Peculiar onyedikachi
ABOUT ME
ABOUT ME
STORY BY Peculiar onyedikachi
The girl who sold Sunday rice
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Mama Nkechi’s pot was the biggest pot on Rumuomasi Street. It was black at the bottom from fire, and had 3 dents from when Amara dropped it running. Every Sunday by 11am, the smell would start traveling. Jollof. Stew. Fried chicken. Plantain. By 11:30am, people would be queuing with plates, takeaway packs, and pure water. The girl behind the pot was *Amara Okafor*. 22 years old. 5’4. Tired eyes. Strong hands. Two years ago she was in 300 Level at RSU, studying Accounting. First class student. Head girl in secondary school. Today she was known as “Sunday Rice Girl.” It wasn’t the plan. Her dad, Mr. Okafor, died of stroke on a Tuesday. Just like that. He was the one paying school fees. The one who said “My daughter will be a big accountant.” After burial, the bills came. ₦180,000 school fees. ₦120,000 house rent increase. Chidi, her 10-year-old brother, needed books and uniform. Amara went to the HOD to beg for extension. “2 months, sir. Please.” He said, “No money, no exam. Rules are rules.” She sold her laptop. ₦60,000. She sold her phone. ₦40,000. It still wasn’t enough. So on a Sunday, with ₦15,000 borrowed from Mama Nkechi, she bought one big pot, 1 bag of rice, 1 crate of chicken, and tomatoes. She told herself: “Just this Sunday. To feed Chidi and pay rent.” That first Sunday, 8 people bought. She made ₦12,000 profit. Second Sunday, 15 people. Third Sunday, someone posted her on Facebook: “This girl’s jollof tastes like home. Rumuomasi Junction.” By month 3, people were coming from Rumuokwuta, Eliozu, even D-Line to buy. “Sunday Rice by Amara” was born. Her routine became law: Wake 4am. Go to Mile 1 Market before price goes up. Cook from 7am. Serve 11am to 4pm. Wash pots till 6pm. Count money. Pay rent. Buy food. Save ₦5,000 for Chidi. Sleep 11pm. Repeat. She didn’t complain. Much. But some Sundays her back would hurt so bad she cried in the bathroom. Some Sundays customers would shout: “This meat is small!” and she would smile and add another one. Chidi was proud of her. “My sister is a business woman,” he told his classmates. Amara used the money to put him in a better school. One rainy Sunday, 3:30pm, business was almost done. Only one plate of rice left. A man came. White shirt, now soaked. Black trousers. Beard not shaved. Eyes tired like he hadn’t slept. “Is there still rice?” he asked. Amara nodded. “Yes. ₦1000.” The man brought out ₦500 and 5 coins. “This is all I have. Please. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” The women behind him would have shouted “No money no rice!” Amara looked at him. Really looked. She served him. Full plate. 2 pieces of chicken. Plantain. And extra stew. “God bless you,” the man said. He sat on the bench and ate like someone who forgot what food tasted like. “Wait,” Amara said when he finished. “What’s your name?” He wiped his mouth. “Emeka. Emeka Nwosu.” “What do you do, Emeka?” He laughed bitterly. “I used to be a supervisor at a logistics company. 3 months ago they sacked 40 of us. No severance. I’ve been applying. Nothing.” Amara nodded. “Come back next Sunday. I’ll save you a plate.” Emeka looked up, confused. “Why? I can’t pay full price.” “Because someone once gave me food when I had ₦0,” Amara said. “And because God said to share.” For the next 4 Sundays, Emeka came. Always around 3pm. Always with ₦500. Amara always gave him full plate. They didn’t talk much. Just “How are you?” “I’m fine.” On the 5th Sunday, he came at 10am. Early. With a small bag. “I got a job,” he said, and his smile was so big it changed his whole face. “Security guard. Night shift at a bank in GRA. ₦40,000.” Amara screamed and clapped. “See God! Sit. Eat. On the house today.” He ate, then brought out ₦2000. “This is for the past 4 Sundays.” Amara pushed it back. “No. Use it for boots and torchlight for night duty.” Emeka didn’t argue. He just looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. After that, Emeka started coming every Sunday. Not to beg. To help. He carried the 25L gallons of water from the borehole. He arranged plastic chairs. He stood at the entrance and told boys, “If you don’t have money, don’t come and disturb.” People started noticing. “Amara and that security man are close o.” “They make a good pair.” Amara would laugh it off. “He’s just helping me. That’s all.” But Emeka was different. He remembered small things. That she liked her tea with 2 cubes of sugar. That Chidi’s birthday was in August. That she hated when people wasted food. One Sunday, business was slow. Rain was falling since morning. By 2pm, only 5 people had come. Amara was packing up when
