I gave my vïrgïnity to a rich old Alhaji, just to sponsor my bo¥friend’s trip to the UK.
Now I can’t sit in public… because I sm¢ll b∆dly.
EPISODE 8
✍️ Written by Grace Ochiba
The street buzzed with the sound of traders calling customers, the air filled with roasted corn smoke, but I heard nothing. My ears rang with only one truth .. Kunle was preparing to leave me behind.
I st@ggered like someone lost, my slippers dragging through the dust. My stomach kn0tted, not just from huπger, but from betraya£. Every step felt hêàvier, as if the ground itself was m0cking me.
“Kunle…” I whispered, tasting b!tterπess on my tongue. “So after all, I was just a bridge.”
By the time I reached the mosque square, my legs gave way. I sank onto a wooden bench, te@rs burning but refusing to fall. My chest rose and fell like a drum, añger mixing with gr!ef.
That was when I saw him again , Alhaji Danladi. His white kaftan swayed as he walked slowly with two boys carrying leather bags behind him. His eyes met mine and lingered, the way a prêdator studies w0unded prey.
He stopped, his lips curving in something between p!ty and poss£ssion.
“My daughter…” his deep voice rolled out like thünder. “I told you that boy will not stand by you. Now see?”
I lowered my head, sh@me burning my skin. But before I could speak, he sat beside me. The scent of expensive oud oil filled my nostrils.
“You gave yourself for him… but he has given nothing for you. I, Danladi, I do not forget those who come to me.” His fingers tapped the prayer beads slowly. “Come under my wing, and you will never süffer again.”
I sh!vered. The memory of his wr!nkled hands still clung to my body, but so did the huπger, the rej£ction, the cold streets. My parents’ door was locked. Kunle’s heart was gone.
And here was Alhaji,smiling, patient, dãnger0us.
I wanted to scr£am. I wanted to run. But when his aide pressed a brown envelope into my hand, the weight of mon£y almost silenced my protests.
“Think about it,” Alhaji said, rising to leave. “Kunle is going to UK. Let him go. But you” his eyes narrowed, glinting with pow£r “you belong to me now. And I take care of what is mine.”
The boys followed him, leaving me trembling on the bench, the envelope heavy on my lap.
I clutched it to my chest. My breath hitched. Was this my curse, or my only chance at surviva£?
One thing was clear: the game had just changed.
---
Two days later, Ada sat by the roadside, the scorching Lagos sun beåting down on her as she hawked bread in the heavy traffic. Her tray balanced on her head, her throat dry, and her feet sw0llen from walking long distances. Still, she f0orced her voice loud enough to call out:
“Agege bread! Fresh bread! Hot bread!”
Sweat ran down her back, and with every step, her heart ached at the memory of Kunle’s betraya£. She had sacrificed her d!gn!ty, endured sh@me, and been rej£cted by her own parents. And now, here she was, hustling for surviva£ in the middle of impatient cars and sh0uting conductors.
Just as she moved closer to a danfo, a sleek black SUV slowed down beside her.
The tinted glass rolled down,and her breath caught.
It was Kunle.
He looked different, sharply dressed, with a neatly ironed shirt and a briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes locked on her, unreadable, but his lips curled into a faint smirk.
“Ada,” he called, his voice carrying both familiarity and coldness.
Her knees trembled. She swallowed hard. “Kunle…”
He leaned closer, his eyes darting around the busy road. “Give me the mon£y you’ve made from selling bread today,” he said sharply.
Ada blinked in sh0ck. “W-what?”
He adjusted his grip on the briefcase and h!ssed. “Stop wasting my time. When I get to the UK and secure good work, I’ll come back for you. But right now, I need that mon£y. Hand it over.”
Her heart sh@ttered all over again. The boy she had l0ved… the boy she had given everything for… was still using her, squeezing the last drop of sacr!f!ce from her.
Traffic horns blared. Passengers shouted for bread. But Ada stood frozen, her tray wobbling on her head, te@rs stinging her eyes.
Kunle stretched his hand impatiently out of the car window. “Ada, hurry up! Don’t make me late.”
Her lips quivered. The world spun around her. And in that scorching Lagos traffic, Ada realized the b!tter truth: Kunle had never l0ved her. He l0ved only what he could take from her.
