… continue from last episode…
Al-Haji Mubarak became obsessed. It wasn’t enough to see Vera once a week or twice. Soon he demanded her presence daily. Morning breakfasts in secret apartments, long afternoons hidden away in luxury hotels, late night calls where he begged just to hear her voice.
He spoiled her in ways that made her past lovers looked like amateurs, a new Range Rover with her name on the papers, a duplex tucked away in the heart of Banana Island, a steady flow of dollars wrapped in velvet boxes.
In public, he remained the perfect senator, dignified, respectable. But in Vera’s arms, he was a man unmade. He called her his peace, his addiction, his second breath. Vera, for once, found herself caught up, too. He wasn’t just rich. He was powerful. Men stood when he entered rooms. Women bent their heads in respect. Governors whispered to him. Businessmen sought his approval. and all that power, all that untouchable greatness bowed quietly at her feet.
Vera knew she had won. This was bigger than anything she had ever tasted, and she wasn’t planning to let go. Unknown to her that this time age was the one that got caught. It was a Thursday evening when Alhaji Mubarak called. “My queen,” he said in that deep syrupy voice that always made Vera smirks. “Come to the house.
I want to cook dinner for you myself. Vera nearly dropped her phone from laughter. A whole senator cooking. Your wife nko? She teased, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. You want me to come and be sliced into pieces by one jealous madam? Alhaji chuckled. Relax, my love. She traveled this morning. Abuja business meeting. It’s just me and you. The idea was tempting, too tempting. There was a certain thrill in stepping into the lion’s den. So Vera dressed carefully that night, choosing a simple, seductive silk gown that whispered promises with every step as her Uber curved into the senator’s sprawling mansion. Vera’s heart pounded with excitement.
The gates opened without hesitation. The guards, already briefed, bowed respectfully. See my life, she thought, smiling smugly. From side chick to queen. Inside the house was tastefully quiet, dim lights, expensive art. And there was Alhaji wearing a casual calf tan, waiting at the foot of the stairs with a boyish grin. “My queen,” he said, pulling her into a deep hungry kiss. “Welcome home,” he led her to the dining table where two plates were already served. Grilled fish, jollof rice, freshly squeezed juice. Ah ah Vera teased, settling into the leather chair.
Are you planning to marry me already? Alhaji laughed again, but there was something strained in it. Something Vera was too drunk on pride to notice. They ate. They drank wine. They flirted. He fed her with his hands. She fed him with hers. The chemistry between them was magnetic, electric, dangerous. Then he stood up and said, “Come upstairs. I want to show you something.
” Giggling, Vera followed. The master bedroom was larger than her entire apartment. Gold furniture’s, designers rugs, a king-sized bed that could hold an entire village. Vera slipped out of her heels, sinking into the softness. Wait here, Alhaji said, his voice low. Vera stretched luxuriously across the bed, feeling like a cat who had swallowed all the canaries in the world. And then, click, the sound of the door locking from outside.
Vera frowned, sitting up slowly. “Alhaji,” she called, laughing nervously. No response. Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open. Standing there, wrapped in a blood red wrapper, her head tied in a fierce scarf, it was Hajia Salamatu, Al-Haji Mubarak’s wife. Her face was calm, too calm, her eyes deadly still. Vera’s blood froze. Haja Salamatu stepped into the room, closing the distance slowly like a hunter approaching a trapped animal. You’ve eaten my food, Hajia said softly. You’ve slept in my bed. Now, her smile stretched wide. Let’s welcome you properly. Vera’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.
Because in that moment, she realized Vera’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Because in that moment, she realized she wasn’t the hunter tonight. She was the prey. The silence in the room was thick, pressing against Vera’s skin like a second weight. Hajia Salamatu’s eyes never blinked, never wavered. “Go on,” she said softly, almost sweetly, pointing to the bed. “Show me how you take what is mine.” Vera stood frozen, her mind racing, her heart banging against her ribs like a trapped bird. This had to be a trick, some cruel setup, a trap to humiliate her. But then from the doorway, Alhaji Mubarak sauntered back into the room, his calf tan loose, his grin wide.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t shocked. He was amused. “Come, my queen,” he said, patting the bed with a laugh. “Or have you lost your fire?” Vera’s throat dried up. She looked from Al-Haji to Hajia, confused, humiliated, scared. But Hajia simply leaned back in the arm of a chair by the window, crossing her legs neatly, watching them like an eager audience waiting for the show to begin.
