Written by Olorunloba Adeniyi
Chapter 1 – The Golden Beginning
I was in my early twenties when I landed the kind of job most young men in Lagos could only
dream of. I wasn’t just a regular instructor – I was the Head of the Special Training and Projects Department at one of the most prestigious computer training schools in Ikeja, affiliated with a renowned university in the West. Our certificates carried weight. The school halls bustled with students eager to learn BASIC, dBASE, and Lotus 1-2-3 – the foundational languages of the digital world back then.
Life was sweet.
Aside from my monthly salary, I was raking in serious money from student projects and private training sessions. Overtime bonuses padded my wallet, and for once, it felt like I had arrived. But instead of investing wisely, I chose to live loud. I wasn’t throwing money at women or parties – no. I just loved looking good. Fine suits. Fresh shoes. Branded colognes. I dressed like my next promotion was in fashion, not IT.
It wasn’t long before students – especially the female ones – began noticing. A few of them
flirted. Some dropped subtle hints. But one student in particular didn’t come to play games. Her name was Janet.
I had just wrapped up a class on BASIC programming when she approached me with a strange request.
“Can you please give me anything that belongs to you?”
She smiled – that kind of smile that had too much meaning behind it. I blinked.
“Something like what?” I asked, confused.
“Anything. Your tie, your pen… just something personal.”
I hesitated but unclipped the pen hanging on my suit pocket and handed it to her. She received it with the delight of a child who’d been given her first doll.
Then came the real shocker.
“Can I accompany you wherever you’re going today?”
I wasn’t expecting that. Janet was drop-dead gorgeous – the kind of beauty that made other girls in class look twice. Guys buzzed around her like bees, but none seemed to get close. She had the air of someone who came from wealth, and she carried herself like a woman who always got what she wanted.
I was flattered. I agreed.
Chapter 2 – Janet: Beauty and the Secret
Janet didn’t just walk into my life – she landed with the precision of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
After that first encounter, she followed me to my boss’s house on Airport Road, chatting freely like we had known each other for years. She eventually came with me to my place at Iyana Ipaja. To my surprise, she said she planned to spend the night. I should have questioned it, but how do you say no to a woman like Janet? She was elegance mixed with danger.
Later that night, while lying in bed, she turned to me and whispered with a tone I couldn’t quite place.
“If you don’t make love to me tonight, something bad will happen to me.”
It wasn’t a request – it was a declaration. Her face had changed. There was no more playfulness in her eyes. Just something… dark.
Before I could process it, she was on top of me. It felt like she took control of everything – of me. The whole thing was strange, almost surreal. Like a ritual, not romance.
By 6 a.m. the next morning, she was fully dressed and ready to leave.
“I just need to quickly go somewhere. I’ll come back later,” she said, like a housewife heading to the market.
True to her words, she came back – late that night. And then she came again the next day… and the next. Without warning, Janet became a permanent fixture in my life. She never officially moved in, but she was always around. Cooking, sleeping, bathing. She had quietly taken over my space.
Then came the truth.
She wasn’t just Janet-the-student.
She was Janet-from-Allen. The streets knew her. A high-end commercial sex worker. My heart didn’t want to believe it. But the signs were all there – her late nights, her money, the men who sometimes called her phone late into the night.
Letting her go wasn’t easy. She didn’t want to leave. But slowly, and with a heavy heart, I pushed her away. I stopped seeing her in school. Just like that – she vanished, like mist in the early morning sun.
I thought that chapter of my life was closed. But that was before Bisi.
Chapter 3 – Bisi: The One I Didn’t Expect
Bisi was different. Quiet, observant, always sitting in the front row of my classes. She had this way of looking at me like she knew my secrets, like she could see through the suits and the confidence.
She started opening up about her life. Her battles. Her pain. Her past. I listened – sometimes without saying much — and gradually became her confidant. It didn’t take long for emotions to get involved.
