Ola had just come out of the shower in her hotel room when Souraya called her.
“Hey, babe, where are you?” she asked, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. Static bled through the line, then a hiccup and a choked sob. Ola dropped the towel she was holding, her heart speeding up. “Souraya? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
She pulled on a wrap dress as she spoke, slipping her feet into pony-hair slides and tying the dress closed against her damp body, then grabbing her purse. “I’ll come and get you, just tell me where you are.”
“Downstairs,” Souraya said. Ola could barely hear her. “In Ahmed’s car.”
Ola took her hotel key and whirled out of the door. “What did he do to you? I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Not him…he didn’t do anything…bring water. It’s all over my hands.”
Ola frowned in the elevator as it dropped her to the lobby floor. She had no idea what her friend was talking about, but she took a liter bottle of water from the reception desk and walked outside. “I’m outside, love. Where are you?”
A black Benz was parked haphazardly in one of the spots in front of the hotel, and a dark-skinned man in a white tunic was waving at her. Ola walked over quickly, and he stepped forward to meet her.
“I’m Ahmed,” he said. “She’s in the back.” There was blood smeared on his clothes and his hands. Ola said nothing to him, bending instead to look inside the car. Her chest loosened the grip it’d had on her when she saw Souraya inside, her face streaked with tears, her hands covered in patchy blood. Ola put her phone away and reached her arms out.
“I’m here, habibti. I’m here.”
Souraya recoiled. “I don’t want to get it all over you.”
“That’s okay. Look, I brought the water. We can wash it off.”
Ahmed was hovering, concern clouding off him. Ola couldn’t look at him; she didn’t trust her temper. One day. It had been only one day back here, and this man had taken Souraya somewhere, and this had happened. She held Souraya’s hands gently over the edge of the car and helped her wash them clean. There were small bloodstains on her dress, but those were minor; they could get upstairs without drawing attention. Ola took Souraya’s wet hands in hers.
“Let’s go, habibti. We’ll wash up and get you out of these clothes upstairs.” Souraya let her guide her out of the car, and Ola put an arm around her. Some other guy was in the driver’s seat, exchanging looks with Ahmed, but Ola didn’t give a fuck about either of them.
“I have to go,” Ahmed said. “Sou. I’ll call you later, darling.”
Ola glared at him. “You’ve done enough. Leave her alone.”
He looked taken aback. “I—”
Ola bared her teeth, hissing at him, and Ahmed stepped back in the face of her anger. The man in the car leaned out of the window. “She’s going to be fine, Ahmed. Come on.”
“Listen to your friend,” Ola snapped, throwing the words over her shoulder as she led Souraya away. “Don’t you people have a date with the pastor to keep?”
She didn’t look back to see how Ahmed reacted, but she heard the car drive away as she and Souraya walked into the hotel lobby. Ola took them straight to the elevators, then into Souraya’s room. Once the door closed behind them, everything felt a little better. Souraya seemed to come alive a little, if only to rip the dress off her body and run the shower. Ola followed her into the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid as her friend finished undressing and started to wash whatever had happened off her. She didn’t seem hurt—the blood must not have been hers. Ola looked down at the items strewn on the floor—the silk of the dress, gold armbands, lace underwear, the thigh harness. No. Wait. She did a double take. The empty thigh harness.
“Sou…where’s your knife?”
Souraya laughed, but it was hollow. “Hopefully in some motherfucker’s kidney,” she said. It was as if the water was making her harder, scabbing up the soft pile of hurt she’d been in the car.
“Who was it?”
Her friend paused in the shower, soapy water running off her flanks. “Did you know I lived in New Lagos when I was a kid?”
“Yeah, you told me. After you left the East, before you left the country.”
“Right. I was eleven, twelve. It was a man who…who knew me then. He did things to me for a long, long time before I got away.”
“Ah.”
