Abieuwa

Chapter 1

My name is Abieuwa Eloghosa.

Most people call me Abbie because they say my full name is too heavy for their mouth. I let them call me that because I am tired of correcting people. In this life, there are bigger things to fight for.

I am thirty-three years old. I am the first daughter of the Eloghosa family. I live in Lagos. I work in Lagos. I suffer in Lagos. I survive in Lagos.

Every day, I wake up with one new bill, one old problem, and one expectation hanging on my neck.

If you see me outside, you will think I have a beautiful life.

I always look put together. My wigs stay neat. My nails are clean. My bags are structured. My lipstick is always calm and mature, the type that says, "I have sense." I know how to speak in meetings. I know how to smile when I am annoyed. I know how to look expensive even when my account balance is insulting me.

People like women like me.

Women like me look strong.

Women like me are dying quietly.

The morning everything started, I woke up by 5:02 a.m. to the sound of the generator from the next compound and the heat of sweat behind my knees. NEPA had taken light in the middle of the night again, and my fan had stopped turning. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to gather the strength to stand up and start another day I did not ask for.

My phone was beside my pillow. I reached for it and saw four missed calls.

Mummy.
Mummy.
Adesuwa.
Unknown number.

I did not even need to call back before I knew trouble was waiting for me somewhere.

I sat up slowly and rubbed my face. My one-bedroom flat was quiet. The kind of quiet that reminds you that you live alone and everything in this house is your responsibility. The rent. The electricity. The food. The broken tap in the kitchen. The tiny leak in the bathroom. The peace. The loneliness.

Sometimes I liked living alone.

Sometimes I hated how lonely and silent my own life is.

I stood from the bed and walked to the mirror hanging close to my wardrobe. I was wearing a loose shirt and shorts. My eyes were puffy. My bonnet had shifted to one side. I looked tired, but still fine. I was still a fine woman. Let nobody lie to me.

I lifted my shirt and looked at my stomach.

There it was.

That small fold that refused to disappear.

That softness around my waist that every shapewear in Lagos had tried to defeat.

I turned sideways.

My hips were there, but not in the way social media liked.

My stomach was not flat.

My back was not curved enough.

My body was good, but these days good did not seem to be enough for anybody.

I dropped my shirt and hissed.

"Òy' èsé," I muttered to myself.

It is fine.

That was a lie I told myself too often.

I went into the kitchen, boiled water, and made tea. While the kettle was still making noise, I called my mother back.

She picked on the first ring as if she had been waiting with the phone in her hand.

"Abieuwa."

That was how she said my name whenever she wanted me to remember I was the firstborn.