I have a knack for stirring up trouble, and this is probably why I was still standing here, listening to Chikamso’s trash talk for the past twenty minutes as he went on about how “fine” I was. I knew exactly why I was entertaining this nonsense. It was all because of his wife. Yeah, his poor, clueless wife, barely eighteen, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for her.
She’d just turned eighteen when he got her pregnant. And like many African parents do, her family had pushed her right into his arms, praying he’d make an “honest woman” of her someday. Now, she was stuck with him in this sorry excuse of a house.
“What do you want?” I crossed my arms, my patience already running thin.
“I like you, baby girl. Clear and direct,” he said, puffing out his chest with a confidence that made my stomach turn. The man was standing there as if we weren’t next to his ramshackle house—a place that looked more like luck held it together rather than by bricks and mortar. The paint was peeling in jagged patches, revealing the cracks underneath the wall. The roof sagged, barely holding up against the sun like it could give way at any moment.
And there was his wife—or baby mama, whatever you wanted to call her—right inside, probably hearing every slimy word coming out of his mouth as he tried to hit on me.
“Look at yourself,” I snapped, gesturing at him. He glanced down at his sorry outfit: a faded t-shirt with holes around the neck and hem that had seen better days. His trousers were a washed-out color, patched in places and worn thin in others. And those slippers? They looked like he had glued back together a dozen times, the straps hanging on for dear life. All in all, he looked like someone dragged out of a gutter.
“And now, look at me.” I gave him a slow spin. I was wearing a tight, black silk gown that fit like it was made just for me, ending mid-thigh to show off my legs. Sure, I wore a knock-off Louboutins, but they still had more class than anything in his entire wardrobe.
“So? What does that matter?” he scoffed, still trying to act like he had a shot.
“Do we look like a match?” I raised an eyebrow, squinting against the midday sun that beat down mercilessly.
“In love, there are no barriers—” he began, his voice rising like a sermon.
“Save it. You have a baby mama at home, or did you forget?”
“I’d drop her for you in a heartbeat,” he shot back, not missing a beat. His eyes gleamed like he’d just made me the offer of a lifetime.
“You said what, Chikamso?” A voice rang out from the doorway. There she was, his baby mama, stepping out slowly. One hand braced against her lower back, the other resting on her rounded belly. She moved with that careful, measured grace of a woman in her third trimester, her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes blazing with anger.
Mission accomplished; this was the moment I wanted her to see with her own eyes—the man she was wasting her life on. This idiot had been trying to get with me for weeks, and today, I let him talk just long enough to expose himself.
“Baby, I thought you were sleeping,” Chikamso stammered, his bravado crumbling instantly. He scratched the back of his head as he shuffled toward her, his posture slumping like a scolded dog.
“Answer the damn question. Why are you deflecting?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.
That was my cue. I turned on my heel, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. I wished I could stay and enjoy the fireworks, but I had to meet Mama. It’s a shame; I loved drama, especially when I was the one pulling the strings.
That was the only time I felt in control because my life sucked. It sucked so bad that sometimes I felt like cigarette ash—burnt out, weightless, something to be flicked away and forgotten. Ash wasn’t precious; it wasn’t even trash. It once had form and value but now was useless, crumbling into nothingness. That’s how I felt, even when Mama tried her hardest to remind me otherwise.
Yes, I was her precious gem. That was what she always said. “Sara, you’re my world, my everything.” But I couldn’t shake this feeling, no matter how much love she showed me. It clung to me like smoke—thick and choking, clouding my mind with doubt. No matter what she did, it never really reached the broken part of me.
“The day is still early and bright, so there’s no time for negativity,” Mama would say every morning, her voice filled with endless optimism. I could practically hear it now, playing repeatedly like a broken record. Maybe she was right. Perhaps I just needed to shut it all out. So I fastened my stride, trying to shake off the dark thoughts. But they clung, stubbornly, like tar stuck to the bottom of my shoes.
The sun was brutal, beating down with such intensity that it felt like it could bake bread on the pavement. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, sticking my dress to my skin, and I cursed under my breath. If only my life were different. If only I had a better shot at things. Like my peers, I might be cruising in an old, beat-up car. At least it would be something. Anything was better than this.