Vera’s pride, that dangerous, stubborn pride, wouldn’t let her back down. She smiled tightly, letting the silk gown slip from her shoulders, and climbed onto the bed. The moment their bodies touched, Alhaji burst into laughter. A deep, bellyachching laugh that shook the walls. But Vera forced herself to focus. She moved against him the way she had moved against countless others. Slow, sensual, calculated, minutes stretched into eternity. Al-Haji moaned and whispered obscenely praises, gripping her tightly like she was the air he needed to breathe. All the while, Haja Salamatu sat unmoving, watching every thrust, every kiss, every desperate gasp. Her face remained serious, her eyes cold as winter. Vera tried not to look at her, tried to block out the shame burning her skin, but it was impossible.
How could she forget that she was performing for the wife of the man she was trying to steal? Over 40 minutes later, it ended. A mess of sweat, tangled sheets, and awkward breathing. Vera collapsed beside Al-Haji, her heart hammering, her body exhausted. But the worst was yet to come. Hajia Salamatu stood smoothing down her wrapper and spoke again, her voice low and sharp like a blade. “Go and shower,” she said, her lips curled into a thin smile. “We still have a surprise for you.” Vera’s stomach twisted violently. She glanced at Alhaji for reassurance, but he only chuckled and waved her toward the onsuite bathroom. Like a puppet, she obeyed, her legs trembling as she crossed the room. The bathroom was grand, marble floors, golden taps, a bathtub that could fit three people. Vera turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, hoping the hot water would wash away the crawling shame under her skin. But even as the water beat down on her, she felt it that something was terribly wrong.
The air itself seemed to thicken, with something dark and unseen. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s just nerves,” she told herself. “Maybe they just want to scare me.” She finished quickly, wrapping herself in a towel.
When she opened the door to step out, she froze. Al-Haji Mubarak and Hajia Salamatu were waiting for her, but they were no longer smiling. Between them stood a strange figure draped in red, face hidden under layers of white chalk, a priest, a conjurer, and in his hand he held a small rusted chain. Vera’s blood turned to ice. The surprise was not a car, not money, not another gift. No, this was something else entirely. something she would never walk away from. The room smelled different. It was colder, heavier, as if the air itself was thick with something unseen and cruel. Vera’s bare feet hesitated at the threshold. She clutched the towel tighter around her body as Alhaji, Hajia, and the priest led her in without a word. At first, she couldn’t see clearly. Then her eyes adjusted, and there, chained to a polished iron post, was a massive Rottweiler. The dog sat unnaturally still, its black fur gleaming, its eyes glinting with a strange, almost human calmness. No growling, no barking, just a quiet, stillness that made Vera’s skin crawl.
