The loud banging at the gate continued, followed by the guard's anxious shout.
"Madam! Madam! Police dey outside! Dem say dem wan see you sharp sharp!"
The entire household froze. Madam Okonkwo dropped the broom in her hand, her face stiff. Mr. Okonkwo paused halfway down the corridor, his eyes darting nervously. Amara stood trembling by the wall, her heart pounding like a talking drum.
Police? Why police?
Madam stormed to the front door, her wrapper tied tighter around her chest. She flung it open and marched to the gate, Mr. Okonkwo following reluctantly behind. Amara trailed a few steps back, curiosity and fear battling in her chest.
At the gate, two stern-looking policemen stood, one holding a small notepad. Their presence carried authority, the kind that made neighbors peep through their curtains.
"Good evening, officers," Madam said, her voice sugar-sweet, though her eyes glinted with suspicion. "How una dey?"
"We dey fine," one officer replied. He glanced around the compound before his eyes settled on Amara. "We dey look for one small girl. People talk say she dey live here."
Amara froze. Her stomach dropped.
"Which small girl?" Madam asked sharply.
The officer pointed directly at Amara. "That one."
All eyes turned to her. Her knees wobbled.
"Me?" she whispered.
"Yes, you. Na report we receive say you thief from your late papa and mama people for village. Dem talk say you carry money run come city. Madam, abeg, na we duty to take her back go explain."
Amara's world spun. What was this? Who could have reported her? She clutched her wrapper tightly, her mind racing.
Madam's lips curled into a wicked smile. "Officers, una dey welcome. Na so I dey suspect this girl! From the very day she enter my house, I know say something no clean. Carry her go. Make she go face wetin she deserve."
"Madam!" Amara fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "Abeg! I no thief anything! I sell the small farm tools papa leave for me before I come city. Na my money I take come. I no do bad thing!"
"Shut up!" Madam hissed, raising her hand. "Na God don catch you today. Officers, abeg carry this witch comot for my house before she spoil my family."
Mr. Okonkwo shifted uneasily. He didn't want the police digging too deeply; his own secret with Amara might leak out. But he also couldn't openly defend her without exposing himself. He folded his arms, pretending indifference.
The policemen stepped forward. "Young girl, you dey follow us go station now. Anything you talk go fit use against you for court."
Amara's heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst. Was this how her story ended—dragged away like a criminal, disgraced, with no voice to defend herself?
As they pulled her towards the gate, something inside her snapped. She dug her heels into the ground, her voice rising like thunder for the first time since she entered the Okonkwo household.
"Na lie! I no thief! Na dem dey wicked me for this house! Madam dey beat me, oga dey—"
She stopped suddenly, her words choking in her throat. Everyone's eyes were on her, wide and suspicious. Madam's eyes blazed with fury. Mr. Okonkwo's face twisted in rage, his secret dangling on the edge of exposure.
"Keep quiet, you small witch!" Madam shouted, lunging forward. She slapped Amara across the face in front of the police. "Na lie she dey talk! Officers, abeg no mind am. Na pikin wey sabi lie pass parrot!"
But one of the officers frowned, watching closely. He raised a hand to stop Madam.
"Madam, abeg relax. Make we hear the girl talk. Small pikin no fit just dey cry like this."
For the first time, Amara saw a flicker of hope. She opened her mouth, trembling, ready to finally pour out her pain—about the beatings, the threats, the nights of horror with Mr. Okonkwo.
But before she could speak, Mr. Okonkwo stepped forward, his voice booming.
"Officers! This one na my house. Na my girl. Anything wey dey happen here, na my family matter. Abeg no let this small pikin disgrace my name outside. If una want make case, una go talk to my lawyer."
His voice was so commanding that the policemen hesitated. They exchanged uneasy glances. In Nigeria, power often spoke louder than truth.
The officer sighed. "We go carry her go station small time. But make she ready. If she no get person to defend her, na cell go be her new house."
And just like that, they left, promising to return the next day.
Madam slammed the gate shut and turned on Amara like a lioness.
"You dare open your mouth for police?! So you wan disgrace me and my husband abi? From today, food don finish for you! You go drink water and chop air until I tire!"
She dragged Amara inside and threw her onto the floor.
"If I hear your mouth near my husband again, I go kill you with my own hands!"
Amara lay there, weak and broken. But deep in her chest, a new fire burned. For the first time, somebody—one policeman—had looked at her with doubt in his eyes about Madam's story. For the first time, she felt maybe, just maybe, someone might believe her one day.
And as the night deepened, she whispered into the darkness.
"I go survive. I no go die for this house. Even if na me against the world, I go survive."
The banging at the gate grew louder, each thud echoing like thunder across the compound. Amara's hands shook where she stood. Madam Okonkwo adjusted her wrapper tightly, her face stiff with suspicion.
The guard's voice rang out again.
"Madam! Madam! Na police dey outside o. Dem say na urgent!"
Amara's chest clenched. Police? Why police?
Mr. Okonkwo's eyes flickered with something close to fear, but he masked it quickly, puffing out his chest. He hated interruptions, especially ones that came at night.
Madam stormed forward, grumbling under her breath. "Which kind wahala be this one again? This useless Nigeria sef, person no fit get peace inside im house."
Amara followed behind timidly, her legs wobbling. The night breeze brushed against her face as they stepped into the compound, the tall blue gates looming ahead. Two policemen stood there, stern and straight-backed. Their dark uniforms glinted faintly under the dull security light. One carried a notepad, the other a baton.
