Ola stared into her mirror, her hands careful as she painted a deep-plum lipstick over her full mouth.
Next to the deep glossy dark brown of her skin, her lips looked like a swollen flower, her face a hooded garden. Ola never chose bright colors like pink or coral even though she knew they’d stand out against her skin. That look was too garish for her; she preferred to be rich and matte and luxurious with her makeup, wines and nudes and occasional shimmering metal over her flawless skin. Taking a step back in the hotel bathroom, Ola tilted her face and studied her reflection, the way her eyes were black pools fringed in mink, the hint of cruelty in her bones. She’d never been interested in pretending to be something soft—she knew her beauty was stark and alarming, and she welcomed it. Her dark skin, the lush pillows of her lips, and even her flared nostrils all added up to a face people didn’t always know how to look at. But Ola looked, because she’d taught herself how to.
Some things on her face she’d had to surgically change—her jaw, her chin—because she’d felt they were too masculine, like she couldn’t find the woman she was in them, only what other people saw. But things that advertised her Blackness? Ola wasn’t interested in cutting them away. She never cared when some of the girls challenged her on this, saying if she really felt that way, she wouldn’t wear weave, she’d rock her natural hair.
“Don’t be stupid,” she’d say. “No one can look at this face and this skin and think I’m trying to be anything other than Black as fuck, Nigerian as fuck, African as fuck.” She knew they were all jealous. Girls like her weren’t supposed to look this way and still get to where she’d gotten to.
Ola smiled a petty smile at the mirror, her eyes glittering, and slipped her lipstick into her purse. She smoothed down the silk of her blouse, then ran both hands behind her neck, lifting and fluffing out the weight of black curls that dropped to her waist. It was good to be winning. She checked her teeth for lipstick and hoped that whoever Souraya’s guy was would keep her entertained for the afternoon. With any luck, he’d even be a new client for the girl. Ola always worried that Souraya didn’t work as much as she could, that she spent too much time in her flat doing God knows what. “But what do we work for?” Souraya would say in response. “Isn’t it so we can enjoy ourselves, do what we like? That’s what I’m doing now.”
Ola frowned at the thought. There was no security in slowing down like that, not unless you had savings upon savings, property, things that meant that when you stopped you would never have to go back. Investments. One day she was going to disappear, use her money to reinvent herself, then pop back up with a different job, meet a different kind of man who knew nothing about her past—an artist, maybe—and settle down. On her own terms. Not like her clients’ wives. Shit, her husband wouldn’t even know about her assets; he would never find them or touch them.
Souraya didn’t understand. Yes, she’d been through terrible things—hadn’t they all?—but she had other things working for her that she didn’t even see. The fact that she was cis, that she was mixed, light skinned with that loose hair. Ola scoffed to herself. The girl was literally the world’s favorite type of Black woman. She had no idea how much more dangerous it was to move through the world like this, through a girlhood like theirs while being dark skinned and trans. She had no idea what it took to feel safe after that. Ola was proud, truly proud, of how hard she’d worked to create the world she lived in now, one where she was comfortable and protected. Where she’d made enough money to have all the gender-confirming surgeries she needed, the best recovery suites, how she’d literally built herself from the torn pieces people thought they’d left her in. The thought of her future was what pushed Ola now, and she had so much momentum, she was nearly flying.
A select few of her clients knew she was trans, and they paid exorbitant prices for that knowledge, for the privilege of being with and near her. This client was one of them, one of her most lucrative ones, in fact. Ola had been seeing him for about a year and a half now. The man was famous throughout Nigeria, his face looming on signboards and TV screens all over the country, his followers crooning his nickname until nearly everyone had forgotten what his real name was. Thomas Okinosho. Or as a few million people called him, Daddy O, the Overseer of the Rekindled Glory Church of God, which had branches in 175 countries in the world. His net worth was a rumor, perhaps fifteen million dollars, perhaps fifty. Ola was fairly sure it was much more than that—you always had to account for the hidden money, the secret assets. He was married, of course, with five children and a wife heavily involved in his church. Ola never asked about his family life because she didn’t give a shit, and he didn’t offer information because he didn’t give a shit either. That wife wasn’t going anywhere no matter what he did, but after a Snapchat scandal with some Canadian sex workers earlier that year, Thomas had become more guarded than before.