Her trembling fingers inched toward her purse…
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Gracious Folktales
✍️ To be continued…
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Now I can’t sit in public… because I sm¢ll b∆dly.
EPISODE 8
✍️ Written by Grace Ochiba
The street buzzed with the sound of traders calling customers, the air filled with roasted corn smoke, but I heard nothing. My ears rang with only one truth .. Kunle was preparing to leave me behind.
I st@ggered like someone lost, my slippers dragging through the dust. My stomach kn0tted, not just from huπger, but from betraya£. Every step felt hêàvier, as if the ground itself was m0cking me.
“Kunle…” I whispered, tasting b!tterπess on my tongue. “So after all, I was just a bridge.”
By the time I reached the mosque square, my legs gave way. I sank onto a wooden bench, te@rs burning but refusing to fall. My chest rose and fell like a drum, añger mixing with gr!ef.
That was when I saw him again , Alhaji Danladi. His white kaftan swayed as he walked slowly with two boys carrying leather bags behind him. His eyes met mine and lingered, the way a prêdator studies w0unded prey.
He stopped, his lips curving in something between p!ty and poss£ssion.
“My daughter…” his deep voice rolled out like thünder. “I told you that boy will not stand by you. Now see?”
I lowered my head, sh@me burning my skin. But before I could speak, he sat beside me. The scent of expensive oud oil filled my nostrils.
“You gave yourself for him… but he has given nothing for you. I, Danladi, I do not forget those who come to me.” His fingers tapped the prayer beads slowly. “Come under my wing, and you will never süffer again.”
I sh!vered. The memory of his wr!nkled hands still clung to my body, but so did the huπger, the rej£ction, the cold streets. My parents’ door was locked. Kunle’s heart was gone.
And here was Alhaji,smiling, patient, dãnger0us.
I wanted to scr£am. I wanted to run. But when his aide pressed a brown envelope into my hand, the weight of mon£y almost silenced my protests.
“Think about it,” Alhaji said, rising to leave. “Kunle is going to UK. Let him go. But you” his eyes narrowed, glinting with pow£r “you belong to me now. And I take care of what is mine.”
The boys followed him, leaving me trembling on the bench, the envelope heavy on my lap.
I clutched it to my chest. My breath hitched. Was this my curse, or my only chance at surviva£?
One thing was clear: the game had just changed.
---
Two days later, Ada sat by the roadside, the scorching Lagos sun beåting down on her as she hawked bread in the heavy traffic. Her tray balanced on her head, her throat dry, and her feet sw0llen from walking long distances. Still, she f0orced her voice loud enough to call out:
“Agege bread! Fresh bread! Hot bread!”
Sweat ran down her back, and with every step, her heart ached at the memory of Kunle’s betraya£. She had sacrificed her d!gn!ty, endured sh@me, and been rej£cted by her own parents. And now, here she was, hustling for surviva£ in the middle of impatient cars and sh0uting conductors.
Just as she moved closer to a danfo, a sleek black SUV slowed down beside her.
The tinted glass rolled down,and her breath caught.
It was Kunle.
He looked different, sharply dressed, with a neatly ironed shirt and a briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes locked on her, unreadable, but his lips curled into a faint smirk.
“Ada,” he called, his voice carrying both familiarity and coldness.
Her knees trembled. She swallowed hard. “Kunle…”
He leaned closer, his eyes darting around the busy road. “Give me the mon£y you’ve made from selling bread today,” he said sharply.
Ada blinked in sh0ck. “W-what?”
He adjusted his grip on the briefcase and h!ssed. “Stop wasting my time. When I get to the UK and secure good work, I’ll come back for you. But right now, I need that mon£y. Hand it over.”
Her heart sh@ttered all over again. The boy she had l0ved… the boy she had given everything for… was still using her, squeezing the last drop of sacr!f!ce from her.
Traffic horns blared. Passengers shouted for bread. But Ada stood frozen, her tray wobbling on her head, te@rs stinging her eyes.
Kunle stretched his hand impatiently out of the car window. “Ada, hurry up! Don’t make me late.”
Her lips quivered. The world spun around her. And in that scorching Lagos traffic, Ada realized the b!tter truth: Kunle had never l0ved her. He l0ved only what he could take from her.
Her trembling fingers inched toward her purse…
Follow page to continue reading
Gracious Folktales
✍️ To be continued…
https://www.facebook.com/61576016370219...
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