FreeFreeDescription
Chapter 15
Indeed, the Yoruba women didn't understand a word she said, as they didn't speak Hausa. Immediately, they swarmed her and beat her ruthlessly. They left Amana bruised and battered until a few bystanders finally took pity on her and pulled her to safety. But true to her stubborn, unyielding nature, Amana didn't shed a single tear. She checked her bag, pulled out her cheap, small button phone, and called her father's friend to tell him where she was and that she had been beaten, asking him to come pick her up.
He instantly threw a tantrum on the line, snapping that he would absolutely not come. "If you won't take a taxi, you can rot there for all I care! This is Lagos!" He slammed the phone down, ending the call. With no choice left, she painfully dragged herself up and climbed into a taxi, giving the driver the name of the neighborhood the old man had mentioned.
The taxi driver drove her all the way to Mile 12, but they couldn't locate the exact street until she called him again. He finally specified, "Aisha 12th Street." Once they arrived, she paid the driver his fare and managed to haul her bag out with great difficulty.
Right outside a small shop, she spotted the old man—her father's friend. He walked her over to the building where he lived, but it was immediately obvious that the place was a brothel. Rooms lined the compound, filled with both Muslim and non-Muslim women.
Standing in the courtyard, the old man sneered, "Listen, young lady, nothing is free in Lagos. Bring out the money for your room."
Amana scoffed, adjusting her shoulders with her signature arrogant posture. Slapping both hands into her pockets, she fired back, "Look here, old man, it’s clear you don't know who I am. I don't look for discounts, handouts, or favors from anyone. And I despise being pitied. I run my life with my own money. You better tread lightly around me, understand? I’ve been around the block; I can play dirty better than you." The old man was completely taken aback. Even among the prostitutes he hosted, he had never encountered a girl quite like Amana.
"Look, you useless old man, just tell me the price of the room," she demanded.
"One hundred thousand Naira a year," he replied, letting out a malicious chuckle, fully convinced she didn't have that kind of money.
Right before his eyes, she leaned to the side and pulled out a crisp, brand-new bundle of 1,000 Naira notes. She shoved it into his hand and said, "Oya, take it. My money, my rules. I’ve paid for a full year. Don't you dare come around bothering me, or I will literally snap your bones in this house."
He handed over her room key. The room came with its own attached bathroom. Completely ignoring the painful injuries the Yoruba women had inflicted on her, she took a bath in her private bathroom. She changed into an atamfa top paired with wide, blue denim jeans and stepped back out to the old man.
"Old man, get up right now and take me to the market," she commanded. Seeing how imposing, direct, and completely fearless Amana was, he was thoroughly intimidated and led the way to the market.
She bought a floor mat, a kerosene stove (risho), and various cooking utensils. The old man asked, "Hey, aren't you going to buy a mattress, young lady?"
"Old man, get this straight: I came here to make money, not to live in luxury," Amana retorted. The old man could only stare at her, licking his lips. He thought to himself, I absolutely must have a taste of this fiery young thing.
Amana bought two cooking pots, purchasing pairs or single items for everything until she was fully done, and they returned home. She decided not to cook that day. At the market, she had spotted a woman selling fried yam and stew; she ate there, bought some for the old man, and washed it down with a glass bottled soda.
Spotting a tea and egg vendor (Mai Shayi), she requested, "Make it thick for me." Forgetting the proper English phrasing, she gestured with both hands, repeating, "Thick, thick!" She ordered two cups, including one for the old man. Once they were full, she spotted a Hausa man selling grilled chicken (Kazan Gashi). She bought two large chickens, took hers, and handed the other to the old man before they took a taxi back home. The old man was completely bewildered but secretly thrilled, thinking he had hit the jackpot with a wealthy girl and intending to stick close to her as a "friend."
She arranged her room neatly and then began exploring the compound before stepping outside. She spent about an hour outdoors, and before anyone knew it, she was already getting acquainted with the local guys on the street. Since the generous stranger had given her a large sum of money, she used some of it to buy food and sodas for people. Every hangout spot or shop she visited, she distributed sodas and mingled. She kept this routine up for her first two weeks in Lagos, becoming highly popular—but strictly among the men, as she completely ignored the women.
