Chapter 4: The Red Room

When we reach there, if you say na hell we enter, you no go lie.

Even police wey don see many things for city, fear catch them. Some young constable dey vomit, one nearly faint.

The victim, Morayo, naked, dey lie for her back for bed, hand and leg tie for bedpost, mouth open, one big cut for her neck, blood everywhere.

No woman deserve that kind ending. She just dey there, like say sleep catch am, but her body tell another story.

That wound be like tap wey dem forget close, all her blood don finish.

Everywhere for room—bed, floor, wall—just dey soak for red. You fit smell palm oil and old sweat mix with blood—village house get own smell.

Morayo before dey fresh, body strong like yam tendril for rainy season—thick, strong, no dey fear sun or rain.

People for village dey always call her “Morayo the strong.” She fit carry load pass some men, and she dey laugh, dey work, no dey complain.

Now, she don reduce, be like sugarcane after dem don squeeze am—white, weak. Only her lips, wey lipstick full, still red well, like say e dey talk secret wey nobody fit hear.

Her face quiet, like person wey wan tell story but words no gree come out.