Chapter 1: Shame Under Christmas Lights

My real younger sister lost her chastity at the Christmas party.

That night, shame dey fly for air like harmattan slap bare skin. Christmas lights still dey blink outside, party music dey fade, but my heart don cold. Even goat wey dey chop leftover rice outside stop, as if e dey listen for wahala. The ceiling fan for parlour dey turn slow, just dey sigh for our family disgrace. People don begin gather, their eyes shine like torchlight, hungry for gist.

As Tunde Ayeni see the way people dey look, he scatter him own clothes by himself—agbada for ground, one shoe miss, palm wine stain everywhere.

He no just ruffle shirt anyhow—agbada for ground, one fine shoe waka, even pour palm wine for him white singlet. That one alone, I go remember am till I old. The crowd dey whisper, old mama from next compound just cover her mouth with wrapper, eyes wide like calabash.

When me and others reach, na so we catch Tunde and my real sister, both of them just scatter and rough.

Door open with wahala, like say person break shrine lock. Everybody freeze. Tunde and Ifeoma—hair rough, wrapper loose, clothes half-wear—looked like two goats wey thief catch for yam barn. My own heart dey knock like ogene, but my face strong like cement.

He wey always gentle and upright, lie for the first time, say na him take advantage of my real younger sister when e drunk.

If you see Tunde, ehn—voice crack like broken drum. He talk say na him do am, say na him go bear all the wahala. For this our town, that kind confession heavy, especially for person wey people dey respect. Even elders just dey look, some dey shake head, others dey rub beard, quiet.

People begin give me strange look, words hang for air like harmattan dust wey no dey finish.

Women start dey murmur, form circle like market sellers after evening prayer. My skin dey prick, like say ants dey crawl under. Every eye dey find my own for crowd, dey wait whether I go cry or fight. The whole matter just hang for air, like rain wey dey threaten but never fall. Somebody for corner dey fry akara, but even the smell no sweet again. Everybody just dey wait for gist.

[Omo, wahala no dey finish! This one na real telenovela.]

[Abeg, side babe don lose guard. Next episode go mad!]