Part 2
Kelechi took the paper before Folake could pull it back. It was a payment receipt from Golden Home Domestic Services, an agency run by Folake’s cousin in Lekki. His company account had been charged every month for Nneka’s full salary, transport allowance, feeding allowance, and health support. Yet Nneka had been receiving less than half. Folake did not look ashamed. She looked annoyed that the paper had been touched. —It is not your concern, Kelechi. I manage the house. —With stolen wages? he asked. Folake’s eyes flashed. —Do not use that word. Nneka stood beside the tray as if the floor had turned to water. —Sir, I did not know the amount. Madam said agency fees were deducted. I believed her. —And Sophie… no, your Ada. Is she in school? Nneka’s breath caught. —Not now, sir. Fees were due 2 months ago. Kelechi turned to Folake. —You knew she had 3 children? Folake lifted her chin. —Everyone has problems. If we start carrying every poor woman’s life on our head, where does it end? The words were quiet, but they landed like a slap. That afternoon, Kelechi drove alone to Ajegunle, following the address Nneka reluctantly gave him. He did not enter the room. He stopped at the staircase of a peeling building and saw enough. Ada was outside, holding Zina on one hip while Chiamaka washed a plastic cup in a basin. When Nneka arrived, all 3 girls ran to her like the world had been returned to them. Kelechi watched the way the oldest child stopped smiling first, checked her mother’s face, and only relaxed when Nneka nodded. That look broke him more than the kitchen floor had. The next day, he paid Ada’s school fees, arranged a clinic visit for all 4 of them, doubled Nneka’s salary, and told her she would work only in his house, Monday to Friday, with proper meals and a driver taking her home by 6:00. Nneka cried without sound. Folake waited 1 week before striking back. On a Thursday evening, while Kelechi was stuck in traffic on Third Mainland Bridge, she entered the kitchen and saw Nneka packing leftover moi moi and stew into containers. —Drop that food. Nneka froze. —Madam, sir said I can take leftovers home. —My husband has lost his senses over you. I have not. Drop it. Nneka placed the containers down. Folake stepped closer. —You think because he followed you to your slum, you are now family? You think pity is promotion? By morning, your name will be back at the agency, and I will make sure no decent house in Lagos hires you again. At that moment, Daniel, Kelechi’s 10-year-old son, appeared at the doorway. He had heard everything. —Mummy, why are you talking to her like that? Folake spun around. —Go upstairs. —No. Daddy said Aunty Nneka helps this house. Folake slapped the table so hard the containers shook. —I said go upstairs! Nneka moved instinctively between Folake and the boy. Folake’s face twisted. —So now you are protecting my child from me? When Kelechi walked in 5 minutes later, Folake was already calling the security guard. —Escort this woman out. Kelechi’s voice cut through the room. —Nobody will touch her. Then Daniel stepped forward, holding Folake’s phone in his hand. —Daddy, I recorded everything. And there is something else in Mummy’s messages.
Leave a Comment