“I don’t have time for the wahala,” he’d told Ola when it happened. “There is too much of God’s work to be done.”
They had been in London then. She bent over to run her hands down the latex thigh highs she was wearing. “Amen, Daddy,” she said, keeping her voice serious. He’d been talking as he unbuttoned his shirt, putting his diamond cuff links carefully down on the carved wooden dresser of the hotel they were staying in, his eyes fixed on her.
“This mantle is truly heavy,” he had sighed. “But I do what I have been ordained to do.”
“I know you do, Daddy,” she’d agreed, through the fall of hair obscuring her face.
“Hmph,” he had grunted. “That’s enough of work talk.” He’d arranged himself in a plush armchair. “Come here.” She’d grinned then and obeyed. She always obeyed. Daddy O didn’t like disobedience, and if his mantle was heavy, his hand was heavier. She’d received a deed to a property in South London the next day.
Ola smiled through her plum mouth at the memory. If she behaved like Souraya, she could have taken off work for months after each visit with Thomas. Maybe even for a year or two. Sell one of her places; it would be easy. But Ola was always worried that she didn’t have enough, that if things were bad she would run out. It felt like she was always being chased, but one day, she knew that one day she would stop running and live. Live even better than she was living now.
She threw a lock of her curly hair over her shoulder and pouted at her reflection. Daddy O wanted to have lunch out instead of in one of his houses, and she was dressed reasonably conservatively for it, going for a bit more of a business look. Not that it really mattered what she wore, anyone seeing him out with a beautiful girl would wonder about his motives. She was surprised he was risking it after the scandal just a few months ago. He seemed to have changed his plans suddenly, texting her that one of his drivers would be coming to pick her up. It was a curt text, so Ola didn’t ask any questions. When the car arrived, she threw a silk scarf around her shoulders and hurried down. She was driven to one of her favorite restaurants, an Italian place with lovely lighting.
Ola walked in, already arranging her face into her most welcoming smile for Okinosho, but she faltered when she saw there was already someone sitting at the table with him. A girl around her own age, with long highlighted hair and, even Ola had to admit, a gorgeously done nude lip. She was wearing glasses that had translucent pink frames, turning over a menu in her hands as she looked through it.
“You’ve brought me a surprise,” Ola remarked as she came up to the table, and the girl’s eyes darted up. The pastor levered the tall bulk of his frame out of his chair to welcome Ola, squeezing her arm with a little more pressure than was necessary.
“Ah, you’ve arrived, my dear,” he said, brushing his cheek against hers. There was a subtle warning in his voice. “This is my goddaughter, Ijendu.” He gestured to the girl and Ola extended her hand across the table.
“It’s a pleasure,” she lied. “I didn’t know you were joining us for lunch.”
Okinosho pulled her chair out for her and Ola sat down, leaving the faint quizzical smile on her face.
“That’s my fault,” he said. “Ijendu wanted to talk to me about some of her business ideas and I mentioned I had to run out to lunch with one of my mentees. Once she found out you work in fashion, well, I couldn’t keep her away.”
Ijendu smiled at Ola warmly. “You look every bit as glamorous as I thought you would. I’m so glad I get to meet you.”
Ola didn’t look at Okinosho in case he saw how irritated she was. “Glad to meet you too.”
A waiter came up and she ordered some sparkling water. She wasn’t sure if Okinosho would want her drinking in front of his goddaughter. Briefly, she wondered who the fuck would let him be godfather to their child, but then she reminded herself that the Thomas she knew was not the Daddy O everyone else did. Of course they would let him be a spiritual parent; he was the most powerful man of God on the continent. He probably had hundreds of godchildren all over the place. Shit, he probably had hundreds of children all over the place. You could do anything as the Daddy O, couldn’t you?
Ola felt his hand squeeze her thigh under the table. Behave, his hand said, but it wasn’t a rough squeeze, so she amended the translation. Behave, please. For me. Ola smiled and leaned her body slightly over the table to convey interest. It turned out that Ijendu was an aspiring designer who wanted to, as she put it, bring modern silhouettes to local fabrics. And by local fabrics, she meant ankara. Ola fought the urge to roll her eyes and dragged a vaguely interested smile on her face instead.
“That sounds lovely,” she lied. Okinosho smiled.
