I have told you that men came to our door. That they showed my mother a video. That they made her an offer. But I haven’t told you what happened in that room. I haven’t told you what I saw on her face, what I heard in her voice, what broke inside her that day and never healed.
I am going to tell you now. Because you need to understand. Because the world needs to understand how they work, how they take ordinary people and turn them into products.
This is not a story about evil. Evil is too simple a word. This is a story about systems. About power. About what happens when money decides your body is worth more than your soul.
They came that afternoon.
I remember because my mother was cooking. She stood over the pot, stirring beans, and the familiar smell of palm oil and spices filled our small house. My grandmother slept in the corner, her breathing rattling. I sat by the window, pretending to read, thinking of Emeka and wondering when I’d see him again.
Then the knock came. Three sharp raps, confident, as if they already knew they would be let in.
My mother wiped her hands on her cloth and went to the door. I didn’t look up. I assumed it was a neighbor or someone from the market, or the man who came to collect money for the generator fuel.
Then I noticed the change in her voice.
“Who is it?” she asked. “What do you want?”
I looked up. Two men stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Their clothes were clean, expensive—city clothes, not like ours. One wore a gold watch that caught the sun. The other held a smartphone.
“Mrs. Nwaorisa,” said the one with the watch, smiling. “May we come in?”
“I am not Mrs.,” my mother said. “And no, you may not.”
The man’s smile did not falter. “I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say. It concerns your son.”
My mother stiffened. She didn’t turn to me. She stood very still, like an animal sensing danger.
“What about my son?”
“Perhaps we should discuss this inside,” the man said. “A private matter. A family matter.”
After a long pause, she slowly stepped aside and let them in.
They sat on our only chairs, faded and cracked plastic. My mother remained standing. I stayed where I was. My grandmother slept on.
The man with the watch introduced himself—Chief something. I don’t remember the name, and I don’t want to. The other man didn’t say anything, just held his phone, watching us.
“Your son is in serious trouble,” Chief said. “Fifteen years old, and already making dangerous choices.” He smiled wider. “Do you know who he has been meeting behind the farm?”
My legs went weak. I wanted to disappear, to vanish. I couldn’t move, frozen as if I were watching a nightmare play out.
“I don’t know what you mean,” my mother said.
Chief nodded to the other man, who pressed a button on his phone.
I heard sounds. My voice, another voice, rustling leaves, things I cannot describe.
My mother went white. I had never seen a face turn that gray, as if the blood had left her entirely. She stared at the screen, and I watched something die in her eyes.
“Stop,” she whispered.
The man stopped the video. The silence afterward was worse than the sounds.
“This is serious,” Chief said as if discussing the weather. “The Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act was passed last month. Do you know what it means?”
My mother didn’t answer. She stared at the black screen, at the ghost of what she had just seen.
“Fourteen years in prison,” Chief continued. “For homosexual acts. And your son… he has committed such acts. We have proof.”
The word hung in the air: proof. Small word, enormous weight.
“What do you want?” my mother whispered.
“I am a businessman,” he said. “I solve problems. I can make this video disappear. Your son will be safe. No one will ever know.”
“And what do you want?”
Chief’s smile disappeared. His voice hardened. “I want you, madam.”
I didn’t understand at first. I was fifteen, and I didn’t fully grasp what he was asking. I thought maybe he wanted money. Maybe ordinary work. But then he explained. He ran a business—an entertainment business—with wealthy clients. Some of them would pay for what he called her “popularity.”
“No,” my mother said sharply.
“Then your son goes to prison,” Chief said. “Your choice.”
I saw her whole body shake, her hands clench. I wanted to stop it, to say: let them take me. Let them send me. I would rather die than watch her destroy herself for me.
She collapsed to the floor. Not fainting—her legs gave out, her head bowed, her body convulsing with a quiet, feral scream.
Chief watched her, emotionless.
When she finally rose, her eyes were hard, resolved.
“If I do this,” she said, “you will destroy the video? My son will be safe?”
“Yes,” he said.
“How long?”
Chief smiled—the worst kind of smile. “Until I decide you’re no longer useful. Years, maybe more.”
She looked at me once more. Love, grief, determination in a single glance.
“Go outside, Ifechi,” she said.
I went. The sun set, the stars appeared, I waited. When the door opened again, the men left. “Take care of your mother,” Chief said.
I returned. She was sitting where she had fallen. My grandmother held her.
“It’s done,” she said.
And from that day, my mother’s life was changed forever. And I… I lost her that night.
