The Surrogate Sister

Chapter 1: The Arrangement Mama please don't do this to me. You need to get well. I have nowhere to get this huge amount of money from. I thought to myself as I took a few steps away from Mama Comfort’s bedside. She looked so small under the thin white sheet. The woman who once carried a crying baby home from a rich man’s gates now strugzgled to breathe. The doctor’s words still rang in my ears: She has to undergo surgery as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the greater the risk. Money has always been the problem. I'm just a young girl. How do I get the money? I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the corridor window. I imagined the night Mama Comfort found me—twenty-five years ago. A tiny bundle left near the service entrance of an Ikoyi estate. With a note written “I cannot keep her”. Mama Comfort, then a young domestic worker with almost nothing, had wrapped me in her own wrapper and walked home through the dark. That love had never been an obligation. It had simply been given. And now I could not repay it. I returned to her bedside. Her eyes fluttered open. “You’re still here,” she whispered. “Where else would I be?” I took her dry hand. “Rest.” “Don’t sell the catering pots. Promise me.” “I won’t. Justsleep.” But the pots would not pay for surgery. Neither would the small catering jobs she still managed on good days. The hospital bill sat like a stone in my bag. That night, in our one-room apartment on the city’s edge, I stared at the slow ceiling fan. Loans had failed. Relatives had excuses as always. Selling her only gold chain felt like betrayal. Every path ended in a closed door. ____________ The next morning a woman named Mrs. Okoro found me in the hospital waiting area. Neat Ankara suit. Expensive leather folder. She introduced herself as a marriage broker. “I'm aware that your mother needs urgent care,” she said. “There is a CEO. His grandfather’s will requires a legitimate heir within twelve months or the company passes to an uncle. He needs a wife on paper just for a year and you get generous compensation. Enough for the surgery and more.” My first instinct was to walk away. Marriage was not a transaction. Yet Mama Comfort’s gray face kept me seated. “What kind of man needs to buy a wife?” “A man with no time left for ordinary courtship. The marriage will be private. Separate rooms if you prefer. Your duty is to appear as his wife in public and attempt to provide an heir.” My stomach turned. “And if I can’t?” “Then the year ends, the money remains yours, and both parties walk away.” The number on the paper she slid across the table was large enough to silence my doubts. Surgery. Recovery. Time for Mama Comfort to grow strong. A chance to keep her small business alive. I thought of the night I had been found. Someone left me because love felt too heavy. Mama Comfort picked me up because love felt necessary. Now I sat in a plastic chair and signed my name on a document that turned my body into a clause. I did not read every line. The payment schedule was enough. It had to be. _________ Two days later I stood in a solicitor’s office in Victoria Island. Cold air-conditioning. Leather chairs. The smell of money that never worried about hospital bills. Kingsley Adeyemi entered without hurry. Tall. Dark suit. Face carved from something that did not bend. He studied me the way a man studies a contract he already intends to sign. “Miss Okeke. Mrs. Okoro has explained the terms.” “Yes.” “You understand this is temporary.” “I understand.” “You will live in the estate. Attend certain functions. Speak to no one outside the necessary parties.” His gaze did not soften. “In return, your mother’s medical needs will be met immediately.” I nodded. Words felt dangerous. If I spoke too much I might cry. We signed. The pen felt heavier than it should have. When it was done, he adjusted his cufflinks. “A driver will collect you this evening. Pack lightly.” He left without another glance. That night I sat beside Mama Comfort’s bed and lied with a steady voice. “I found work with a private family. Good pay. The surgery is scheduled for next week.” She searched my face. “What kind of work?” “The kind that keeps you alive.” Her eyes filled with gratitude so pure it almost broke me. The driver arrived at dusk in a black SUV that looked out of place on our narrow street. I kissed Mama Comfort’s forehead, promised to visit every day, and climbed in with a single small bag—two dresses, her gold chain, and the folded contract I still had not read carefully enough. The estate gates in Ikoyi opened like another world. Palm trees. Perfect lawns. Lights that never flickered. A staff member showed me to a suite larger than our entire apartment. The bed looks larger than I've seen. The bathroom with a tub I could almost swim in. I stood at the window and tried to feel grateful. The money was already moving. Mama Comfort would live. That was the only truth that mattered. Yet loneliness settled over me. I was a wife on paper to a man who looked at me like an item on a checklist. I had signed away a year to save the only person who had ever chosen me without condition. A soft knock. Kingsley stood in the hallway, still remote. “The staff will show you the house tomorrow. We have dinner with my uncle on Friday. He will expect to meet you.” “All right.” He lingered one second. Something flickered behind his eyes—then it was gone. “Good night, Mrs. Adeyemi.” The title landed like a stone. He turned and walked away. Alone, I unfolded the contract on the wide bed and read the fine print under a lamp that cost more than three months of our old rent. Halfway down the third page my breath caught. If the marriage dissolved before a legitimate heir was produced, I would forfeit the remaining payments and be bound by a strict non-compete and NDA. Mama Comfort’s small catering business—already dependent on contracts tied to the Adeyemi name—could lose every major client overnight. Quietly, legally, and completely. It just dawned on me that I had not married a stranger for money. I had married a trap.