what that meant. They were worried. And she was the one who was supposed to fix it. Her room in Yaba was small enough that she could stretch her arm and touch two walls at once. A mattress on the floor. A plastic chair. A tiny mirror leaning against the wall. She stared into that mirror now, adjusting her scarf. Her eyes looked tired. Not from lack of sleep alone, but from carrying too much for too long. Outside, someone shouted the name of a bus stop. “CMS! CMS!” A generator coughed into life. A baby cried. Lagos was alive, loud, careless. Amaka sat back down on her mattress and picked up her phone. No new messages. No calls. Nothing. She refreshed her email again, as if the act of refreshing could force the universe to remember her. Still nothing. She let out a slow breath and placed the phone beside her. Then it buzzed. Amaka froze. It wasn’t a message. It was a call. The name on the screen made her sit up straight. Auntie Ngozi. Her mother’s friend. The woman who always said she had connections. Amaka hesitated. Her heart began to beat faster, not with excitement, but with caution. Auntie Ngozi didn’t call unless there was something to say. She answered. “Hello, ma.” “Amaka!” Auntie Ngozi’s voice burst through the speaker, bright and loud. “My daughter! How are you? How is Lagos treating you?” Amaka forced a smile, though no one could see it. “I’m fine, ma.” The lie came easily. Lagos made liars of everyone. “Fine ke?” Auntie Ngozi laughed. “You young people, you think you can hide things. Your mother told me you are still looking for work.” Amaka’s throat tightened. “Yes, ma.” “Well, thank God I called you today. Because I have good news.” Good news. Those words landed like a stone in Amaka’s chest. She waited. Auntie Ngozi continued, “A friend of mine needs someone urgently in her office. A proper job. Good salary. Clean work.” Amaka blinked. “Office job?” “Yes. Secretary work, assistant duties, answering calls. You are educated, you will fit in.” Hope rose inside her before she could stop it. It climbed like water filling a cracked cup. “Auntie…” her voice came out smaller than she intended. “Are you serious?” “My dear, do I joke with matters like this?” Amaka swallowed. “Where is it?” There was a pause. Not long. Just enough. Then Auntie Ngozi said, almost casually: “Victoria Island.” Amaka’s stomach shifted. Victoria Island was not her world. VI was glass buildings and polished shoes. VI was people who spoke English like it was their first language and never sweated in public. “What kind of company?” Amaka asked carefully. “It is… corporate,” Auntie Ngozi replied quickly. “A business office. My friend is very respectable.” Amaka frowned. “What’s the name?” Another pause. Then: “Briar House.” The name sounded strange in her ears. Briar. Like thorn bushes. She didn’t know why her mind caught on it. “How soon?” Amaka asked. “Tomorrow morning. They need someone immediately. The salary is good, Amaka. Very good.” Amaka’s fingers tightened around her phone. Good salary. Her rent was due in two weeks. Her cupboard was almost empty. Her mother’s voice echoed again. "God will provide." Maybe this was it. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll come.” “Good girl,” Auntie Ngozi said, pleased. “Dress well. Be punctual.” Amaka nodded. “Yes, ma.” Then Auntie Ngozi’s voice lowered slightly. “And Amaka…” “Yes?” Another pause. This one longer. “Try not to ask too many questions at first.” Amaka’s brow creased. “What do you mean?” Auntie Ngozi laughed lightly. “You know big offices. Just do your work. Respect your boss. Don’t be too forward.” Amaka’s mouth went dry. “Yes, ma.” “Alright. I will send you the address. God has done it for you.” The call ended. Amaka stared at her phone. The room felt quieter than before. Outside, Lagos continued screaming. Inside, something else screamed softly in her chest — not joy, not fear, but something in between. Suspicion. She tried to push it away. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? A job. A way out. A beginning. Yet the warning clung to her. Don’t ask too many questions. That night, Amaka prepared like someone going to war in polite clothing. She washed her one good blouse. She ironed it twice. She packed her bag carefully. Sleep came in fragments. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw a tall building with dark windows. She woke before her alarm. By 5:30 a.m., she was dressed. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied her scarf. She whispered a prayer. Not for success. For safety. The bus ride from Yaba to Victoria Island felt like traveling into another country. The roads changed. The air changed. The people changed. She watched women step out of cars with sunglasses and calm confidence. Men walked with purpose, speaking into earpieces like time was money. Amaka held her handbag close. Her skin suddenly felt too visible. The address Auntie Ngozi sent was short: Briar House, Adeola Odeku Street. When she arrived, she stopped. The building was modern, grey, and too clean. A security man stood outside, expressionless. Amaka approached. “Good morning, sir.” The man looked at her slowly. “Name?” “Amaka Nwosu. I’m here for… work.” He checked a clipboard, then nodded. “Third floor.” No smile. No welcome. Just directions. Amaka stepped inside. Cold air-conditioning hit her skin like judgment. The lobby smelled expensive. Everything looked polished. Too polished. She entered the elevator alone. The doors slid shut with a soft mechanical sigh. As the elevator rose, her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored wall. She looked small. Young. Like a lily carried into a garden she didn’t understand. The bell chimed. Third floor. The doors opened. And Amaka stepped out… Into silence. The hallway was quiet. Not peaceful. Just… controlled. She took a step forward. Then another. And somewhere behind one of the closed doors— A faint sound. Like something heavy being dragged. Amaka froze. Her breath caught. The silence swallowed the noise quickly, as if the building itself had decided she was not meant to hear it. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap. And for the first time that morning, the thought came clearly: Maybe this job is not a blessing. Maybe it is the thorn.