He let the bowl slip from his hand. It rolled near Nnenna’s sandal. Her palm flew before anyone could blink.
The sound cracked through the road.
—Are you mad? You want to dirty my shoe?
The other sisters burst into laughter. Tunde’s cheek burned, but he did not speak. He watched them walk away, beautiful from behind, empty from within.
Inside the compound, another woman was polishing the marble floor on her knees. Her name was Adaeze. She was not a daughter of the house, though she had lived there since she was 13, after Madam Folashade promised her late mother she would “raise the girl properly.” Properly meant cooking, cleaning, washing, and disappearing whenever guests arrived.
—Adaeze! Madam Folashade shouted from the sitting room. The Okorie boy can come any day now. If anything is dusty, I will send you back to the village with nothing.
—Yes, Ma.
The 3 sisters passed her without greeting. To them, Adaeze was useful furniture.
Later that afternoon, Madam Folashade handed Adaeze a tray of agege bread to sell outside the estate gate, not because the family needed the money, but because she hated seeing the girl idle.
At the junction, Adaeze saw the beggar holding his cheek.
She stopped.
