The day after my father died, the world did not stop. The sun still rose, people still bustled about the streets, and life moved on—just not for us. Our house, once filled with laughter and warmth, became an empty shell. My mother stopped playing the piano, my younger siblings stopped running through the halls, and I stopped dreaming. At first, I thought we would be okay. My father had been a powerful man, a respected businessman with investments spread across the country. There had to be something left for us. But reality hit like a tidal wave. The debts came first. Then the banks. Then the so-called friends who disappeared the moment we needed help. The house we had grown up in was seized within weeks. It was my first real lesson in how fragile wealth could be. I stood on the driveway, watching strangers carry out our belongings as my mother clutched my younger brother and sister, her eyes hollow.
"Please, just give us more time," she had begged one of the men in suits. He barely looked at her. "The bank doesn't wait for grief, ma'am."
And just like that, we were homeless.
We moved into a cramped, one-room apartment in a rundown part of the city. It was a far cry from the gated estate we once called home. The air smelled of sweat and despair, the walls cracked with years of neglect, and the water ran brown more often than clear. Uchenna and Amarachi cried themselves to sleep for weeks, and my mother sat by the window, staring blankly at nothing.
I was sixteen when I realized that if I didn't step up, we would not survive.I took the first job I could find—washing dishes in a local restaurant. The pay was pathetic, the hours brutal, but it kept food on the table. My hands, once soft and manicured, became rough with calluses. I worked while my friends from my old life went on vacations. I counted every naira while they spent carelessly. I swallowed my pride while they posted pictures of luxury on social media. Over time, I picked up more jobs. Cleaning offices at dawn, selling petty items in the market during the day, and tutoring children from wealthier homes at night. It wasn't enough, but it was something. My mother tried. She really did. But grief consumed her. The woman who had once been elegant and strong now struggled to get out of bed. Sometimes, I caught her whispering to herself, speaking to my father as if he were still there. Other times, she wandered the streets in her nightgown, oblivious to the stares.
People talk. They always do. They whispered about how the mighty had fallen. How the great Okafor family had been reduced to nothing. Some pitied us. Others laughed. I learned to keep my head down, to endure the humiliation, to ignore the hunger that gnawed at my stomach.
My younger ones were too young to understand everything, but they knew enough to feel the loss. They stopped asking for toys. They stopped asking for new clothes. They learned to be grateful for whatever little I could provide. And every night, as they lay curled beside me on the thin mattress we shared, I promised them that things would get better. I just didn't know how.
Then came the night that changed everything. It was late, and I was on my way home from work when I heard my mother arguing with someone outside our apartment. I rushed forward, my heart pounding.
"Please, just one more month," she was saying, her voice desperate.The landlord, a thickset man with a permanent scowl, crossed his arms.
"Madam, you've been saying that for three months. Pay up or get out."
"We have nowhere else to go," she pleaded.He shrugged. "Not my problem."
I stepped in front of my mother, my fists clenched. "We'll pay. Just give us more time." The landlord's eyes raked over me, lingering a little too long. "There are… other ways to settle debts, you know."
Disgust rolled through me. "We'll find the money." He smirked. "You have one week."
I watched him walk away, anger and helplessness twisting inside me. I had been carrying the weight of my family for years, but this? This was too much. I needed money. Fast.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. There had to be a way out. There had to be something I could do. I wasn't afraid of hard work, but no job I had could make that kind of money in a week.
I thought about the wealthy families I once knew. People who threw money around without a second thought. People who wouldn't even notice if a few naira disappeared from their accounts. People like Somchi, the wealthiest musician in this country.
I hadn't seen him in years, but I remembered him; he came around our house once - came to pay homage to my dad. He had always been untouchable, always surrounded by people who wanted something from him. Back then, I had been the daughter of a billionaire. Now, I was desperate.
I didn't know what I was going to do yet. But one thing was clear—I wasn't going to let my family be thrown out onto the streets. I would do whatever it took to survive. Even if it meant stepping into a world of prostitution.