Chapter 1: The Ten-Naira Secret

When I was small, my papa once give me one ten-naira note as pocket money.

I still remember how the note feel that Saturday morning—soft, corners almost tearing, but for my small hand, e be like treasure. As early morning breeze blow, the smell of wet sand and frying akara from Mama Chinedu compound dey mix with the faint scent of kerosene stove. From somewhere next door, one radio dey play old fuji song, the singer voice just dey scatter for air. After I finish sweep compound, papa call me inside parlor, rub my head, then press the note for my palm. Money no dey easy for our side that year, so happiness just full my body as I dance go backyard, the note safe inside my shorts pocket.

He tell me say na for road he pick am.

I watch papa face close—his eyes meet mine, and for one moment, I catch small flicker of worry cross him face before he force smile. He shake head, then talk that thing old people dey always talk: “Na so e be. This world get as e dey, sometimes you fit see money for road, but na who know where e come from?” The way he talk am, voice heavy like stone, but I just nod, happy say I get money.

I still remember am well: for the back of that note, dem use thick black marker write one line—

The line stand bold, black ink almost soaking through the paper, like say the person rush write am. As I rub finger on top, the marker stain my thumb small. The message dey heavy for my mind:

"There is a cult group on the fifth floor, help."

That time, the thing just confuse me. Cult? Fifth floor? For our area, buildings no dey pass two storey. I no even understand wetin the note dey try talk.

I show the note to my papa. He just smile and talk:

He collect the note, look am for one second, then return am to me. “Who sabi how many people don use this money? Who know when dem write that thing? Maybe the person wey write am don already get help.” He wave am off like breeze. But I notice as jaw tight small before he force another smile. Adults fit hide plenty thing for their face.

That time, na chocolate dey my mind, so I no even reason am well.

As soon as he finish talk, I rush go junction, money tight for my hand, already dey count the steps to Mama Nkoli’s shop for one big FiveStar chocolate. That was the only thing I see that day—chocolate. Wetin concern me concern cult?

Not too long after, one news flash for TV:

The headline just scatter everywhere: “One man mistakenly enter cult group den, dem beat am die, then cut am into pieces.” Even my younger sister wey dey play Ludo freeze for where she dey. My mama just hiss, “Kai, this country sef.”

As pikin, I glance my papa—he dey look TV screen well, face don pale like person wey see masquerade for midnight.

E no be normal pale oh. This one, colour for him face vanish, like say him see dead body. I never see papa like that before. I keep dey look am, try reason wetin fit dey worry am.

I ask am wetin happen. He just shout for me, say make I mind my business, then bang door waka comot.

The shout loud sotay neighbours for next compound fit hear. My mama just clap hand, say, “Ah-ah, wetin dey do this man?” But me, I just stand for corner, my head full, heart dey beat fast. Why e react like that?

I no even understand wetin dey worry am, I just dey confused.

I waka go my room, sit for bed, the whole thing dey replay for my mind. Maybe na the news disturb am? I no know. I just dey lost, small pikin brain no fit join the matter.

Until New Year’s Eve. For family dinner, my papa drink scatter, start to cry, then confess for front of all our relatives about how e pick that note.

E never reach midnight that day, but everybody don already gather for parlour—rice, jollof, stew everywhere. My papa hold schnapps bottle, dey yarn anyhow. Suddenly, tears begin drop for his face. E shake, voice dey tremble. People first laugh, think say e dey play, until e shout, “Na me! Na me kill that man!” The whole parlour just quiet like graveyard.

The place wey e see the money na just under the same building wey dem talk for news.

As he talk am, my aunty cover mouth, my uncle hold chest, small cousin begin cry. My papa dey tremble, sweat dey flow with the tears, as e repeat, “Na under the building I pick am, na that same place.”

So e mean say, that message for the ten-naira note, na person wey dem trap for that cult group den write am—maybe even the same person wey dem kill and cut.

As the thing settle for air, everywhere heavy. Na so reality land for everybody. For that moment, the note no be just ordinary money again; e become confession, secret, and sorrow all join together. Even the smell of fried chicken no reach my nose again.

He cry sotay, hold bottle, dey shout say na him kill that man. Everybody dey try calm am down. Na only me stand one side, shock, just dey lost.

My mama and my uncles rush hold am, beg am say, “Chief, e no be your fault. You no know.” But e no gree. Me, I just stand like tree, my head empty. My eyes dey inside my papa own, but e no fit see me—e dey far inside him pain.

So… na that kind money I use buy chocolate…

The sweet taste come bitter for my memory. Even now, I no fit look ordinary chocolate without remember that day. My hand still dey shake as I remember, the guilt tie my chest small, like say the spirit of the person wey write that message dey follow me waka.

E be like say something wey I no fit talk wake up inside me.

E dey like when harmattan dey blow for inside heart—dry, sharp, and you no fit see am finish. I begin fear say the world get plenty evil wey dey hide under small, ordinary things.

For years after that, sometimes I go still remember that ten-naira note.

Sometimes, when I dey alone for night, cold go catch me as the memory go flash for my mind—how I no see the sign, how I just waka pass another person cry. E go disturb my sleep; I go dey toss for bed, the image of that note dey shine for my eyes.

I go dey wonder: That person wey get the money before, e dey okay now? Dem rescue am true true? Or… na from the person wey dem kill the note come?

The questions dey follow me everywhere like stubborn fly. Even if na random person, e pain me say cry for help fit just vanish like that. Sometimes I go pray say maybe, just maybe, another person see the note and help, but deep inside, I know say hope small.

If na really from am, then before e die, e go don suffer pass wetin mouth fit talk. Maybe, as e dey struggle, e see chance, just use blood or pen write cry for help for the money, then throw am out window.

My mind go dey imagine how e manage write am—maybe na inside small toilet, maybe e dey shiver, maybe e dey whisper prayer as e dey scribble the words, just dey beg for miracle.

E go dey hope say person go rescue am till e last breath.

E get as e dey. Hope be like small candle for big darkness. For the person mind, maybe e dey believe say one good soul go see the note, raise alarm, call police. E no know say the note go waka pass so many hand, reach my papa, then reach me, then turn to chocolate.

But my papa just ignore the hope.

That one dey pain me pass. E shock me say grown person fit miss cry for help because of fear or wahala for him own life. E make me dey wonder if I self fit do the same.

I dey always ask myself: If na me see that note first, I for fit save am? Or I go just ignore am like my papa?

Every year when I dey see New Year fireworks, I go dey ask God, if na me, I for get courage to act? Or I for let fear tie my hand?

This thought dey haunt me like spirit, dey worry my mind as I dey grow.

As I turn adult, the worry no reduce. Sometimes, I go dey see shadow for my dream—one hand dey wave small paper, one mouth dey shout but I no dey hear am. E be like say the person dey beg me, but voice no dey reach.

Until that day.

The day shock me well. I no expect say history fit repeat itself for my front.

Another note show for my front.