Part 1: The Trap of Despair
The damp, suffocating heat of the Lagos morning clung to my skin like a second layer of dirt. I stood inside the cramped, peeling hallway of my tenement building, my knuckles rapping frantically against the wooden door of apartment 4B.
“Chola! I know you in there. Open this door! Open this door! I need my rent today, not next week!” the landlady’s voice boomed, heavy and merciless, rattling the thin plywood.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My bank account was a cruel joke, a negative number that made my stomach fold in on itself in sheer terror. Three missed calls from the electric company, a final notice from the water board, and an empty fridge waiting for me inside. Graduate three years without a single job, no hope, and a mother in the village who had suffered and sold all she had to train me in school. She was still going to work despite her failing health, and I was entirely powerless to help her.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. I looked at the small, grime-stained window overlooking the alleyway. There was only one way out. Without thinking, I unlatched the rusted frame, hoisted my trembling body over the sill, and dropped into the muddy alley below, landing hard on my knees.
Cursing the universe, I picked myself up, brushed the damp dirt from my cheap jeans, and started walking toward the bustling market district. Each step required a decision. My limbs were heavy, weak, full of that strange warning your body gives when it has been asking for mercy for days and you keep answering with caffeine and denial. I hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. Half a loaf of bread and some water was all I had managed.
Rain started to fall as I reached the market stalls, heavy and cold, turning the red earth into slippery mud. I needed five hundred naira just to print my resume for an interview tomorrow. I pulled out my cheap, cracked phone and dialed the only person who might understand my absolute misery.
“Hello Emmy,” the voice on the other end answered before the first ring finished. “I got a good job for you.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, the vendors shouting around me, the rain drumming on the tin roofs. “A job?”
“Yes. They will pay you ten million naira for a nine-month contract,” Emmy said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ten million? Come over to the agency tomorrow morning for more information.”
I hung up the phone, my breath hitching in my tight chest. Ten million naira. It was an astronomical figure, enough to pay the landlady, clear my debts, and send my mother to the best hospital in the state.
But a dark, suffocating dread settled over me. What kind of job would pay a poor, desperate graduate ten million naira for nine months? What was the catch?
I couldn’t go home until I was absolutely sure the landlady had left the premises. I wandered blindly through the sprawling, chaotic market, the noise of the traders blurring together into a chaotic symphony. I was completely alone in this terrible nightmare, praying to a God I barely understood to throw me a lifeline.
Then a shadow stepped out from the covered stalls, blocking my path.
Part 2: The Dangerous Bargain
The man standing in front of me wore a dark, tailored suit that looked entirely out of place amidst the muddy vegetables and rusted iron sheets of the market. He was flanked by two massive men whose eyes scanned the crowd with lethal precision.
“Thought you were out of town,” the man said, his voice smooth, cold, and dripping with an undeniable authority.
I took a step backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I… I just returned this evening. What’s up, bro?”
“Been having fun yet without me? Anything new for you?”
“Not really. Still looking.”
The man smiled, a terrifying, thin expression that didn’t reach his dead eyes. “Look no more. I found one. I want her for tonight.”
He stepped aside, and behind him stood an imposing, sharply dressed man with a predatory grin. Kings D. The man whispered his name like a holy relic. Kings, the elusive billionaire, the untouchable player of the city’s dark nightlife.
“Sorry, I’m not available,” I choked out, wrapping my wet jacket tightly around my shivering frame.
“King wants you,” the guard growled, grabbing my arm with a grip of steel.
I was dragged blindly through the labyrinth of the market, shoved into the back of a tinted SUV, and whisked away into the rainy Lagos night. When the vehicle finally stopped, I was led into a private, soundproofed penthouse suite overlooking the glittering, rain-slicked skyline of Victoria Island.
Hours passed in a blur of surreal luxury and absolute humiliation. I was fed expensive wine and grilled meat I couldn’t swallow, paraded in front of a man who looked at me like a piece of fresh meat. When the sun finally began to peek over the horizon, the reality of my terrible situation crashed down upon me.
The job wasn’t a corporate position. It was surrogacy.
“So they will put an egg in you,” Emmy explained nervously, sitting across from me in the agency office later that afternoon. “It will develop into a baby. Ha… pregnancy.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Pregnancy? But who is the father? Do I have to sleep with some stranger?”