Ola sighed and nodded. She knew that story intimately, that anger. Once, Okinosho had helped hunt one of those men as a gift for her. They’d found him and taken him to a riverbank near Calabar where he’d retired. Okinosho had given Ola a gun, and she’d wept as she pressed the barrel to the man’s forehead, his little panicked animal grunts coming through the gag, but she hadn’t been able to do it, squeeze the trigger. It was one of Okinosho’s bodyguards who had taken it from her and blown a hole through the back of the man’s skull just when his eyes were filling with hope that he might live. Ola had found that this part she could handle. That part she could watch, the warm spray against her clothes and skin, Okinosho’s maniacal laughter. Their sex that night had been incredible.
“I’m sorry, Sou,” she said. “We’ll be going home soon. It’s just one more day.”
Souraya shook her head, looking hunted. “I’m flying back in the morning as soon as I can get a flight.”
“Babe, I don’t know if you should be traveling alone like this.”
“I can’t be here anymore.”
Ola pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to kill that Ahmed guy.”
“It’s not his fault.” Souraya turned off the water and reached for a towel. Her face was still now, smooth, detached. “I should never have listened to you.”
Ola was confused. “To me?”
“You’re the one who convinced me to come home.” Souraya dried herself off quickly and pulled on a robe. Her voice sounded wooden. “I said I didn’t want to. I said this place is rotten and I had no business entering my leg into it again.”
“Oh, Sou.”
Ola wasn’t even angry at her. Poor thing. She’d had to stab a nightmare from her childhood, perhaps even kill him. If someone dragged Ola back to memories she’d worked a lifetime to forget, she would be unspooling too, probably even worse than her friend.
“This isn’t my fault, and it isn’t yours either,” she said. “You were never supposed to get caught up in all this shit with Ahmed and Okinosho.”
Souraya didn’t seem to be listening to her.
“I should never have come back here,” she was saying. “I need to pack.”
She walked out of the bathroom and Ola stared after her, unsure of how to help. She could feel that Souraya was a beat away from turning on her and blaming her for everything. It was an expected reaction—sometimes it was hard to sit with the consequences of your choices.
Her purse vibrated, and Ola reached in for her phone. Okinosho was texting her, furious. Ahmed was late and the pastor was pissed that Ola wasn’t there either.
“Fuck,” she said softly. He was a terror when he was angry, and he might change his mind at any point about the agreement they’d made, the one Ola had set up because Souraya asked her to, for Ahmed and his stupid friend. Ola had no problem with that agreement collapsing. Ahmed’s friend could die for all she cared, but Thomas was a client best kept happy. His pleasure was worth a lot of money.
She stepped into the bedroom where Souraya was pulling on sweats, airplane clothes.
“What are you doing?”
Souraya shrugged. “Might just go to the airport early and see if I can find a flight.”
Ola nodded and glanced down at her phone. He was still texting angrily. “Okinosho wants me to come over. That thing to help your friend. But I can stay here, I don’t mind.”
Souraya flapped a hand, not looking up. “No, go. Save him. Your guy will still kill him if you don’t help.”
Ola didn’t want to leave her, but it wouldn’t take long. She could come right back. “Okay, but I’ll make it quick, I promise.” Souraya said nothing, just pulled out her suitcase and unzipped it. Ola walked over and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing Souraya to look at her.
“You can be as mad at me or at everyone as you want. But I love you. Do not fucking leave for the airport before I come back or I will literally kill you. Got it?”
Souraya nodded sheepishly, her stance softening. Ola hugged her tightly.
“That motherfucker deserved it,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll be home soon. I’ll help you find a flight back.”
Souraya sniffled. “Okay,” she said, and hugged Ola back.
When Ola reached the pastor’s house, Okinosho had been in his office, seething loudly. He tried to get aggressive with her, but Ola had slapped him across the face, then shoved him into his chair, pulling up her dress. She rode him until he came, her nails cutting into his throat, then he calmed down. Ahmed had arrived shortly after. The pastor had him enter alone, and though Ahmed’s eyes had flickered to Ola standing behind Okinosho’s chair, he gave no sign that he recognized or knew her. Smart guy.