Ijendu asked Ola questions about the industry through the course of the lunch, and Ola gritted her teeth as she answered them, trying not to let her irritation show. It was hard to put on a face for someone who wasn’t a client, and while she could usually socialize with other people around her clients, she felt impatient this time. Maybe because all those other times, she was talking to people who had power and capital, not little girls who had dreams. Different worlds, and the latter was one she’d left a long time ago if she’d ever been in it at all. She resented Daddy O for putting her in this position—he’d have to make it up to her later. The thought of that, of what she could lever out of him, calmed her a bit, and she felt the coiled tension in her shoulders and neck loosen. He would pay for this. They always paid, and Ola always collected.
When lunch was over, the three of them entered Daddy O’s car, looking like they were two of his daughters. The driver dropped Ijendu off at Mbano Estate then, finally, Ola was alone with the pastor. She smiled up at him, and his hand crawled over her thigh as he leaned over and kissed her roughly, his lips full and pressured against hers, his tongue a swollen snake in her mouth. When he pulled away, Ola let her hand caress his cheek.
“I’m so glad to be alone with you,” she whispered, because drivers never counted. “It feels like it’s been forever.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been fantasizing about you for weeks; I missed you so much. Missed this body.”
Ola smiled before remembering he’d canceled on her the night before, then his anger earlier in the morning. “But you left me and went to that party last night,” she said. “What happened there? Who vexed you?”
His face darkened instantly, and she noted how his eyes flickered toward the driver. So, it’s something he’s actually embarrassed about, she thought. Interesting.
“One small boy like that decided he would try me. So now I have to show him pepper. You cannot touch the anointed of God and expect that nothing will happen to you.” Okinosho’s voice had tightened with anger. “But it’s all right. Things are moving against him. The justice of the righteous will fall on his head.”
Ola was already regretting asking him about it, his grudges always killed the mood for her. “Nobody can try you, Daddy.” She slid her hand over his chest. “I’m so happy I finally get to be next to you again.”
He looked at her and some of the rage in his face faded. “It’s good to see you, my daughter.” He squeezed her thigh hard enough for it to hurt. “Let’s go home.”
Daddy O had several houses on the island, many of them his own family didn’t know about. He took Ola to the one in the deep highland, her favorite, the one she had helped design from the blueprints to the interior decor. He had offered to gift it to her several times, but she’d refused. “I like to think of it as ours,” she told him. “A little love nest, you know? A nest you’ve built for me.” It was a line for his ego. Ola already had a house in Section One that was being rented out by a management company, and honestly, she just didn’t want another. There were other countries she was more interested in acquiring property in; this one was no longer high on the list.
In the bedroom, Okinosho dropped the calm face he wore outside, and she watched his mouth twist with desire as his thick fingers fumbled at the buttons of her blouse. She’d deliberately covered up for modesty since they were in public but also to tease him, keep him thinking about all the skin lying underneath, warm and pulsing. The silk under his large hands was butterfly yellow, like gold against her deep skin, diving into wide-leg patterned trousers that hugged her ass but drowned her legs. Ola knew how Daddy O loved her thighs, her calves, how not being able to even see the shape of them would arouse him as much as being able to see her ass did. She laughed low in her throat as he bit at her neck, still working on the buttons, clumsy with want and impatience.
“Are you hungry, Daddy?” she asked, her voice a drawl, and he growled, ripping her blouse open. Mother-of-pearl buttons exploded across the bedroom floor, muffled in the carpet. Ola remained passive, refusing to engage, her body pliant in his hands. “Why did you have to bring your goddaughter to lunch?” she complained. “And you didn’t even warn me beforehand. It’s not nice; I was looking forward to just being with you.”
Daddy O had one hand cupping her ass, his palm full of firm flesh, pulling her hips in against his erection. The other hand was groping at her left breast outlined in strips of lilac satin, a piece from the Balogun sisters’ line. His fingers found and twisted a nipple as he sucked on her collarbone and Ola gasped aloud.
“Can’t I do something nice for my own goddaughter?” he said, then he ran his tongue up her neck into her ear. “Don’t start acting like these small girls, always giving me trouble over nonsense things. I don’t like that kind of behavior. You understand?”
