11/04/2025
BROKEN VOWS AND SHATTERED DREAMS
Chapter 1:
LOVE AND DECEIT
The yellow danfo bus honked furiously as it weaved through the chaos of Mushin junction. The air buzzed with the scent of roasted suya, diesel fumes, and the never-ending calls of hawkers chasing after moving vehicles.
Amara balanced a tray of ripe bananas on her head, her slim frame weaving expertly through the street madness. At seventeen, her beauty was like a delicate flower growing in a gutter — bright, stubborn, and easily trampled.
Across the road, Kola stood, clad in ripped designer jeans, gold chain glinting in the harsh afternoon sun. His iPhone was glued to his ear as he barked into it, switching between Pidgin and an impressive American accent.
"Yes sir, your account dey active now... Just click that link and confirm, sir."
Amara watched him from the corner of her eye. There was something magnetic about Kola. His confidence. His swagger. His sleek black Mercedes Benz parked recklessly at the side, drawing the envy of other boys. Kola wasn’t fixing cars like her cousins — he was spending money like water.
He was a Yahoo boy — everyone knew it.
But who cared? In Lagos, money was louder than morals.
Weeks later, their paths crossed properly at Mushin Café, a dingy roadside bar where Shina Peters' music blared from cracked speakers.
Kola bought her a plate of pepper soup, slipping crisp naira notes into her hand like it was nothing.
"You deserve soft life, Amara," he whispered, his eyes dark with promises she was too young to understand. "I go take care of you."
No one had ever spoken to her like that before. Not in Mushin. Not in her reality of broken dreams and daily struggle.
And so, under the burning neon lights of Lagos, Amara fell.
One careless night. One missed period. One frantic visit to Mama Nkechi, the neighborhood nurse who smelt of aboniki balm and cheap gin.
The news hit like a thunderclap.
"You don carry belle!" Mama Nkechi said flatly, stuffing the test kit into a drawer.
Amara staggered out into the noise of Mushin, the ground tilting under her feet.
At home, the beating came swift and furious. Her mother, Mama Amaka, flung a stool across the room, barely missing her.
"You don kill me, Amara! You wan end me for this Lagos!" she screamed, tears mingling with sweat. "A whole me, managing to sell pepper every day at Ojuwoye market! This is the thanks I get?"
The next morning, the two families gathered in the tiny sitting room, plastic chairs creaking under their weight. A lone ceiling fan swung lazily above them, doing nothing to ease the heat.
Kola’s mother, Mama Dupe, sat with her face squeezed like she had just inhaled something rotten.
"My son no go father bastard for street o!" she snapped. "Marriage must happen. Today, today!"
Amara looked at Kola, seeking reassurance. He only glanced at his phone, thumbs moving swiftly, lost in another fraudulent "client".
And just like that, with a worn biro and trembling hands, Amara signed the marriage register.
No white gown. No dreams. Just the suffocating weight of regret and the beginning of a story that would twist and turn in ways she could never imagine.
Somewhere in the streets of Lagos, a hawker shouted, "Life no balance o!"
Amara could have sworn it was meant for her.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2
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