This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A quick dash across the road from Mulika’s house brought the two ladies to Afeez’s waiting taxi. Usually, by this time of day, Afeez’s eyes were dull with fatigue, but today, they gleamed with a newfound intensity. Moria’s first payment, before even asking him to wait, had far exceeded his typical monthly earnings, sparking a fire in him.

Spotting the two women approaching, he pulled the taxi forward.

“There’s a good buka in the KS Motel area if you really want some great amala,” Mulika said, responding to Moria’s earlier request for a good local restaurant.

“Afeez could you take us there?” Moria asked. “She’ll give you directions if needed.”

“Yes, ma, I know that area very well,” he replied. As soon as the two passengers were settled in the back, he pulled into the traffic on Ogunmola Road. Driving past the Beere roundabout and onto Basorun/Gate Road, then taking a slight left onto Adeoyo/Oje Road, brought them to Yemetu Aladorin Street. From here, they could see Oke Are, the highest hill in Ibadan, clearly, but not the famous Bower’s Tower that sat on it.

As they reached the junction where Adeoyo Maternity Hospital stood, Moria let out a loud shout. “I know this place! I was born here!”

“That’s why I was surprised you didn’t recognise Oke Are,” Mulika said with a laugh. “This whole area used to be your playground.”

“A lot has changed, Mulika,” Moria said, looking out the window at the familiar yet foreign streets. “This isn’t the same Ibadan I used to know.”

A knowing smile spread across Afeez’s face. She’s a true “son of the soil,” he thought to himself, bringing the car to a stop.

“The buka is over there,” he said, pointing to a set of shops just across a small gutter.

Moria’s unexplained wealth, the way she moved with a quiet purpose, intrigued him. He sensed a story beneath the surface, something hidden, something that demanded his vigilance, but first, he felt a divine responsibility to be her guardian angel and not just a taxi driver. He must keep her safe in this city.

Afeez watched as the ladies disappeared into the Buka. Moria had offered him lunch, but he had politely declined. His instincts told him to stay with the car and keep a watchful eye. Ibadan was generally a safe city, but a man in his profession knew better than to be complacent. Though the drive to the buka had been uneventful, it had not been without its moments of tension. The few Agberos[1] they’d passed missed looking into his car; if they had seen Moria’s dressing, it might have caught their attention and probably led to a demand for money. He couldn’t forget the sight of the near-toothless Agbero leaping onto the bonnet of a Micra ahead of them in his desperate attempt to extort money.

Throughout the drive from Beere, Moria and her companion, Mulika, had chatted nonstop about everything and nothing. It was from their casual conversation that he’d learned her name and that she was a native of Ibadan. Now, watching her through the restaurant’s window, he saw her diving into a plate of Amala[2] with a gusto that completely contradicted her sophisticated appearance.

With lunch done, stepping over the gutter separating the restaurant from the road where the taxi was parked, Moria said, “Afeez, please take us to the Premier Hotel.” In his five years of navigating Ibadan’s chaotic streets, no one had ever asked him to go to the Premier Hotel. His beat-up taxi simply wasn’t the kind of vehicle that frequented such a landmark, a place that represented a world beyond his own. As he cautiously drove into the hotel’s grand foyer, a smartly dressed bellboy appeared, opening the rear door with a practised flourish.

“Afeez, thank you for the good job today. Would you be available to drive me around tomorrow as well?” Moria asked casually.

“Yes, ma. What time should I be here?” he replied, managing to keep his voice even.

“Nine a.m. will be fine, and please come with a full tank of petrol. We have a long trip ahead of us,” Moria said, subtly emphasising the word “long.” Then, with a gesture that took his breath away, she slipped him ten crisp American bills.

The Presidential Suite with its plush carpets and hushed luxury made Mulika gasp. Her eyes, wide with wonder, darted between the massive 56-inch television, the whisper-quiet air conditioner, and the overflowing refrigerator, which she opened to reveal a treasure trove of treats.

“Moria, don’t look at me like that,” she confessed, a blush rising on her cheeks. “I have never seen anything like this.” Moria smiled gently, her own heart warmed by Mulika’s uninhibited delight.

While Moria went to the bathroom to shower, Mulika settled in front of the television, happily munching on a packet of chocolate she had grabbed from the fridge.

Refreshed from her shower, Moria returned to the living room, happy to be in Mulika’s company again. They spent a long time reminiscing. Their shared memories included trips to the river to fetch drinking water, during which they had often talked about boys. Moria’s first love had been Lekan. She had lost touch with him after leaving Nigeria, so she was eager to hear Mulika’s news.