By now, if you asked for "Amana" on that street, everyone knew her. She was incredibly nosy and inquisitive; whatever she saw, she insisted on learning until she mastered it. However, she still hadn't secured a proper job, and the money the handsome stranger had given her was rapidly running out. The situation began to worry her, especially since the old man was dragging his feet on finding her employment.
In Lagos, Amana witnessed all kinds of lifestyles. The rampant, goat-like promiscuity disgusted her. Nearly every man she met tried to make a move on her. Even the old man who hosted her began harassing her, sneaking to her room at night, demanding sex. But she flatly refused; it wasn't her style, and she feared Allah.
Since arriving in Lagos, Amana had become significantly more sophisticated and refined. Her skin had lightened, becoming incredibly smooth and glowing. She discarded the ragged clothes she had brought from Kano and bought about ten new outfits—though notably, not a single skirt or long dress. Her entire new wardrobe consisted of pencil jeans and baggy three-quarter trousers that made her look like an American hip-hop artist. Reminiscent of Lil Wayne or Wizkid, she rocked oversized trousers and T-shirts that reached down to her knees, claiming it was "modest dress" to keep male predators at bay. She also bought three high-quality baseball caps, some new underwear, and a large supply of sanitary pads. Amana even began picking up Yoruba, and her broken English and grammar were rapidly improving. Yet, as her funds threatened to dry up completely, anxiety began to set in.
Chapter 20
Panting heavily and whispering prayers, Amana returned to the compound. In the courtyard, she saw Dan Uzuri (the old man's real nickname) locked in a heated shouting match with the resident prostitutes. The moment he saw Amana, his eyes locked onto her, and he licked his lips. Lagos life had transformed her; her skin was significantly fairer, she had filled out beautifully, and she possessed highly striking hips and breasts. Today, he swore an oath to himself that he would forcefully taste her "honey"; his patience had completely run out. Furthermore, Dan Uzuri assumed Amana was loose and just another prostitute, judging by her heavy interaction with men, her activities, and her masculine hip-hop style of dress. To any outsider, Amana looked like a thoroughly worldly, street-smart girl.
However, his assumptions were entirely wrong. No man had ever so much as held Amana's hand with improper intentions, nor did she have a boyfriend. Deep down, she secretly wished for a man who would love her and marry her exactly as she was, but believing that no one could ever love a tomboy like her, she had written off marriage entirely. She wished she could change and become elegant and refined like other high-class women, but she just couldn't.
That night around 2:00 AM, while she was fast asleep on her thin floor mat, she suddenly felt a hand gently stroking her. Being a light sleeper, she jolted awake instantly. She flashed her torchlight and saw a figure pressing against her body—it was Dan Uzuri. Despite being old enough to be her father, he showed absolutely no shame.
Springing up, she barked, "You worthless old man, get the hell out of my room! Your disgusting lust won't get you anywhere near me, you idiot!"
Dan Uzuri sat there, desperately begging and pleading for her to comply. "Get up and get out before I break your limbs!" she warned.
"Oh, come on, my lovely Amana," he whined. "I'm your father's friend, can't you at least favor me for that? Besides, I know you’re experienced. From the look of things, you’re definitely part of this lifestyle."
Infuriated, Amana grabbed the old man, slammed him hard against the floor, seized his legs, and twisted them back until they were on the verge of snapping. She then hauled him up and threw him out of the room. Dan Uzuri let out a piercing shriek, bursting into painful tears.
With a loud slam, she locked her door and muttered, "Disgusting drug addict. He doesn't even have an ounce of strength left; the substances have completely drained his vitality, worthless wretch. He’d probably just pass an infection to someone. He and Baba are exactly the same. May Allah reform them both."
She lay back down, tears streaming down her face as bitterness washed over her. She wept as she remembered her family, her mother, and the toxic reality of her home in Kano, where everyone had scattered down completely degenerate paths. She had absolutely no desire to ever return home. Finding it impossible to fall back asleep, she stood up, performed ablution, and began observing voluntary night prayers (Nafeela). She resolved that tomorrow she would go out to hunt for a new job, as her massive fallout with the tea vendor meant she could no longer work there.