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THE DEBT SHE DIDN'T PAY
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. *CHAPTER 1: THE 2AM CALL _ The phone screamed at 2:14am. Lucy Adeleke jolted awake on the thin mattress she shared with her brother Tunde in their one-room apartment in Rumuokwuta, Port Harcourt. The generator outside had just cut, and the room was hot and dark. The screen said: *Unknown Number*. She almost ignored it. At this hour it was usually airtime scammers or fake EFCC. But her chest was tight. “Hello?” “Lucy Adeleke?” A man’s voice. Hard. Official. “Inspector Bello, Alagbon Police, Lagos. We have your father in custody.” The floor seemed to drop under her. “My father? Mr. Joseph Adeleke? What... what happened?” “He’s being charged with fraud. ₦45 million. Company funds. He signed the documents.” ₦45 million. Lucy had never held that much money in her life. Her father was a retired principal. He still haggled over ₦200 tomatoes. “That’s a mistake,” she said, voice shaking. “There must be a mistake.” “Come to Alagbon tomorrow. 9am. Or we arraign him Friday.” Click. Tunde sat up. “Sis? Who was that?” “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” She didn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling fan that wasn’t moving and counted her savings: ₦18,400. By 5am she was at Mile 3 Park, boarding the first bus to Lagos. She told her boss at the clinic she had a “family emergency.” She left Tunde with ₦5,000 and their neighbor Mama Nkechi. The 6-hour journey was hell. She called her dad. Switched off. She called her mom. Switched off too. Alagbon was grey, tall, and full of people who looked like they’d given up. Inspector Bello slid a file to her. Inside: bank statements, transfer forms, and her father’s signature. Over and over. “Your father and two other directors diverted ₦45,000,000 to a private company,” Bello said. “Cole Holdings is pressing charges. If he can’t refund it, minimum 10 years.” Lucy looked at the signature. It was close. But her father’s real signature had a loop on the J. This one didn’t. “Can I see him?” They brought Joseph Adeleke in. He looked smaller. Grey hair, sunken eyes. “My Lucy,” he whispered, holding her hands. “I didn’t do it.” “Daddy, then who did?” “Richard Cole. The new MD. I reported him for inflating contracts 3 years ago. He never forgot.” He explained: Last month he was called to “sign retirement clearance.” A whole stack. He didn’t read. Why would he? 25 years of service. “Do you have proof?” Lucy asked. He shook his head. “Just my word.” On the bus back to Yaba, Lucy cried silently. ₦45 million. Even selling their house in Port Harcourt wouldn’t be enough. That night in a ₦8,000 hotel room, she made a vow. She would find who did this. Even if it killed her. #### *CHAPTER 2: THE MAN IN THE BLACK RANGE* _∼1000 words_ Lagos swallowed her. Day 1: Cole Holdings. The security said “No visitors without appointment.” Day 2: She waited outside from 7am to 6pm. At 5:42pm he came out. *Richard Cole.* 40 years old. Tailored navy suit. Gold watch. Hair cut clean. He walked like the ground belonged to him. Lucy followed. Her heart was in her mouth. She took two buses to trail his black Range Rover to an upscale restaurant in VI. Through the glass, she saw him with a woman in a red dress. Laughing. Drinking wine that cost more than Lucy’s monthly salary. Then she heard it. “Relax, babe,” Richard said. “The old man will rot in Kirikiri. By next month the case is closed. That signature was perfect.” The woman giggled. “You’re terrible.” “I’m rich,” Richard corrected, cutting steak. Lucy’s hands shook so badly she could only record 8 seconds before hiding her phone. Proof. Not perfect, but proof. Inspector Bello watched the video the next morning and shrugged. “He didn’t say a crime. This won’t hold in court.” Lucy left the station feeling stupid. “Lucy Adeleke?” She turned. A guy around 25, plain shirt, laptop bag, tired eyes. “I’m David Okoro. I used to be IT at Cole Holdings. I heard about your dad. I think Richard is dirty. And I think I can help you prove it.” They sat at a buka. David told her he was fired for “asking questions about the finance server.” “I made backups,” he said. “Before they locked me out.” He opened his laptop. Spreadsheets. Emails. Transfer logs. March 14. ₦45,000,000. From Cole Holdings to “Bright Future Consulting Ltd.” Authorized: R. Cole. “But the police said my dad signed,” Lucy said. David zoomed in. “Because he forged it. See these pixels? This is a scanned signature pasted onto a PDF. Real signatures don’t have this edge.” Lucy felt something for the first time in days: hope. “We can’t just
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