“No man needs to sleep with you,” Emmy rushed to assure me, his eyes darting to the contract on the desk. “It’s done in the hospital. I researched about it all night. It’s not painful. It’s an easy way to get good money within a year. Imagine, as soon as they confirm a positive pregnancy, they pay you the first three million. They’re going to pay your rent for the nine months. They’re going to buy you food. They’re going to take care of the hospital bills.”
He leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with greed. “After you give birth, they give you the balance of seven million.”
I covered my face with my trembling hands. “I can’t. My mom will finish me. That will mean losing my virginity. Who will marry me after this?”
“I will marry you,” a familiar voice interjected from the doorway.
It was Emmanuel. My long-time boyfriend. He walked into the room, his eyes bright with a strange, manic hope. “Yes, sure. After this contract, I will marry you.”
I looked up, desperate for a shred of comfort. “Are you serious? Are you promising you will marry me?”
“Yes, but you will help me with some of the money to pursue my soccer dream abroad,” Emmanuel said, kneeling beside my chair, taking my hands in his. “As soon as possible, I will arrange your documents too, when you give birth, to join me abroad. For the pregnancy, your family wouldn’t know. You won’t visit them in the village. Just send them some of the money.”
The logic was twisted, but the desperation in my soul made it sound like a beautiful fairy tale. With that money, I could save my mother. I could escape the landlady.
“Honestly, I am scared,” I whispered, looking at the contract. “Emanuel, do you even think I will qualify? What if they disappoint along the line?”
“Trust me to handle this,” Emmanuel smiled, kissing my forehead. “You have a high chance to qualify because of your virginity. It’s a big company with a reputation. They won’t disappoint. I will be by your side through it all. I promise.”
I stared at the thick stack of papers. My life was about to change forever.
Part 3: The Medical Clearance
The sleet beat against the tinted windows of the private clinic in Ikeja as I sat on the examination table. The room was sterile, bathed in harsh, fluorescent light that seemed to strip away whatever dignity I had left. I clutched a paper gown tightly over my chest, my breathing shallow and erratic.
The door clicked open, and Dr. Aris walked in, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She carried a thick manila folder tucked under her arm.
“Miss Chola, correct?” she asked, not looking up from her tablet.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
“I hope the agency went through everything with you,” she said, pulling a cold stethoscope from her pocket. “Especially the post-procedure precautions, the hormone injections, and the terms of the open surrogacy agreement.”
“Yes, ma’am. My brother… my brother Emmanuel explained it all to me.”
Dr. Aris paused, her sharp eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Mr. Emanuel Marcus is your brother?”
“Yes, he is,” I said, a slight tremor in my voice.
“He stated that he would be the one in charge of everything, including the financial disbursements. Is that something you are aware of and consent to?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am aware,” I lied, a sick knot forming in my stomach. Emmanuel had instructed me to say he was my brother to ensure the wealthy clients didn’t think I had any complicated entanglements.
“Good. Then I will need you to sign this consent form for the medical harvest and transfer.” She slid a thick sheaf of papers across the steel desk. “We will be giving you one hundred and fifty thousand naira today for your transport and upkeep until your next doctor’s appointment.”
I looked at the signature line. My hand hovered over the paper. This was the point of no return. I was about to lease my body to strangers, surrender my virginity in a cold medical theater, and lie to the only people who loved me in the village.
God help me, I prayed silently, the image of my mother taking her medicine with garri flashing in my mind. I grabbed the pen and signed my name in dark, bold ink.
Dr. Aris checked the signature, stamped the document, and nodded. “The nurse will be in shortly to prep you for the initial hormone cycle. Try to relax, Shola. You are in good hands.”
She stepped out, leaving me alone with the quiet ticking of the wall clock. Ten minutes later, a nurse entered with a tray of syringes, her smile professional but completely devoid of warmth. I laid back on the paper sheet, staring up at the white ceiling tiles, feeling as if I were willingly walking into a slaughterhouse.
When the procedure concluded three days later, I was discharged with a dull ache in my lower abdomen and a crisp envelope of cash. I took a cab straight to Auntie Joy’s place, eager to hide out and recover.
True to his word, Emmanuel was waiting on my porch, his face split in an eager grin as he saw the envelope in my bag.
“Give me the 150K,” he demanded, his hands already outstretched. “I need to pay for the agent’s processing fee for my football trials in Ghana.”
I hesitated, clutching the bag. “Emanuel, I need this for food. And to send a little to my mother.”
“I will send money to your mother as soon as I sign the deal in Accra!” he snapped, his charming facade slipping for a terrifying second. “Don’t be selfish, Shola. This is our big break.”