Evening arrived, with Mulika in the other room, Moria finally settled into her room. Her window offered a clear view of Ibadan, the city sprawling before her with its rusty tin roofs stretching to the horizon. What she saw reminded her of J.P. Clark’s poem about Ibadan:

Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold-flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
China in the sun.

When she had been made to recite it in literature class, she had not understood the “rust and gold.” Now, she could see through J.P.’s eyes. But sleep beckoned. In the morning, she and Mulika would set off for Ijebu-Igbo, passing through Elekuro to visit the Baale’s house first, then on to Akanran, the battleground of the Agbekoya.

A sharp streak of sunlight sliced through the pristine white linen blinds, casting golden veins across the room. It was this sudden intrusion – alongside the low, mechanical hum of what Moria would later discover was a carpet cleaner – that tugged her from sleep’s reluctant grip.

From the bedroom, she could hear the soft murmur of a television drifting in from the lounge. That meant Mulika was already up.

Moria groaned inwardly. Her limbs felt like they were stitched to the mattress. She glanced down at herself and sighed – still in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. No silky nightdress, no evening ritual. Just exhaustion. She had collapsed into bed like a dropped coat.

As she shuffled toward the bathroom, a dull ache pulsed at her left temple. Not unfamiliar, it was her body’s way of whispering, slow down. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and winced. The woman staring back looked worn, frayed at the edges. But Mulika wouldn’t care, she is no stranger to her.

Business in the bathroom done, Moria wandered into the lounge and found Mulika exactly where she expected – curled up on one of the plush couches, remote in hand, eyes bright.

“Good morning, Muli,” Moria said, the childhood nickname slipping easily from her lips. “How was your night?”

Mulika beamed, using Moria’s full name as she used to like it. “Fantastic, Moriamo. What’s there to complain about in a place like this? I’m soaking in every second.” She chuckled. “I actually came to check on you earlier, but your gentle snoring told me all I needed to know.”

Moria laughed, rubbing her temple. “Have you ordered breakfast? I’m starving.”

“I was waiting for Her Royal Highness to rise,” Mulika teased. “I’m not quite sure how things work around here, and I’m famished too.”

Moria reached for the phone and they placed their orders—different meals, same gnawing hunger. With breakfast on its way, they agreed to retreat to their rooms, freshen up, and meet at the dining table.

At breakfast, Moria was eager to return to their discussion about the Agbekoya insurrections, trying to weave all the new information into a compelling narrative. But Mulika seemed lost in her own thoughts, a cloud settling over her bright eyes.

“What is it, Mulika?” Moria asked.

“Moria, in this story you’re writing, you need to sieve the truth from the lies, the embellishments and half-truths.”

“What are you insinuating?” Moria said, her fork poised over her plate. “Are you saying there were lies in what you had told me?”

“No, not at all. I just want to warn you, as we meet others, that there is always the risk of self-adulation by storytellers, so you just need to be aware of that,” Mulika responded.

Moria paused, nibbled a little at her food, and was momentarily lost in thought. A sudden clarity seemed to wash over her. “Mulika, I’ve never told you this, but I am sorry for all you have had to go through. No woman should ever experience a forced marriage, not to mention the molestation bordering on rape that you experienced.”

“It took me a long while to get over it, if I can even say I did,” Mulika said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I still have flashbacks of that night. I had to forgive my parents; surely, they didn’t know better. For years, I kept my distance from them, from everyone. I became a total recluse.”

“You did?” Moria said, her heart aching for her friend. “I can imagine.”

“Yes, I did. Life had no more meaning to me. I gave up on my education, my aspirations, on myself. Look at me – decades after, I still find it hard to start.”

Moria reached across the table and took Mulika’s hands, holding her palms in hers. She gave them a gentle squeeze. “You can start again, and I’ll be there to see you do so. When I get back to Boston, I’ll work toward bringing you over. You can work in my firm. It won’t be easy, but we can pull this off. You have a friend in me, Mulika.”

A tear welled in Mulika’s eyes. Moria handed her a napkin. “You don’t need to thank me,” Moria said softly. “I’d expect the same from you if the situation were reversed. I am just doing what you would have done.” She gave Mulika’s hands one last reassuring squeeze. “Okay, girl, let’s finish breakfast. We have a long day ahead of us.”

When they finished, they headed downstairs to meet Afeez, who had called to announce his arrival.

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[1] Area Boys

[2] Local food delicacy