“Where’s the girl?” Thomas asked, his tone harsh. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.
“She’s outside, sir,” Ahmed replied, and Ola felt Okinosho’s shoulders relax under her hand.
“And your disrespectful friend?”
“He’s also outside.”
Okinosho leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. “Good, good.” He smirked at Ahmed, and Ola admired how unmoving Ahmed kept his face. “You know I wanted to kill your friend, yes?”
“Yes,” Ahmed replied, deadpan. “I heard.”
“It was God’s will. You cannot violate the earthly vessel of God’s anointed with such impudence and expect that there will be no repercussions. Our God is a jealous God.”
Ahmed wisely kept his mouth shut. Ola hid a smile.
“I asked you here, to bring both your friend and the girl here, so that divine justice may be meted out. It would have been righteous to execute the boy, but the Holy Spirit spoke to me through none other than Ola here.” Thomas reached up and caressed her hand, and Ola bent down to kiss his cheek. “The message was one of grace, Alhaji, one of mercy. The kind of mercy God showed Abraham on the mountain. Where a blood sacrifice was required, a proxy was accepted. And so, your friend’s life will be spared.”
Ahmed bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.”
Okinosho raised a hand. “You have not heard what the proxy is, the extent of the grace I am proffering in my generosity, my God-given magnanimity.”
“Of course. Please, continue.”
“You see, your friend thinks he is…superior. Better than the rest of us when, really, he is nothing; he is dust as we are all dust. He needs to be reminded that we are, in God’s eyes, all the same. Some of us might be anointed by the calling, but we will all return to dust. We are all flesh. Only God is God. Only God can judge.” He stood up from his desk and smoothed out his agbada. “So. In exchange for your friend’s life, he will do something else for me. For himself. To remind himself of who and what he is, what we all are. Weak subjects of the Most High.”
Ola could see apprehension creeping into Ahmed’s face. There was no need for it—not a drop of Kalu’s blood would be shed. She was proud of herself for coming up with this alternative, something that would fulfill Okinosho’s need for vengeance and keep everyone in this shitstorm alive. She’d even gotten Thomas to pay the girl so exorbitantly that the child would be able to retire after this job. Luckily, Okinosho was cruel enough to not care about how much money he threw away as long as Kalu suffered.
Suffering, Ola had learned, was quite often better than death. It left you space for a life afterward, a life you could bend into whatever you wanted. It left you a chance.
Okinosho leaned forward, planting his palms on his desk, his eyes boring into Ahmed’s. “Your friend is going to fuck that girl in front of me, Alhaji. He’s going to fuck her until he comes, and I want to see it, you understand? As proof, so to speak.”
The blood had drained from Ahmed’s face, but he remained silent. Okinosho cocked his head to the side, examining Ahmed’s expression.
“I am being fair, Alhaji. Surely you can’t have a problem with this. I am paying the girl far more than what you paid her for your party. You knew what she’d be doing there; I’m sure you don’t mind your friend doing it as well.” His voice tightened into a sliver of steel. “Be glad I am not requiring you to participate as well. It was under your roof that this unfortunate incident took place.”
“I do not doubt your justice for a moment, sir.”
Ola admired the skill with which Ahmed was lying to Okinosho’s face. He was polite, courteous, hiding the horror he was feeling deep under layers of smooth facial muscles. She knew the pastor would appreciate it too.
“Good,” Okinosho said, straightening up. “Good. You will be the one telling your friend what his punishment is. Ola will tell the girl. I will meet you both in the yellow parlor. Ola, you know the way.” He gathered the folds of his agbada at his shoulders and swept out of the room, leaving Ola alone with Ahmed.
Ahmed’s face distorted into rage. “This was your idea?” he spat out. “Are you mad? Why couldn’t you leave the girl out of it?”