My phone buzzed in my hand. I didn’t even need to check to know who it was. Mama, of course. She was always worried, constantly checking in. I smiled despite myself. The woman was punctual to a fault. Whoever coined the phrase “the early bird catches the worm” must have been talking about her.
The text read, “Sara, you know I hate this. Where are you?”*
I rolled my eyes, but my smile widened. Her panic never failed to amuse me. I typed back, *“On my way. I’m trekking!!! It’ll take time before I get there.”*
I hated walking these long distances, but I was broke, broken as a cracked mirror in a cheap motel, barely hanging together, reflecting something but not whole. My pockets were as empty as my ambitions some days. And no amount of positivity from Mama could fill them.
*“Young lady, get here on time.”* Her response was almost instant.
I sighed, slipping my phone into my pocket and speeding up, my feet dragging along the dusty road. The heat wrapped around me like a blanket I couldn’t escape, the kind that smothered more than it comforted me.
When I reached the Richardsons’ house, sweat was drenched all over me, and my feet ached from the walk. The weight of everything pressed down on me—the heat, my thoughts, the hollow ache of wanting more but never quite knowing how to get it.
I stood in front of the gate, wiping the sweat from my brow, and for a moment, I wondered if life would ever feel different. Suppose I’d ever stop feeling like cigarette ash, floating aimlessly in the breeze, waiting to be forgotten.
I pushed the gate open, and as I stepped into the Richardsons’ compound, it felt like walking into another world. The house’s exterior was beautiful—perfectly manicured lawns stretched before me, greener than anything I’d ever seen, like the grass the Richardson painted in the most decadent shade of emerald. Rose bushes lined the path, each bloom immaculate, as if not even a single petal dared fall out of place. A cobblestone driveway curved elegantly towards the house, where fleets of the latest cars—sleek, shining, and absurdly expensive— parked in the car park. The kind of cars that would make you stop and stare, each one more opulent than the last.
I couldn’t help but feel the bitter twist in my gut. People always said the rich worked hard for their wealth and were wise, strategic, and always thinking ten steps ahead. But every time I looked at Mr. Richardson, I wondered if that was just a myth. The man was always out clubbing, flaunting his money like it would never run out. He’d pack women around town, drink himself silly, and toss cash like confetti. His wife, Mrs. Beatrice, wasn’t any better. She spent her days throwing ridiculous, lavish parties for her housewife friends, doing God-knows-what to keep herself entertained. One day, she’d be popping expensive bottles of champagne; the next, she’d go to Dubai because she craved the chocolates there.
I wasn’t judging. If anything, that was the kind of life I wanted for myself. But why was life so selective in fulfilling wishes? Some people’s dreams were granted with a silver spoon in hand, while others, like mine, were flung over Mount Everest, never to be seen again.
I sighed and pushed open the door to the house. Of course, it was all prepped for another of Mrs. Beatrice’s infamous parties. Mama had decked out the living room in extravagant decorations—streamers of gold and cream hung from the ceiling, tied into neat little bows, while large floral arrangements sat on every available surface. Giant balloons with glittery “Happy Anniversary” scrawled across them floated lazily in the air. The room sparkled, everything gleaming and polished to perfection. Chandeliers hung low, casting a soft glow on the marble floors that reflected the opulence of the space. The furniture was all dark wood, rich and polished, with silk cushions that looked like no one had sat on. The house screamed luxury, and I hated how much I envied it.
My gaze shifted to Mama, who was carefully bringing out champagne glasses—genuine crystal, of course—for the party. She wore her usual maid’s uniform, a simple black dress with a white apron tied neatly around her waist. Seeing her always broke my heart, knowing how hard she worked for people who didn’t deserve an ounce of her kindness.
“Be careful,” I whispered to her as I stepped closer.
The last time she’d accidentally broken a glass, Mrs. Beatrice, who was lounging on the couch, sipping on some overpriced tea at the moment, had docked six months of her salary, claiming it was a vintage glass used by Queen Elizabeth II herself. We couldn’t afford that loss, especially with Debby’s upcoming exams. Every penny mattered.