Before she could even find her voice, Hajia pointed a steady hand at the animal and spoke. Her voice low, cold, and absolute. Make love to it. Vera’s heart stopped. For a second, she thought she had heard wrong. She blinked rapidly, her ears buzzing with disbelief. What? She gasped, stepping back instinctively. Alhaji only chuckled, but it wasn’t the warm teasing laugh he used to give her. This laugh was hollow, full of mockery. “You heard her,” Alhaji said, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve tasted what belongs to me. Now you must finish what you started.” The priest muttered something under his breath, a string of words Vera couldn’t understand. The chains on the dog rattled lightly, not from any movement, but almost as if responding to the chanting. Vera shook her head violently. No, no, you can’t be serious, she cried, stepping further back, panic flooding her body. But none of them flinched. None of them smiled. You will do it, Haja said simply, her eyes boring into Vera like a blade. Or you will leave this house in a way you cannot imagine. Vera felt the walls closing in on her. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
The room spun. This wasn’t seduction anymore. This wasn’t power. This wasn’t the glamorous, dangerous life she had bragged about. This was something else entirely. This was evil. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She clutched the towel tighter, shaking her head over and over. I can’t, she whispered. The priest took a step forward, his hand raising the rusted chain he had been holding. the one Vera hadn’t noticed him slip around his wrist. In that moment, she understood. She had no choice. The glamour, the money, the cars, the designer clothes, they had all led her here to this room, to this moment, to this unthinkable horror. The silence stretched unbearably. The Rottweiler watched her without blinking, its heavy breathing is the only sound in the room. Vera stood there, broken, trapped, stripped of all her imagined power, trembling before the people she once thought she controlled. This was no longer a game. This was punishment, and it was only just beginning. Vera stood there, her heart beating so loudly she could barely hear the priest’s chanting anymore. There was no way out. She knew it. in the pit of her soul. She knew if she refused, they would ruin her, break her beyond repair, maybe even end her life right there, and no one would dare ask questions. Not with Alhaji’s power, not with Hajia’s cold, merciless eyes drilling into her. So Vera did it.
Dead inside, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She obeyed them. The room felt like it wasn’t real, like she was floating outside her body, watching a horror movie she couldn’t stop. The shame, the revulsion, the final shattering of whatever pride she had left. It all pressed down on her, choking her, eating her alive from within. When it was over, she crawled away from the dog, clutching the towel around her shaking body, broken and humiliated beyond anything she had ever imagined. But it wasn’t over. Not yet. Without a word, Haja Salamatu picked up a long leather whip from the corner of the room as if it had been waiting there the whole time. With a swift, practiced motion. She struck Vera across the back.
Vera screamed, falling to her knees. The sound echoed in the cold room, but no pity followed. “You think you can take what belongs to me?” Hajia’s voice was thunderous. layered with fury. You think you can destroy my home and walk away smiling? She brought the whip down again and again.
Each strike tore through Vera’s skin like fire. Vera sobbed, covering her head, trying to Cover into herself. But the blows rained down without mercy. Then through her blurred vision, she saw Alhaji laughing. Laughing like it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, he joined in. He picked up another whip from the priest and together husband and wife beat her as if she were an animal, a thing. You will never come near my husband again. Hajia spat between ashes. Not in this life, not even in your dreams.
When they were finally done, Vera lay trembling on the cold marble floor, her body a map of burning welts. The priest muttered one final chant under his breath and made a dismissive gesture. She was released. No apologies, no explanations, just a door flung open. Vera staggered to her feet, still clutching the torn towel, her body screaming in agony. She stumbled out of the mansion, barefoot, bruised, broken, the grand gate yawning open as if someone is mocking her. The night air slapped her face, cruel and cold. Her phone was dead. No car, no ride. She couldn’t even think straight enough to ask for help. So, she did the only thing she could. She ran through the empty streets, under the blinking street lights, barefoot, and bleeding. She ran. Every step sent lightning bolts of pain through her body, but she didn’t stop.
Tears and shame blurred her vision, but she didn’t stop. She had chased married men for power. She had climbed to the top with pride. Now she was learning that some heights come with a fall so deep you may never find yourself again. And the almighty Vera had just begun her fall. When Vera finally reached her apartment, it was almost dawn. She fumbled with her keys, her fingers trembling so badly that it took several tries to fit them into the lock. The moment the door swung open, she didn’t bother turning on the lights. She stumbled straight into the bathroom, ripped off the shredded towel, and hurled herself under the cold shower.
The icy water crashed onto her skin. But it wasn’t enough. She grabbed a sponge and soap and began scrubbing viciously, desperately, as if she could scrape away the night, the shame, the humiliation. She scrubbed until her skin turned raw and angry, until her nails dug into her flesh, until blood and water mixed and spiraled down the drain. She wanted to peel herself out of her own body. Sobs racked her chest. Deep guttural cries she could no longer control.
