Chapter 2

FEHINTOLA

Jeff froze first, his head whipping toward me, but there was no guilt in his eyes. No shock, no regret—just annoyance, like I was interrupting something important.

“Didn’t you say you would text me?” he said, his tone casual, almost dismissive, as if I’d walked in on him doing something as normal as watching TV.

As he pulled away from the woman beneath him, my heart sank even deeper. I blinked rapidly as she sat up, her hair disheveled, her lips curved into a victorious smirk. Layla—the intern assigned to me, the one I’m training in writing,

The woman I thought admired me.

Jeff moved away from her, his shirt rumpled as he reached for his pants on the floor. Layla, on the other hand, didn’t seem to bother much. She dressed indifferently, as if this were her room. I didn’t move, I could have said something but I chose to remain quiet. My feet remained rooted to the entrance of the bedroom.

Jeff sauntered toward me, buttoning his shirt without sparing a glance. When he finally stood before me, his lips twisted into a mocking sneer.

“Did you really think I’d spend my life with you?”

“A black woman who ran away from home to seek refuge abroad? Pathetic.”

I flinched, vulnerabilities I had once confided in him—shared during our quiet moments—he now used against me.

“You were too easy,” he continued, his tone dripping with disdain.

“I was bored. You were convenient.”

And with that, he brushed past me like I was nothing, leaving the room, leaving me. Layla’s voice followed, sharp, lacking the respect it usually carried.

“I wanted you to know.”

I turned slowly to face her, my eyes bloodshot red. Her arms crossed defiantly, and she tilted her head with mock curiosity.

“Two weeks ago, you said that if you ever caught your boyfriend cheating, you wouldn’t be bothered by the other woman,” she said with a sly smile.

“I thought it’d be fun to see if that was true.”

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, I shook my head slowly. Mo dé yà wèrè jù gbogbo èyí lọ (My madness can actually outdo these nonsense they tried with me). But for the sake of the fact that I had an image to protect and they had an edge over me being citizens of the country, I decided to not lose my shit.

“Did you think I’d fall apart? That I’d fall to the floor and bawl my eyes out with tears, begging for an explanation?” I took a step closer, and her smirk faltered slightly.

“You’re a loser,” I spat,

“You’ve never been anything more than that!”

“Get out of my house, Layla” I muttered lowly. She huffed clearly dissatisfied that I wasn’t giving her the reaction she was expecting.

“That’s it? You’re not going to fire me?”

“You don’t bother me enough to fire you, Layla,” I said to her.

“You’re nothing more than trash— you’re far beneath me and you will never measure up. The both of you are.” I added my voice low and steady.

Her mouth opened as if to retort, but she quickly snapped it shut. With one last glare, she grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a moment, I stood motionless, staring at the door. But the realization of it all came crashing down, and my knees buckled. My hands shot up to cover my face, and the tears I fought so hard to keep finally broke.

The sobs came in waves—soft at first, then loud, desperate, pained. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I clutched myself, the betrayal biting at every inch of my existence. I wailed into the empty room, the sound of my broken heart very loud.

Why me? Why again?

NEXT MORNING. 9:30 am.

WEDNESDAY 27 NOVEMBER.

The blaring sound of my phone woke me up from my sleep. Groaning, I shifted on the cold, hard floor where I’d passed out yesterday night drunk, cans of beer scattered carelessly around the living room. My head throbbed, and my throat felt dry, the aftermath of drowning myself in alcohol to escape... well, everything.

Blindly, I reached for the phone ringing continuously on the floor. Without checking the screen, I swiped to answer and pressed it against my ear.

“Ray! Have you seen the news? How come!” Rose’s voice rang out, frantic and unmistakable. I rubbed my temple, trying to force myself to understand what she was saying.

“Rose, what’s up?” I asked, struggling between staying asleep and staying awake.

“I’ll send you a link now,” she replied urgently.

I muttered an “okay” as my phone beeped almost immediately. With sluggish movements, I pulled the phone from my ear and opened the link she had sent.

The headline appeared on the screen, sending a jolt through my chest as I shot up to a sitting position.

-Newyork-based Nigerian children’s story writer, Racheal Bankole, alleged with workplace violence and misconduct-

“What?” I whispered, my voice barely audible as I scrolled through the blog, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Ray, are you there? When did all these happen between you and Layla?” Rose’s voice came again, but I couldn’t respond.

Another message popped up on my screen, and my stomach twisted.

-Good morning, Miss Racheal. Based on the public outrage your accusation has drawn, we’d like to withdraw our contract with you.-

My hands trembled as more messages poured in—one after another, like hammer blows to my chest. Within minutes, I saw every contract I had worked so hard to get , crumble into nothingness.

Just as I tried to gather myself, another notification buzzed. This time, it was an email from my workplace.

I hesitated, dread knotting my stomach before I clicked it open.

-Termination of appointment: After reviewing the evidence presented to management, we have found that you engaged in bullying behavior toward interns under your supervision. To protect the company's image, we regret to inform you that your employment has been terminated. No compensation package will be provided-

The phone slipped from my hands and clattered onto the floor.

My mind reeled. How? When? Why?