“I know,” my mother replied softly, her eyes weary but focused on her task.
Before I could say anything else, Mrs. Beatrice’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “So you cannot greet, abi?”
I stiffened. Her scowl was already directed at me, her eyes cold and calculating. I could feel her disdain from across the room.
“I was about to greet you,” I began, but my mother quickly interrupted.
“Don’t say you were about to greet. Greet her instead,” Mama urged, her voice low but pleading.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said, forcing the words out of my mouth though every fiber of me resisted.
“And what’s good about the afternoon? Tell me,” Beatrice snapped, her tone dripping with venom. The woman had always hated me, but after she caught wind of her husband’s slimy attempts to seduce me, that hatred had only deepened. I could avoid her if I wanted, but with these frequent parties and no one else left to help my mom clean up, I had no choice but to come here and help.
Part of me thought about giving in to temptation—maybe I could flirt with Mr. Richardson, perhaps even date him. Sure, it would rile up his wife, but more than that, it would change my family’s life forever. He was the wealthiest man in town, after all. But no. Being a married man was a no-go zone for me. No matter how much I craved life’s luxury, I wasn’t willing to play with someone’s marriage. It was too precious, too sacred, no matter how rotten the people involved might be.
“Come on, go and find something to do. Why are you just standing there?” Beatrice’s voice was shrill, and I wanted to scream back at her. I tried to tell her I wasn’t there to play her games. But instead, I forced a smile.
“I’ll get to work, ma’am,”
I slipped into the spare maid’s uniform my mother had for me, the same plain black dress with a white apron, and we got to work together. We moved through the house, setting up the last touches for the party and cleaning up after people who didn’t even acknowledge our existence.
As I wiped down the counters, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t where I should be. I wasn’t supposed to scrub floors and serve people like Mrs. Beatrice. But for now, it was all I had.
“Let’s go and pick up your sister from school,” my mom said, tired but relieved.
Finally, we had finished, and I couldn’t wait to leave this house. Luxurious or not, the energy in here was suffocating. I pulled off the maid’s uniform like it was burning my skin and tossed it into the washing machine with more force than necessary, like I never wanted to see it again.
“I’ll go tell Madam that we’re leaving,”
“Okay, I’m waiting here.”
I barely had a second to breathe before Beatrice’s screechy voice cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard.
“Go where? There are still dirty plates and cups here! Call Sara to come and carry them and wash them!” Her voice drifted from the living room into the kitchen, and I swore under my breath. Of course, she wasn’t done being a bitch.
“Sara!” she yelled. “Come get these dishes, and after that, go clean my room. Where do you think you’re going, anyway?”
I clenched my jaw. I wanted to storm into that room and give Beatrice the biggest, most satisfying middle finger of my life. But no. That would only mean my mom losing her job, and despite being an adult now, I wasn’t in any position to support my family. College wasn’t exactly paying the bills, and those big dreams I was chasing? They still felt like they were light-years away.
So, I sucked it up. I plastered on a fake smile and walked into the room.
“And don’t use the dishwasher,” Beatrice added as if she were doing me a favor by letting me know. “They don’t clean the dishes as sparkling as I want.”
I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood. The urge to snap, “Then why did you buy them or still keep them around?” was almost too strong to resist. But no. I grabbed the dirty dishes and scrubbed them by hand, ensuring they were “sparkling clean,” just as she wanted. Then I cleaned her room, scrubbing every surface until it gleamed. But, of course, that wasn’t enough for Beatrice. She also made me deep-clean the French windows that didn’t need cleaning.
By the time I finished, the sun had started to set, casting a golden light through those freshly polished windows. Finally, I could leave.
My mom had already gone to pick up Debby from school, so I left the Richardson house as fast as my legs could carry me, walking the familiar streets back home. When I arrived, I noticed something odd—a bright red sports car parked in front of our yard. A type of car that had no business being anywhere near our neighborhood.
I paused, eyeing it suspiciously. Who could own something like that? And why were they parked in front of our house?