Ola stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “I did you a favor, you idiot. Do you know the kind of punishments Okinosho gives, the kind of shit he’s capable of? What did you think he would accept as a substitute for your friend’s life? Don’t be so fucking naïve.”
“But this? This?” His mouth twisted. “You’re sick.”
Ola laughed. “You’re the one who put her in a room full of old perverts like Okinosho. Don’t lecture me about who’s sick. You should be fucking thanking me. I didn’t need to do this, and I only did it for Souraya, who you exposed to all this rubbish.” She eyed him up and down with contempt. “I should have let your friend die, you ungrateful piece of shit.”
Ahmed’s mouth opened and closed as Ola pushed past him out into the grand corridors of Okinosho’s house, uniformed staff standing discreetly at intervals. Ola snapped her fingers at one of them. “Where’s the small girl they brought?” she asked.
“This way, madam.” They led her into a dressing room where the girl was seated at a vanity, a woman applying kohl to her eyes. She did look young. The kohl wouldn’t make her look any older, neither would the red lipstick they’d put on her. Ola knew from experience that this wasn’t the point—in fact, it would only emphasize how young she looked.
“Can you people step outside for a few minutes? I need to talk to the girl.” The servants melted away and Ola looked at the girl, whose head was bent, her hands folded loosely in her lap. “What’s your name?”
“Machi.” Her voice was clear and ringing, not wilting like Ola had expected. The demure thing was probably a mask, then; she was pretending to be good—quiet and well-behaved. What she thought they probably wanted her to be. She wasn’t wrong. Okinosho liked them like that, the younger they were.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Ola said, and Machi raised her eyes to her. They were flickering between emotions almost faster than Ola could catch—admiration, a sullen defiance, nervousness. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Machi shrugged. “A job,” she said, and Ola had to bite back a smile. She sounded like a much younger Ola but with more manners and less sarcasm. Ola sat down next to her and told her what the job was, about Kalu, who he was, why Okinosho was paying so much for Machi to be there tonight, what he wanted from her and from Kalu. Machi gasped when Ola told her how much she was going to get paid.
“It’s a lie,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “It’s a lie.”
“It’s not,” Ola replied. “That’s how much you’re getting.” She watched as the girl threw her head back, trying to stop the tears from ruining her mascara. Ola wasn’t the type of person to feel pity for anyone, but she did want this child to know that she had options. That you could have a chance after suffering. “You can do whatever you want with it. Get a passport. Leave this place. Go to another city. Go back to your family if you have one. Whatever you want.”
“Why?” Machi asked. “Why is he giving me that much?”
Ola looked at her. “I told him to.”
Machi’s eyes widened and she dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around Ola’s legs. “Thank you, ma! Thank you so much!”
“Oh, stand up, stand up!” Ola pulled her up and forced her back into her chair. “It’s not that serious. You still have to do the job.”
Much to her amusement, Machi pulled a dismissive face.
“I saw the man when he came in.” She shrugged again. “It’s nothing. The party was harder, that was many of them. This is only one and he doesn’t even want to do anything.”
She sounded like such a professional, it was—as much as Ola fought not to admit it—a fucking shame to hear how flippant she was about it. But Ola had been like that too. They had all been like that. You couldn’t save people; this world was brutal. You did what you could where you could. At least Kalu would be alive and this child would be free afterward. Ahmed could call her sick if he liked, but he had changed nothing in anyone’s lives for the better while Ola had saved two people in one day. It was enough even if no one else thought so. She stood up and looked down at Machi. “Let’s go then.”
Machi hesitated. “They were still doing my eyes.”
“Let me see.” Ola bent down and examined Machi’s makeup. “Oh, that’s nothing. Here.” She took the kohl and finished the swoop in the corner of Machi’s left eye. “There you go,” she murmured. “Perfect.” She straightened up and Machi gazed adoringly at her. It made Ola uncomfortable. “Let’s go before he gets angry again.”