"Good evening, Madam," the taller one said. "We dey look for one girl. Dem say she dey stay here."
"Which girl?" Madam asked sharply, folding her arms across her chest.
"That one." The officer pointed straight at Amara.
Amara gasped. Her throat dried up instantly.
"Me?" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.
"Yes, you," the officer replied firmly. "Report reach us say you thief from your late parents' people for village. Say na money you carry run come city. We come confirm the matter."
The compound went silent. Even the crickets seemed to pause.
Amara's stomach dropped like a stone in water. She could barely process the words. Stealing? From her parents? Impossible! The little she had was her right—she sold the broken chairs, the cracked pots, and her papa's old farm tools just to survive. Who could twist it into a crime?
Madam's face lit up with wicked delight. She clapped her hands dramatically. "Ahhh! I talk am! I don talk am! From the very first day I see this girl, I know say she no clean. See am now, police don confirm am!" She turned to the officers with fake concern. "Officers, abeg carry this witch comot for my house. Na devil she be. Na so so wahala since she enter here."
Amara dropped to her knees, her palms pressed together. Tears poured down her cheeks. "No, abeg! I no thief anything. Na the little papa and mama leave I sell to survive. I swear to God, I no do bad!"
"Shut up!" Madam barked, stepping forward and striking her across the face. "Liar! Small pikin wey sabi thief from village, tomorrow you go poison me and my husband! Abeg officers, no waste time. Carry her go before she spoil my home."
The neighbors had started to gather quietly outside the gate, their murmurs floating through the air. Lagos people loved drama; any sound of police or shouting was enough to draw curious eyes.
"Wetin happen for Madam Okonkwo house again?" one neighbor whispered.
"Na that small house girl o. Dem say she thief."
"Eyaa… but the girl dey small now. She fit thief?"
"Abeg, for Lagos, anything dey possible."
Their whispers stung Amara's ears. She wanted to scream that they were wrong, but her voice was drowned by Madam's shrill accusations.
The police officers stepped into the compound, their expressions unreadable. The taller one bent slightly toward Amara. "Young girl, stand up. You dey follow us go station. If your hand clean, you go explain there."
Amara's tears dripped onto the ground. Her body felt weak, but her spirit roared silently. Was this how life wanted to disgrace her—dragged away like a thief when all she wanted was survival?
She shook her head violently, her voice breaking. "I no thief! Na truth I dey talk. Na dem dey wicked me! Madam dey beat me every day, oga—"
She stopped suddenly. Her words choked in her throat. Everyone's eyes were on her—hard, suspicious, waiting.
Madam's face twisted in fury. "You dare! You dare open mouth lie for my head in front of police?! Officers, una see am? Na witch she be. She wan destroy my family!"
Her hand flew across Amara's cheek again, the slap loud enough to echo through the compound. Amara staggered, her small body trembling.
But this time, one of the officers raised a hand sharply. "Madam, enough! Allow the girl talk. Na our work be this. If we no hear from her, how we go know truth?"
Amara's breath caught. For the first time in weeks, someone—anyone—was willing to hear her side. She looked up at the officer with desperate eyes, her lips trembling.
"I swear, officer… I no thief. My papa die, my mama die. Na the small farm tools I sell before I come city. Na my sweat I take waka reach here. Since I enter this house, na so so beating. Madam dey flog me like goat. Oga…" Her voice faltered, eyes darting toward Mr. Okonkwo. "…oga dey—"
"Keep quiet!" Mr. Okonkwo roared suddenly, his face contorted with rage. His booming voice cut across the night like a blade. "Na my house be this! Na my family matter! Officer, no allow this small girl disgrace my name. If una get case, una go meet my lawyer tomorrow. Till then, this one no dey follow una go anywhere."
The officers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. They knew the Okonkwo name carried weight. Rich families always found ways to silence small cases.
The taller officer sighed, adjusting his cap. "Fine. But make she ready. We dey come back tomorrow morning. If her story no balance, she go follow us straight to station."
With that, they turned and left. The murmuring neighbors slowly melted back into the night, disappointed the drama had ended.
Madam slammed the gate shut and whirled around, her eyes blazing like fire.
"You dare! You dare open mouth for police say my husband dey touch you?! You small witch! You wan spoil my marriage abi? From today, forget food in this house! You go drink water and chop air till I talk otherwise!"
She stormed inside, but not before kicking Amara hard on her side. The little girl crumpled to the floor, sobbing quietly.
Mr. Okonkwo lingered, glaring down at her with a shadowed face. He bent low, his voice dripping with venom.
"You see wetin you cause now? If you ever open mouth again about me, I swear you no go live to regret am. I go bury your body where even police no go fit find am."
Amara shivered, her tears soaking her wrapper. She had never felt so trapped. The only people who could save her—the police—had walked away. Madam hated her guts. Oga threatened her life. She was alone, completely alone.
But somewhere deep inside her breaking heart, a small fire flickered. One of the officers had doubted Madam. One of them had wanted to hear her story. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone would ignore her voice.
And that night, as she curled up on the cold floor of the corridor, her body aching from Madam's blows, she whispered to herself.
"I no go die here. I no go end like this. One day, I go escape. One day, I go be free."
The crickets sang outside. The city hummed in the distance. And the girl with nothing but scars and hope closed her eyes, clutching her dream of survival tighter than ever.