Vera, the untouchable, the proud, the seductress, was now just a broken girl clawing at her own skin, drowning in self-hatred. “How did I get here?” she whispered between gasps, her forehead pressed against the cold tiles. Memories of all the homes she had destroyed flooded her mind. The tearful wives, the broken children, the families she had laughed about ruining. Every mocking word she had ever thrown at a crying woman now echoed back at her, louder, sharper.
“I am worse than all of them,” she thought bitterly. “I am the monster I always laughed about.” She scrubbed harder, tears blending with water, but no amount of soap could wash away the dirt inside her. The money, the men, the fake smiles. It all meant nothing now. For the first time in her life, Vera hated herself. Truly, deeply hated who she had become. Regret gnawed at her like wild dogs, savage and unrelenting.
If she could turn back time, she would. If she could erase the path she had walked, she would. But it was too late. The scars were already carved into her body, into her soul. And Vera knew some stains, no matter how hard you scrub, never come off. She kept what happened to herself. She didn’t even tell her own mother or her few friends because they had warned her, but she thought she was untouchable. 3 weeks passed, but Vera was no longer living. She was merely existing. She barely ate. She barely slept.
Every night was haunted by nightmares. Visions of Haja’s cold eyes. Al-Haji’s mocking laughter. The priests whispered chants. The dog encounter. The whip marks still burned on her skin. But it was the shame that truly devoured her. Then came the morning that shattered whatever little she had left. She woke up feeling an unbearable itching and burning between her thighs. Confused and panicked, she rushed to the bathroom, pulling down her underwear and froze. Maggots, tiny, writhing white maggots crawling on her private part. A strangled scream tore from her throat. She slapped at them, scrubbed, cried, clawed, but they kept coming, pouring out from her body like a living curse.
Vera collapsed onto the bathroom floor, shaking violently. She knew this wasn’t natural. This wasn’t infection. This was punishment. Dragging herself up, she threw on a loose gown and staggered out of her apartment, barefoot once again, heading for the only place she knew might offer answers. Mammy’s shrine. The journey felt endless. The streets blurred. Her heart pounded louder than the traffic. When she finally stumbled into the small, dark hut,
Mammy was already waiting. her face grim. Vera fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. “Mommy, help me, please. I’m dying,” she cried, trying to lift her gown to show the horror growing on her body. “Mammy didn’t even glance.” She only shook her head slowly, sadly, as if mourning something already lost. “You should have come the night it happened,” Mammy said, her voice low, heavy with blame. “I told you the higher the climb, the deeper the fall. Vera clawed at the earth beneath her, her tears mixing with the dust. I didn’t know. I was scared. I didn’t think, she choked out. Mammy’s eyes were empty of pity. You were used for ritual, she said flatly. That woman and her husband. They are not ordinary. They fed your body and spirit to something older, darker than anything you understand. Vera whimpered, rocking back and forth. But but you can save me, Mammy. You have to save me. The old woman stood, her silhouette framed by the flickering candles . It is too late, mommy said coldly. You didn’t come when the spirits were still negotiating.
Now your fate is sealed. Vera screamed, a raw animalistic sound of despair. But there was no one to hear her. No friends, no family. She had built her empire on broken homes and stolen loves, and now the ground beneath her was crumbling. Mammy turned her back on her, walking deeper into the shadows of the shrine.
“You chased married men like a sport,” she said over her shoulder. “Now you are the hunted.” And with that, Vera was left alone, broken, bleeding, and carrying a curse she could no longer out turn. Vera ran from mammy’s shrine barefoot, still clutching the torn gown to her body, gasping for air between bitter sobs. Her body burned. Her soul felt like it was rotting inside her. She had no one else to turn to, no rich lover, no friend, just one desperate hope. God. Maybe God will save me. She entered into the first church. She found a small Pentecostal church tucked between crumbling shops on a lonely street. The heavy wooden doors groaned open as she pushed her way inside. A few prayer warriors were gathered at the altar deep in midnight intercession.
Courtesy… Peace Chidera Ohazuruike