She wasn’t the type of woman I thought I’d fall for, but there was something grounding about her. We became inseparable. We moved from hotel to hotel, refusing to go home. I had the money, and we had no worries – or so it seemed.
She introduced me to her family. Her mother, a caterer and devout Christian, adored me. Her father, a strict, grizzled lawyer living alone in Iju, warmed up to me. Bisi was the oldest of four. She carried that responsibility – and pain – like a second skin.
Three months into our relationship, I quit my job. The management’s style no longer sat right with me. Some called it foolish. Maybe they were right. But back then, I felt invincible.
Another company came calling – more money, fewer days. But I left again after two months. The environment didn’t feel right. I was jobless.
And that’s when Bisi’s father fell mysteriously ill.
Chapter 4 – The Fall
The illness came without warning. One week, Bisi’s father was fine, going about his routine with that familiar sternness. The next, his legs began to swell – massively. We rushed him to the hospital in Iju. The doctors ran all sorts of tests, but they had no answers. They used big words but gave no solutions.
I was the one footing the bills. Scan here. X-ray there. Injections. Drips. Every new day brought a new prescription and a fresh bill. But I didn’t mind. Not at first.
Then I lost my job.
It felt like a joke from the universe. In one corner was an old man whose sickness made no medical sense, and in the other corner was me – broke and frustrated. Bisi tried to stay strong, but I could see the fear creeping into her eyes.
One evening, I called my younger brother. He’s an Alfa – the kind people respect in spiritual matters. He came over, sat me down, and said something that chilled me to the bone.
“You don’t remember the warning, do you?” he said. “What warning?” I asked.
“The one from Baba Abanise – that someone close to you would fall seriously ill. And that you must not interfere.”
That memory hit me like lightning. It was true. Baba had said something like that a year ago. But how could I have known it would be Bisi’s father? Even if I did, how could I turn my back on him?
I told my brother exactly that. He sighed, then made a call. A few hours later, he took me to another Alfa – older, quiet, and firm. The man gave me a small bag.
Inside it? A bar of black soap and a bottle of palm oil.
“Rub the oil on his body. Then bathe him with this soap. If he survives, he’ll recover. If not, he’s beyond help,” the Alfa said plainly.
I was shaking inside. But I agreed.
Chapter 5 – When the Rain Fell
The rain had already started by the time we began. Not a storm, not a downpour – just that slow, persistent drizzle that settles into the air and makes everything feel heavy. Yinka and I
dragged Bisi’s father to the back of the house. He was groaning. His body felt like dead weight, and yet, somehow, he clung to life.
“Steady, steady,” I muttered, trying not to slip on the wet cement. Yinka grunted, struggling with the weight.
We finally got him onto a plastic chair. I opened the bottle of palm oil with shaking hands. The smell hit me instantly – raw, earthy, and ancient. There was something sacred about it. I didn’t say it aloud, but I was scared. More than scared. I didn’t want to be the one to hurt him. I didn’t want to fail.
I poured some oil into my palms and started rubbing it on his bloated legs. His skin felt tight and strange, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“Uncle, just relax, ehn? We’re helping you,” I whispered. He looked at me, but it wasn’t a look of recognition. It was distant – like he was already halfway into the next world.
Then came the soap.
It was black and firm. I dipped it in water and started to wash his back first, then his chest. He flinched.
Yinka looked uneasy. “Should we stop?” he asked.
“No. We need to finish it,” I replied, trying to sound brave.
But then it happened – without any warning. He convulsed. Just once. His whole body jerked like it had been shocked. Then he slumped forward, completely limp.
“Ah!” Yinka shouted.
My heart nearly burst out of my chest. “Uncle!” I screamed.
We tried lifting him. His oiled body was too slippery. He kept sliding out of our grip. We fell, got up, fell again. The drizzle was getting heavier now, mixing with the sweat and the panic.
“Please, Uncle, hold on,” I begged under my breath.
When we finally got him back on the chair, his breathing was labored. Each breath sounded like he was fighting for it. We couldn’t continue. We had to stop.