The next morning, she had some tea and bought bean cakes (kosai) for breakfast. She bathed and dressed in a crisp, thin, plain white T-shirt that hugged her frame well but was long enough to reach her knees, featuring a graphic of a woman with pink hair on the front. She paired it with black-and-white ripped "crazy jeans" that were wide and baggy in the style of Wizkid, covered in utility pockets. She put on a white baseball cap, tucking her shoulder-length hair into it, though some strands inevitably spilled out. Finishing the look with flat black lace-up sandals, she looked incredibly sharp. She skipped earrings as usual, applying just a touch of powder, pink lipstick, and a sweet-smelling body spray that left her glowing. Yet, true to form, she walked with her aggressive bounce, hunching her shoulders with both hands buried deep in her pockets.
The moment she stepped into the courtyard, she locked eyes with Dan Uzuri, who stared at her with a pathetic, pleading expression. "Please, baby, have some pity on me," he whined. She flashed him a look of utter disgust. The other prostitutes in the compound watched her, sneering and curling their lips.
As Amana began to walk away, they burst into loud, mocking laughter. Already harboring intense irritation toward them, she turned back in a fury. Spotting a bucket of water near the communal tap, she hoisted it up effortlessly and dumped the entire contents over them. She then violently kicked their plastic basin, shattering it completely. "Ugly prostitutes with your big mouths!" she snapped in English before storming out. The non-Hausa prostitutes stood there thoroughly traumatized and completely silenced by the fierce Hausa girl.
Wherever Amana walked in Lagos, people greeted her with respect. Because of her immense pride, she never let her financial struggles show or degraded herself; she would rather go to sleep on an empty stomach than beg anyone for money. She completely avoided immoral hustles, which allowed her to afford high-quality clothes. Back in her village, she wouldn't have cared about her appearance since everyone knew her background and her poverty, but here in Lagos, her hard work paid off, and she ensured she maintained her dignity and commanded respect. People constantly assumed she came from a wealthy background.
She headed directly toward a high-end, luxury outdoor grill spot (Wajen Suya) frequented exclusively by wealthy individuals and elite youths. Rich guys—both Christians and Muslims—sat around on the lounge chairs, some dining in and others waiting for take-away orders. One look at the establishment confirmed it was strictly for the upper class. Amana strolled in with her signature swagger, one hand in her pocket and the other scrolling through her tiny touchscreen phone.
She chewed her gum subtly, her mouth moving so faintly that one had to look closely to notice. Even though the place was filled with exceptionally wealthy elites who generally minded their own business, the moment Amana walked in, no one wanted to miss looking at her. Her arrogant, dignified stride made her look like the daughter of a president. Her style—the cap pulled low over her eyes, the knee-length shirt, and the baggy, ripped Wizkid-style jeans—was a gait usually reserved for top-tier street bosses. Strikingly beautiful, fair-skinned, and perfectly shaped, she fascinated some while amusing others. Almost everyone, both men and women, chuckled at her unique display, but Amana remained completely unfazed.
She called for the manager, and a massive Igbo man named Steven stepped out. He knew Amana well because she had previously saved him when an assailant tried to stab him with a knife. He approached her with a warm, bright smile and extended his hand for a firm, enthusiastic high-five.
"Hausa girl! How far now?" he boomed.
She hissed playfully, adjusting the waistband of her jeans. "I dey okay, bro Steven. How you na?"
"I'm fine," he replied. A Yoruba man, who was a friend of the manager and also knew Amana, walked up and gave her a high-five too. "Up my girl! You're shining, babe!"
Amana flashed a stunning smile that left onlookers dazed. "That's my man," she said. Turning back to the manager, she got straight to the point. "Man, I need a job here. Life no easy, my man. You know everything, Sir. You know how things work."
The manager smiled. "Never mind, my friend. You don't have a problem with that." He immediately hired Amana as a food server.
She was to be paid 10,000 Naira a month, which filled her with immense joy and gratitude. She began her shifts that very day. Since the staff didn't wear uniforms, she fit right in. In no time, the customers grew incredibly fond of her—though again, strictly the men, as she only maintained brief, passing "hi-hi" relationships with female customers. Now, anyone who came to the grill spot left entertained by Amana's vibrant, amusing personality. Her presence drastically boosted business, drawing a massive wave of new customers.