Ola pouted and turned her head away from him, the length of her neck taut and gleaming. She left her arms dangling by her sides, like a doll he was manhandling, like she was unmoved by the swollen evidence of his arousal, the ardor of his mouth. It infuriated him, and he reached for the waist of her trousers, ignoring the zipper and tearing them open. The expensive material gave way with a hiss, fraying at the newly raw edges. Daddy O shoved the ruined trousers down her hips and pulled the rest of the broken yellow silk off her arms. He grabbed her waist and tossed her onto the bed, face down, then levered her legs open with his knee as he shoved three fingers into her past the pale satin of her thong. His other hand held her down by the back of her neck and Ola cried out, her voice swallowed by the duvet her face was pressed into.
“I said, do you understand?” he spat out. She was a long dark spill against the white of the bed, her mouth smearing a plum trail.
He couldn’t see her face, but she smiled. “Yes, Daddy,” she said, breathless. The pastor twisted his fingers inside her for good measure, then pulled them out roughly. Ola heard his belt unbuckle and the rasp of his zipper, then he was pulling her up by the back of her neck as she scrambled to keep her balance.
“Turn around,” he ordered, not releasing her neck. She twisted her body as he pulled her close until she was sitting at the edge of the bed, her breasts spilling out of their satin cage, her chest heaving. Daddy O tugged at her neck and stepped back, dragging her off the bed. “Kneel down,” he said, his face hungry. “Open your mouth.”
Ola parted her lips and the pastor shoved himself past her teeth, down her throat, pulling the back of her head close as she gagged and swallowed him, her mouth flush with his body. His head fell back and he closed his eyes, sighing as if he had finally reached home.
“I’m going to shower,” Ola said, rolling off the bed naked, the pastor’s semen trailing down her cheek and neck.
He replied with a grunt, sprawled on his back and already dozing off, cleaned off by her mouth. She pushed her damp hair off her neck and grabbed her phone as she stepped into the bathroom, the tile cool under her feet. Large mirrors lined the walls and Ola stared at herself in them, the smudged mascara, her lips rubbed bare, a welt on her hip from where he’d hit her too hard with his belt. The pastor’s semen was mixed with her saliva and smeared over her hands. She rinsed them off, then turned on the shower before pulling out one of the drawers by the sink and rummaging around until she found a hair clip. She twisted her hair and clipped it up, then stepped into the shower and let the hot water pulse off her skin, rinsing away both the fluids and his touch.
She was in a strange mood, in a hurry to leave instead of cuddling with him and playing house some more like she usually did. Maybe it had been the lunch that threw her off; maybe she just wasn’t in the mood to play that character today, the tender one. She felt off her game. It had been easier to provoke him into roughness, which was a familiar buffer, something she could get off on. But today, she just didn’t want him pawing over her afterward, smiling at her. She wanted to be alone in her hotel room. Oh God, Ola thought, I’m hanging out too much with Souraya, she’s rubbing off on me. She washed her face and got out of the shower, drying herself off quickly so she could hunt through the walk-in closet for a change of clothes and head back out. Maybe she’d tell him she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe she’d just sneak out and he would wake up annoyed that she wasn’t there and fuck her this roughly again that night…that would be nice. His buttons were so easy sometimes, stretching into almost puppet strings.
Ola smiled at her reflection, stretching her lips wider and wider until they became a caricature, like when he’d hooked his fingers into the corners of her mouth as he thrust into it. She turned it into a snarl, a grimace, then exhaled and reached for the moisturizer that was always on the bathroom counter. Everything in that house was always left the way it was from whenever she’d last been there, like a customized hotel. It was one of the reasons she liked the pastor; he understood and supported her need for regular comfort. She was dabbing little dots of moisturizer on her face when her phone started vibrating. Ola looked down and saw it was Souraya calling. She frowned; it was unlike Sou to call when she knew Ola was with a client. She accepted the call and whispered into the phone, “Hold on one second, let me get my earbuds.”
Leaving the phone in the bathroom, she quickly stepped into the bedroom and grabbed her earbuds from the bedside table. Daddy O was snoring gently in the bed, but still, Ola closed the bathroom door firmly behind her before slipping the buds into her ears. She adjusted them as they beeped awake and stepped away from the door, sitting on the toilet.
“What’s up, Sou? Is everything okay?”
“Babes, sorry to call you while you’re at work, but I have a strange favor to ask.”