I sighed, defeated by his aggressive persistence, and handed over the bulk of the cash. He snatched it, kissed my cheek with shallow affection, and sprinted down the street. I dragged myself into my room, collapsed onto the mattress, and let the darkness take me.
Two weeks later, my phone rang from an unknown number. It was the agency.
“Congratulations, Shola,” the voice purred. “The procedure was a success. The intended parents have confirmed a positive pregnancy.”
My heart vaulted into my throat. It was real.
“As per the agreement,” the agent continued, “a sum of three million naira has been authorized for immediate disbursement to your account for your rent and living expenses over the next five months.”
Three million. The number was dizzying. I immediately called Emmanuel to share the miraculous news, but his line went straight to voicemail. I tried again. Switched off.
A cold panic seized me. I threw on my coat and ran out into the pouring rain to find his friend, Tobi, who lived three streets down.
“Tobi, where is Emmanuel?” I screamed over the storm, water dripping from my hair.
Tobi looked uncomfortable, avoiding my frantic gaze. “Emanuel… he traveled to Ghana this morning, Shola. For his trials.”
My world tilted on its axis. He had taken my money, gotten me pregnant with a stranger’s child, and fled the country.
Part 4: The Million-Naira Betrayal
The news of the pregnancy payout and Emmanuel’s disappearance hit me like a freight train. I spent the next four days camped out at the agency’s downtown office, demanding answers, threatening legal action, and crying until my throat was completely raw.
“Shola, you signed the paperwork designating him as your brother and proxy,” the cold-faced director had told me, tapping her manicured nails against her desk. “The three million naira was transferred directly to his account per your written instruction. Our company owes you nothing more at this time. We will conduct an internal investigation, but frankly, you are liable for your choice in family.”
I stumbled out of the high-rise, the bustling Lagos traffic blurring through my tear-filled eyes. I had no money, no boyfriend, and a rapidly growing high-risk pregnancy. I was forced to move all my meager belongings into Auntie Joy’s tiny, cramped apartment, sleeping on a thin mattress on the floor just to avoid the landlord’s wrath.
Weeks turned into agonizing months. No word from Emmanuel. The studio apartment in Queens, or rather, the small concrete block in Lagos, felt like an inescapable prison.
My body grew heavier by the mile. My back ached, my ankles swelled, and that strange warning your body gives when it has been asking for mercy kept flaring up. I didn’t have money for prenatal vitamins, so I ate whatever cheap garri and pepper Auntie Joy could scrape together.
One sweltering afternoon, desperate to contribute something, I took a small basin of yams and plantains to the side of the busy junction, hoping to sell them to passing motorists. The Legos sun beat down on my exposed neck like a hammer. Dizziness hit me, sudden and blinding. I dropped a heavy tuber onto the dirt, clutching my swollen belly, tears of utter defeat spilling over my lashes.
“Hey. What is a beautiful pregnant lady like you doing sitting under this sun in this hot afternoon?” a deep, resonant voice asked.
I looked up through a haze of tunnel vision. Standing over me was a man in an impeccably tailored linen shirt. He looked impossibly wealthy, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying, piercing intensity.
“What do you want to buy, sir?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he knelt down in the red dust, ignoring the dirt that would ruin his trousers. “Do you know the risk you’re causing to not just yourself, but that baby? I see you every time I drive past here. It just breaks me to see you this way.”
“I do appreciate you, sir,” I stammered, pulling my faded shawl over my chest. “It’s just that this is the only way we can feed ourselves.”
He stood up, looking over my shoulder at Auntie Joy, who was watching from the porch. “Can I buy all your goods so you both can go home and rest?”
“That would be nice, sir,” I breathed.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick, pristine bundle of cash, and handed it to my aunt. “Here is five hundred thousand naira,” the stranger said, his eyes lingering on my face. “Go home today. Rest. Tomorrow, call me.”
He handed over a sleek, embossed business card before turning back to his luxury sedan.
I stared at the card as the car pulled away. The name embossed in gold foil read: Kingsley Otiba, CEO, Ortiba Holdings.
Auntie Joy dropped onto the plastic chair, counting the crisp notes with wide eyes. “Shola, do you know who that is? That is the billionaire playboy! The richest bachelor in Lagos! Why is he so interested in you?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I just touched my aching midsection, feeling a terrifying new chapter of my life begin to unfold.