We rushed him back inside, dragging, pulling, lifting. Bisi saw us and started crying immediately.
“What happened?” she shouted. “He fainted,” I lied.
We laid him on the bed. I cradled his head in my lap. He looked up at me – this time, with a strange sort of calm. Not peace. Just… surrender.
Bisi started praying loudly. She was walking around the room, clapping, shouting in tongues. Her mother joined her. The room became a furnace of faith, echoing with chants and pleadings.
But me? I was silent.
I felt the final breath leave his lungs. It was soft, almost apologetic. Then came the warmth… spreading through my jeans. He had urinated.
He was gone.
Gone, while Bisi and her mother were still waging war in the spirit. Gone while rain continued to fall gently outside, like a song that refused to end.
I didn’t say a word. Not then.
Just sat there… with the man’s head on my lap, soaked in sorrow, in silence, in rain.
Chapter 6 – The Struggle
Morning came, but nothing felt new. The rain had finally stopped, but inside me, a storm was still raging. I sat on the edge of the bed, my jeans still damp from the night before, trying to make sense of it all. The house was quiet, eerily so. Bisi had cried herself to sleep. Her mother had left early to make arrangements. Yinka had gone silent.
We had buried her father the previous day – right there in the compound. My elder brother had handled everything: the bathing, the prayers, the burial cloth. He was a rock, calm and steady, even when my hands were shaking. Without him, I don’t know how we would’ve coped. The local Muslim elders had all refused to help. Said the man wasn’t a true believer.
“He drank too much.” “He never came to the mosque.”
Their words cut deep. I was angry, but I had no energy left to fight. Now, all that was left was the struggle.
Money was tight. No, scratch that – money was gone. I had nothing. My savings? Dried up. The little jobs I had lined up? Cancelled. I was waking up every day to nothing. Just hunger and guilt.
Bisi got a job in Ikeja. It wasn’t much, but it kept her busy – and distracted. Every morning,
we’d leave the house together. I’d walk her to the bus stop. She’d head to Allen, and I’d pretend I had somewhere to go.
But I didn’t.
Once she left, I’d hop on a danfo to Oshodi, get down, and start walking – all the way to
Onipanu. I always stopped at my sister’s house. She never asked questions. She just gave me something — food, a little cash, anything she could manage. God bless her.
After that, I’d walk to a public library. Not to read. Just to sit. To pass time. To disappear.
I didn’t want to go back home. I didn’t want the neighbors – or my tenants – to see me idle. In Lagos, the minute people sense you’re struggling, the respect fades. I couldn’t bear that.
Bisi noticed I was fading, but she never said it. Not directly.
What she did say one evening, as we ate cold rice with no meat, was, “I’ve been thinking of going back to school… to complete my HND.”
I looked at her. “That’s good,” I said, trying to smile.
But deep down, I knew – I just knew – that once she left, she wouldn’t come back.
Things between us started to change. She stopped contributing to the little we managed at home. Some nights she didn’t come back at all. When I asked, she had ready-made excuses: she stayed with a friend, had a late shift, was too tired.
Then, I fell sick.
Painful urination. Strange discharge. My heart sank. Gonorrhea.
I didn’t even confront her at first. I was too embarrassed. But I had no doubt where it came from. One evening, Yinka — bless him – called me aside.
“She has another place,” he said quietly. “What?” “Another apartment. Not far from her office. She sleeps there when she doesn’t want to come home.”
I was stunned. My mind went blank.
All I could think of was her father – the man who died in my arms. The sacrifices. The prayers. The promises. And now… this.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t fight. I just began to shut down inside.
Because when someone you love starts leaving you silently – piece by piece – there’s no noise. Just a slow, unbearable quiet.
Chapter 7 – Goodbye, Bisi
It’s funny how you can feel someone slipping away from you even when they’re lying beside you.