Three weeks into her job, Amana was working her usual evening shift (5:00 PM – 10:00 PM). She was dressed in a pristine, knee-length white top featuring large golden block letters. Over the sleeveless, tank-top style shirt, she wore a cropped, open-front golden top that stopped at her chest. She paired this with blue jeans, slim golden canvas-style shoes, and a matching golden baseball cap. Around her neck, she wore a triple-layered silver-and-gold thread chain that cascaded down to her mid-torso, looking incredibly beautiful against her skin. She wore her usual light powder and pink lipstick.
Suddenly, the manager ran up to her, visibly trembling with excitement. "Hurry up! Assemble a large take-away order and deliver it to Master's car!"
"Which Master?" Amana asked.
In English, the manager explained, "You wouldn't understand. He is the wealthiest client who visits this place. In fact, you'd have to search all of Lagos to find anyone richer than his family; they’re constantly on the news. He just returned from America yesterday."
The Master never stepped inside; he always stayed in his car. Just then, another female employee rushed in panting. "Manager, look! Sir is outside! He arrived with a convoy of about twelve exotic cars, some models you've never even seen before!" Amana simply curled her lip, watching how hysterical they were acting over a rich man. Before she knew it, the grill chefs had packed an enormous, multi-colored assortment of premium grilled meats. Amana took the packages and walked out with an air of absolute confidence and authority, bouncing as she approached the fleet of vehicles. Even she was secretly stunned by the magnificent sight of the luxury convoy.
She headed toward the grandest car in the lineup, but before she could reach it, security guards stepped in to intercept and take the packages from her.
Further up the driveway, Amana noticed a heated shouting match between some women and men. She marched over, unleashing a torrent of fluent English insults and completely taking over the fight, thoroughly shutting down the aggressors. As she turned around to head back inside the restaurant, the Master's convoy began to slowly roll out onto the main road.
She glanced toward the main vehicle, and her eyes locked instantly with the handsome stranger—the very man she had saved from armed robbers weeks prior. Amana rarely felt intimidated by anyone, but this incredibly attractive man possessed a powerful, commanding aura that deeply rattled her.
He recognized her instantly, but he quickly averted his gaze, acting as though he had never seen her before. Keeping her pride intact, Amana did the exact same, refusing to look desperate.
Lagos life continued to elevate Amana. Manager Steven frequently took her out in his car to high-end recreational spots and exclusive luxury clubs. Steven was quite wealthy himself and loved a lavish lifestyle. Since Amana had become his best friend, she enjoyed the perks; he spent heavily on her, buying her the expensive streetwear she loved, treating her to fine dining, and taking her to luxury salons.
Looking at Amana now, one would easily mistake her for a professional rap artist visiting from abroad. She drove Steven’s cars with expert ease, having mastered both automatic and manual transmissions back in her village from her driver friends at the local motor park. Her diverse skill set extended to riding motorcycles, bicycles, and swimming excellently, which frequently took her to Lagos beaches. Her naturally inquisitive and adventurous nature had allowed her to pick up countless practical life skills back home.
On this particular day, the manager asked her to go home and get ready so they could hit the gym. True to her style, she dressed in a light blue, knee-length long-sleeve top and dark brown pencil jeans, paired with matching brown shoes and a long, delicate silver belly-chain. She wrapped a dark brown shawl around her head in a stylish, masculine turban-wrap (Acuci Maza). Radiating an incredible fragrance and a stunning glow, she arrived back at the workplace to meet the manager. She looked exceptionally beautiful, drawing stares from everyone. Even the manager stood frozen, staring at her in awe.
"Wow, you look so cute," he murmured.
She flashed a gorgeous smile, her dimples deepening beautifully. "Thanks," she replied as her coworkers showered her with compliments. As she and Steven walked out to leave, a convoy of five luxury cars pulled up. The manager began to tremble with excitement, instantly abandoning Amana to rush toward the vehicles.
The tinted glass window rolled down with a smooth swoosh. A hand gestured out the window, giving a silent command that the manager understood instantly. He rushed back to Amana, grabbing her hand. "Master explicitly requested that you personally deliver his grilled meat to him."
"Hmm, and I have to go alone?" she asked.
"Yes, that's what he indicated. He has never even waved at me before; his guards usually do the talking. Today, he spoke to me directly using hand gestures, and I understood."