I heard noises outside my house , I immediately got up and walked towards the window, I pulled up the curtains and stared out, a crowd of journalists had gathered at my door. I dropped the curtain immediately and sunk to my knees,

My hands trembled as I clutched the fabric of her shirt, twisting it tightly, as if, if I held it tight enough, I’d wake up from this horrible dream.

Faint, broken sounds escaped my lips, yesterday I thought I had cried all the tears left in my eyes, little did I know that, that was only the tip of the iceberg. I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to stop my tears but nothing stopped it.

I heard my phone beep, I scrambled back to it and picked it up with shaky hands. It was a message from my mother.

-Fehintola, we saw the news. It’s time to come back home-

The words were simple but I knew exactly what it meant. My wail grew louder as a fresh wave of anguish surged through my veins. I shamelessly held my phone tightly and dialed Layla’s number, I didn’t mind begging her to withdraw her allegations and say the truth, but she had blocked me. With a burst of frustration, I threw my phone carelessly onto the floor.

With the number of people outside to get me and the remains of my ruins career, I had only one choice to make, what I was best at, run.

My village people won again.

WEDNESDAY 27th NOVEMBER 2024

6:30pm Nigerian time.

The bustling streets of Lagos sprawled out before me as I sat in the backseat of my father’s car. My arms were folded across my stomach as the driver swerved skillfully through traffic jam. The air felt dense, heavy with the familiar scent of dust and exhaust fumes.

It was unmistakably Lagos, yet not entirely the same. The city had changed since I left. Everything seemed a little more structured, a little more polished. Christmas lights adorned the airport, and the major roads were alive with decorations. Government-reserved areas and luxurious estates were particularly dressed up, sparkling with festive cheer. In contrast, the suburban neighborhoods we passed through, remained largely untouched, as usual they were busy struggling to make ends meet, to be bothered by a one day Christmas celebration.

After a few hours, the car rolled to a halt, my eyes fluttered open and I realized that we were at home already. I blinked at the sight of my father’s huge million dollar mansion. Nothing about it had changed. The only noticeable difference was the assortment of new cars in the garage. A deep sigh escaped me as I grabbed my bag, pushing the door open.

The driver, quick to act, moved to open the door for me, but I raised a hand to stop him.

“Get my bag,” I said, my voice low but firm.

He nodded with a small bow and went to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk. He trailed behind me, luggage in tow, as I approached the front door.

Before I could reach for the handle, it swung open, revealing my parents standing in the doorway. My mother’s face lit up with a smile so wide it almost felt out of place.

"Olúwáseun òh, Ọmọ mi dé láti ìlú Òyìnbó láyọ̀." (Thank God, oh! My daughter has returned from abroad safely and with joy.) she sang joyfully, pulling me into a warm, crushing hug. With joy indeed.

My lips twitched into a faint smile at her enthusiasm. I knew this too well, coming back home to be treated like an egg by her and then getting scrambled almost immediately.

When we finally pulled apart, I turned to my father, keeping my tone formal and respectful.

“Good evening, sir. Èkú ilé” Èkú ilé loosely translates to Well-done for being home. It’s a Yorubaland form of greeting by a person returning home to those he or she meets at home. His response was as curt as I’d expected.

“Hmm, Ẹ káàbọ̀” he grunted, barely meeting my gaze. Ẹ káàbọ̀ is the appropriate response for “Èkú ilé “, it means welcome home, it’s a form of greeting by the person at home to someone who was just returning from a journey.

Before I could dwell on his cold reception, my mother seized my hands and ushered me inside.

“Come in, dear. I cooked,” she said, leading me toward the dining room.

My eyes swept over the table, It was a like feast, and though I appreciated the gesture, I really didn’t want to eat anything.

“What’s with all this food? You didn’t have to,” I muttered, glancing at her. She shrugged, her voice light but her words pointed.

“Even the prodigal son was welcomed back with a feast.”

I shook my head at her words, how would I know that I’m back home, if my family doesn’t throw shades at me.

My mother had always been the more understanding parent, although I know she blamed me for what happened to my older brother also, but she was more subtle, unlike my father, he always made sure to rub it in my face.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“I don’t mean to waste your efforts, but I’m really not in the mood to eat anything.”

“Fehintola Racheal Bankole!” my father’s voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding.

“You will go upstairs, get changed, and come back down for dinner! We need to talk as soon as possible.” I lifted my gaze to meet his,

“Daddy, not now, please!”

“I’ve had a long day. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. I know what you want me to do. I’m already home, right? Isn’t that enough proof that you don’t need to force me anymore? I’ll do it. Just mail me the details of the deal, and I’ll go there as soon as possible,” I said. Bowing slightly in a gesture of respect, I added,

“Do enjoy your dinner. I’ll be upstairs.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away.

“Can you imagine this girl? Walking out on your father? No child of mine would ever walk out on me! You think if your brother was still here I’d be bothered about you?” my father’s voice thundered behind me as I ascended the staircase.

"Ẹ má bínú." (Please, don’t upset) my mother said softly, trying to calm him down.

I paused briefly at the top of the stairs, letting their voices fade into the background. My father’s words stung, but I had no energy left to dwell on them. Whatever he thought of me was the least of my concerns right now.