Ola listened with growing incredulity as her friend spoke; even more so when Souraya passed the phone to her lunch companion and he continued explaining what they needed. When they were done, she was silent for a minute. “Are you people serious?” she finally said. “Why the fuck should I get involved in all of this?”
“Ola, come on. The girl was a teenager.” Souraya’s voice lowered, as if she’d turned aside. “You remember how it was for us. Is trying to protect her something someone should go and die for?”
Ola flinched. She hated it when Souraya tried to flatten their lives into one thing. She had no idea what Ola had gone through; it wasn’t the same. They’d had this conversation before. “Really, Sou?”
A pause on the other end. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant the girl’s doing what she has to do to survive. We were like her once—who ever bothered to try and protect us?”
“First of all, fuck you.” Ola was still angry.
“I said sorry, na.”
“Second of all, that guy was an idiot to get involved, I don’t care how old she was. It’s common sense to mind your own fucking business.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t an idiot. We’re just saying maybe he shouldn’t die because of it.”
Ola rolled her eyes. “People die for less all the time, Sou.”
Her friend sighed. “I know.”
“You shouldn’t be getting involved either.”
An exhale. “Trust me, I know.”
Ola rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache creep in already. “Wait, am I on speakerphone?”
“No, of course not.”
“Okay. Are you doing this because of him? You don’t know him. You don’t owe him anything.”
A pause. “I know, Ola. We can talk about that one later. Just tell me if you’re going to help.”
Ola groaned. “You don’t know Daddy O, Souraya. It’s not that easy.”
“But you do. You know him better than most people. Just try, Ola.”
Fuck. She shouldn’t have brought Souraya with her. The girl couldn’t handle New Lagos; she was already trying to save people. Her and her useless soft heart. “Okay, fine. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you! I really—”
“I have to go.” Ola cut off the call and fought the urge to throw the phone across the bathroom.
What a bloody mess.
She took a deep breath and went back into the bedroom, climbing up next to Daddy O’s body. Kneeling back on her heels, she looked down at him and thought about when she’d been a teenager too, when she’d first met men like him. The things they had done. The things they had done to her. There was a time when she’d been angry about it, but then she’d become rich instead and the anger had set into something cold and untouched. She had made it, made it out, made her life into what she wanted it to look like. Being able to do that, that was power. That was freedom. Justice wasn’t something she looked for or believed in, and how useful would it be anyway? People didn’t understand that. They wanted revenge; they wanted people to be held accountable in a world where that just didn’t happen. It was like expecting a rotten tree to bear edible fruit. It was never going to give you that.
It could give you other things, though, if you knew how to work the rot, if you weren’t afraid to touch it or use it. The rot could give you power. Souraya only played with the edges of that world nowadays, she didn’t enter it anymore the way Ola did, she didn’t remember that the thing she was asking for was ridiculous.
Ola stared at Daddy O and shrugged to herself. She’d told Souraya she would help, and she would the way that she could. The way that was real, not the way Souraya thought was possible. At least the boy would be alive at the end of it. She reached down and cupped the pastor’s balls in her hand, rolling them gently around as she drew him into her mouth and started to apply suction. When he started to moan as he woke up, she pulled him deeper and used her other hand to stroke him as he began to get hard.
Daddy O opened his eyes and looked down at her, her back arched and ass in the air as she worked on him. “Ah, you this girl. You neva tire?”
Ola pulled her mouth off and smiled at him. “I was thinking about that small boy you told me about in the car. I think I have a better idea of how you can deal with him.” She put her lips to his ear and whispered, her voice secret and suggestive as her hand kept stroking him. She felt his erection turn to burning iron as he listened to her. “What do you think?” she asked. He turned his head to stare at her as if he was just seeing her for the first time. They looked at each other for a moment, then the pastor grabbed her and flipped her on her back, rising over her like a wave. Ola shrieked and giggled, then cried out with pleasure as he drove into her.
“I always knew you were wicked,” he gasped. “I had no idea you were that wicked.”
“Always happy to surprise you, Daddy,” she replied between pants. He laughed and bent his head to bite her nipple. Ola smiled to herself and reached a hand up to brace herself against the headboard. She was going to have to charge him later for going raw, but it didn’t seem like he’d care. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs around him. At least she’d done Souraya the favor she’d asked for. By the end of everything, the boy might still be alive.