Amana remained silent. She took the Master’s packed order and walked over to the car where the window was rolled down. Through the window, she handed the grilled meat to the handsome elite. He studied her intently, secretly amused by this fierce, tomboyish girl. A sudden thought crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Amana stared back, waiting to see if he would speak, but he remained silent, simply raising one eyebrow as if to ask, "Is there a problem?" Flustered and slightly intimidated, she quickly stepped back from the car. The manager tossed her his car keys, shouting, "Let's go!" She caught the keys expertly and slid into the driver's seat while the manager hopped into the passenger side. Amana took the wheel, driving out with absolute expertise and flair.
She hit the gas and flawlessly overtook the Master’s luxury convoy, leaving them in the dust with a powerful vroom.
A week later, they visited an exclusive sports complex where the ultra-wealthy gathered for recreation—some playing football, others table tennis, handball, volleyball, or cycling. The elite facility mirrored a high-end country club in England. Driven by his love for luxury, Steven had brought Amana along.
Since Amana was quite skilled at both football and table tennis, she looked around for a game. She spotted an incredibly beautiful, fair-skinned little boy, roughly three years old, playing with a football all by himself in a corner. Since Steven was across the court starting a handball match with some associates, Amana walked over to the lonely child.
"Let's play," she said warmly. They began kicking the ball back and forth, laughing and enjoying themselves immensely. Amana treated him with the warmth of a mother, and the little boy was thrilled by her impressive football skills. Unbeknownst to them, the handsome Master was standing nearby, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, watching them with a soft smile.
Amana effortlessly kept winning the ball from the toddler. Frustrated, the spoiled little boy threw a tantrum, snatched his ball, and hurled it violently at Amana. He then grabbed his juice box, splashed it all over her clothes, and began hitting her.
Amana instantly realized the child was completely undisciplined and lacked basic home training. The boy began hurling insults at her, screaming, "You worthless, broke peasant!"
Amana’s temper flared instantly. Stripped of all patience and maternal gentleness, she executed a swift, controlled sweep with her foot, knocking the boy off his feet. He hit the ground with a loud thud, busting his lip open as blood began to flow. She marched over, hauled him up, and slapped his cheeks twice. His face swelled instantly. Lifting him up with one hand as he wailed, she glared into his eyes. "You disrespectful little brat, how dare you insult an elder? Do you have no home training? If I ever catch you insulting anyone again, I will break your bones and tear you apart!"
The little boy began to shake violently with primal terror, his face swollen and his mouth bloody. "I'm sorry, Aunty! I won't do it again, I promise!" he sobbed.
Cooling down, she lowered him to the ground, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and gently wiped the blood and dirt from his face and mouth. She gave him some bottled water to drink, washed his face, and brushed off his stained athletic clothes. She turned her back to him and said, "I'm sorry, my boy. But you are far too stubborn, and you forced my hand."
"I'm sorry, Aunty," the boy sniffled, wrapping his little arms tightly around her neck from behind, playfully touching her silver chain. Amana walked over to pay for a bicycle rental, telling him, "Hold onto me tight, little one, we're going for a ride."
The boy burst into joyful laughter, clinging to her back as she pedaled smoothly across the park, the wind blowing against their faces. Once they were done, she rented a Lifan motorcycle, keeping the ecstatic toddler securely behind her as she rode. Eventually, exhausted from the excitement, the little boy fell fast asleep against her back.
She walked back to her bag, pulled out a small, long towel, and securely wrapped and tied the sleeping boy to her back like a traditional African mother. She strolled through the shaded trees, gently swaying to keep him asleep, feeling a deep, sudden wave of maternal affection, wishing he were her own son. She eventually walked over to the table tennis section. Every table was fully occupied except for one exclusive table where a single man was playing under the tight security of heavily armed guards. He was playing tennis with absolute calm and precision.
Amana walked right up to the perimeter and called out, "Hello, guys!"
The man turned around, and she realized it was none other than the handsome Master. He raised a hand, silently signaling his guards to step back. Watching his total silence, Amana thought to herself, Oh, wow... so this incredibly handsome, wealthy man is actually deaf and mute? Oh, Allah, I feel so sorry for him. He has all the wealth and beauty in the world, yet Allah denied him the ability to hear. Allahu Akbar.
Believing he was entirely deaf, she began using dramatic, exaggerated hand gestures to communicate, inviting him to a match.
