Chapter 4: Crossing Into Wealth

As we dey go my new house with my real papa and mama, I cry from beginning to end.

Even the driver dey look back sometimes, dey pity me. My new mother wipe my face, but the tears no gree stop. The city pass by—big buildings, shops, hawkers—but I no see anything. My heart dey run like person wey police dey chase.

The two think say na happiness dey make me cry, dem just dey pet me.

Dem offer me sweet, cold malt, tissues. My new father say, “Don’t worry, nwa m, your life just dey start. God dey.” My new mother hold my hand, squeeze am. But I just dey nod, dey sniff.

But na only God know—I dey shake for fear.

I think about all the stories again—how real daughter dey turn housemaid, dey suffer, dey cry every night. My mind dey heavy. If to say I fit, I for jump out from window, run back village.

Before I comot, Second Sister give me sharp lesson for swapped-daughter stories.

She gather me for room, voice low, “See ehn, for those stories, na the real daughter dey always suffer. No let anybody look you anyhow. If dem begin, shout!” She pack small anointing oil for my pocket. “Rub am if wahala start.”

For those stories, na the real daughter dey suffer pass.

I remember the way Second Sister dey explain—how the real daughter dey become house girl, dey chop beating, dey cry inside kitchen. My head just dey swell with fear.

Even after dem recognize her, carry her go house, the parents go still dey pet the fake daughter wey grow with them, dey look the real one like say she be bush girl.

The fake daughter go dey get new clothes, fine food, everybody dey praise her. The real one go just dey waka like spirit for house. Nobody go send her.

From the oldest to the youngest, even househelp and driver, nobody send the real daughter.

I imagine myself dey wash plate, dey sweep compound, as the driver and gateman dey gossip about me. Nobody fit hear my side. My chest tight.

Dem go ignore am, bully am, sometimes even beat am join.

The more I think am, the more my body dey shake. For those stories, the fake daughter dey organize people to bully the real one. I dey fear even the small pikin for the house.

Small thing, dem go talk say dem need her kidney or heart.

I dey remember those stories where the rich parents go say, “We get family disease. Amarachi, we need your kidney.” Fear grip me. I hold my side small, just in case.

Sometimes dem go even carry her go far North or one snake-full river area.

For one story, they send the girl go boarding school for Sambisa side, or dem say make she go village visit old grandmama wey live near river full of crocodile. All these tori dey jam for my head.

Dem go just finish the girl, leave her half alive.

Sometimes na spiritual wahala, sometimes na juju. No happy ending. As I dey think am, my mind dey turn.

......

Me, I no get strong mind.

Since small, if dem shout for me, I go just freeze. If rain dey fall, I dey hide under bed. If goat run come my side, I go climb table. I dey soft like bread.

Three years old, I dey fear fowl, five years old, I dey fear dog, ten years old, I dey fear tall children.

I dey remember how I run from Big Brown when I small, how I dey avoid those girls wey tall for my class. Fear no dey ever far from my body.

I grow up dey run from wahala, if dem bully me, I go just run go house cry for my brother and sister.

Big Brother always say, “Why you dey always dey cry? Stand gidigba!” I no fit. I go just hide inside kitchen, dey sob.

Now dem dey tell me say na me be that unfortunate real daughter from all those stories?

The thought dey slap my head like Mama’s palm. I no fit believe say na me those tori dey happen to.

No be my parents dey come carry me, na like say na spirit from underworld dey find me.

I remember those old women for village wey dey talk say, ‘When ancestors call you, you must answer.’ My mind dey tell me say na spirit world I dey enter so.

The place wey I dey go no be house—na monster den.

My eyes close. I dey beg God make them no turn me to scapegoat. I dey pray, “God, abeg o.”

......

Fear nearly kill me.

As the car dey drive, my hands cold, my heart dey beat anyhow. I whisper small prayer, “God, if you dey, abeg no let dem use me for anything.”