After the sickness, after the burial, after the joblessness and hunger – I could see it. Bisi was there in body, but not in spirit. Her eyes no longer lit up when I spoke. Her laughter faded. Her hugs felt like obligations.
We had shared everything – food, struggle, prayer, even sorrow – but now it was like we were just two people renting space in the same life.
Then came the confirmation. One evening, she came home late – again. I didn’t ask questions. I just watched her quietly as she dropped her bag and went straight into the bathroom.
From the bathroom, her voice floated out: “I’ve paid part of the fees already. I just need to balance the rest before next month.”
I sat up. “Fees?”
She poked her head out. “For my HND. Didn’t I tell you?” No. She hadn’t.
But I just nodded. “Oh. That’s good. That’s really good.”
Inside, my stomach turned. That was the final nail. The moment I’d been dreading had come. I knew she was leaving — not just the house, but the life we had built, no matter how broken it was.
I still remember the day she finally left for school. She packed just a few things. Not enough for a full semester, but enough to let me know she wasn’t planning to come back.
“I’ll call you,” she said, forcing a smile. I didn’t believe her.
And I was right.
Weeks passed. Then months. Her calls became fewer, shorter, colder.
Then came the text: “I think we need to take a break. I need to focus on myself and school right now. I hope you understand.”
Take a break? From what? From a man who gave everything even when he had nothing left? I stared at the message for a long time. No anger. Just numbness.
I remembered bathing her father with palm oil, rubbing his back while he slipped away from life. I remembered the way she prayed that night, the desperation in her voice. The way she had once clung to me like I was her lifeline.
And now… this was how it ended.
I didn’t reply the message. There was nothing left to say.
I left the house two days later. Took a danfo to Ikorodu. My younger brother had a spare mattress and some space on the floor.
That was enough for me.
No woman. No job. No money. No plan. Just me.
And somehow, even in that deep, hopeless place – I felt something stir. Maybe not hope. But maybe… maybe the beginning of it.
Chapter 8 – After the Rain
Ikorodu wasn’t my first choice – it was my only choice. My younger brother welcomed me without question. He had a small place, barely enough for himself, but he made room. We shared his floor, his food, his silence.
Waking up in that room each morning, hearing the sound of Keke Napeps and the voices of street hawkers, reminded me I was still alive. Not thriving, not even surviving well – just alive.
Every morning, I’d brush my teeth by the roadside tap. I’d sit outside watching neighbors hustle past, kids in uniforms, bus conductors yelling destinations like war cries.
Nobody knew who I was – and for the first time in a long while, I liked that.
I thought of Bisi more often than I cared to admit. Every little thing reminded me of her – a song on the radio, a hairstyle, a brand of perfume. But the hurt began to dull. Not disappear – just dull, like an old scar that still itched sometimes but didn’t bleed anymore.
I visited cybercafés, sometimes pretending to look for jobs, other times just browsing idly, trying to distract myself. I still avoided my old neighborhood. Too many eyes. Too many questions.
Some days, I’d see people I once taught driving cars, living the life I used to know. They’d wave, sometimes stop to greet. I’d smile, lie that everything was fine, and watch them drive off.
I spent a lot of time thinking.
Not just about Bisi, or Janet, or the jobs I left, or the father I couldn’t save. But about myself. Who was I without the title, the job, the suits, the women?
I didn’t have an answer. But I was starting to ask the right questions.
Eventually, I started volunteering at a local community center. Nothing major. Just helping kids with their homework. Teaching them the basics of computing. One of them asked me once:
“Oga, why you dey teach us for free?”
I laughed. “Because someone taught me once too. And I didn’t pay either.” He nodded like he understood, even if he didn’t.
Slowly, something began to shift. I started to feel useful again. Needed. Human.
That was when I realized – the rain hadn’t just come to destroy. It came to wash things away. To make space.
Space for new beginnings.
And though my pockets were still empty, and my future still unclear, I stood up every morning, faced the world, and whispered to myself:
“It didn’t end when the rain fell… it began.”
