Mama Ifeoma was known in the community as Mama Smoke, a single mother who sold dried fish for a living. She had a bright-eyed, soft-spoken, daughter.

Every day, she would wake by 4:30 a.m., light her hertz, and begin drying the catfish, scoõbia and tilapia that would become their daily bread. Her tiny kitchen, blackened by years of smõke, served as the heart of their livelihood. She worked hard—harder than any woman Ifeoma had ever seen.

“Life no easy, but fish dey help us breathe,” Mama would always say, half-laughing, half-wiping sweat off her brow.

When Ifeoma completed her WAEC exams at 16, she didn’t dream of waiting for admission like most girls her age. Instead, she rolled up her sleeves and joined her mother in the smoke-filled kitchen and at the makeshift stall. The bond between them was thick.

To reach more customers, Mama began sending Ifeoma to hawk in the community. They had walked together countless times, Mama teaching her where to pass, how to smile even when people under priced the fish, and how to calculate change quickly.

“If anybody argue price, smile, but no let them chêat you,” Mama would say. She would always make sure she was well dressed before leaving to hawk.

And because Mama trusted her, she gave Ifeoma her old blue Tekno phone; one with a broken back cover held by rubber band. “Call me if anything happen,” she’d said.

Ifeoma would sometimes carry a tray or sometimes used her mother wheelbarrow to hawk like a crown and moved from compound to compound, shouting, “Dry fish! Dry fish o!” Her voice was filled with her youthful sincerity, and customers liked her.

"Customers began to take advantage."

It started with Auntie Nneka, a plump woman who ran a small beer parlour.

“Just give me three, ehn Ify. I go pay you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came, but the payment didn’t.

Then Uncle Chigozie, who once gave her a can of coke, asked her to drop fish for him. He paid half, said he would balance it “next week.” But next week turned to next month.

Still, Ifeoma was too kind to say no. She didn’t want to be rude or disappoint anyone. She just wanted to help her mother sell everything.

But when Mama started counting mõnêy in the evenings, her brows began to crease.

“Ifeoma, this money no reach. You sure say dem pay?”

“Yes, Mama… some paid half, some said they’ll balance. They promised.”

Mama sighed heavily. “Promise no dey fry garri o. Why selling my fish on credit? Do you want the business to dîe?"

*Then came Pastor Elijah.*

He was tall, charismatic, with shiny black shoes and a booming voice that made the women in the community shake in reverence. He met Ifeoma one Sunday evening after service.

“My dear daughter, you’re hardworking,” he said, smiling with teeth too white to be real. “can you becoming our church more often? God wants to use you.”

Ifeoma nodded politely. She liked church, but lately, even Sundays were spent hawking.

Pastor Elijah began to greet her unusually. Sometimes he would touch her sensitively. He would hold her hand a second too long, ask her unnecessary questions like whether she had a boyfriend or if her body was “mãtured enough for marriage.”

She noticed the signs and started avoiding him. Her warnings from her mother and teachers in school were still fresh in her brain.

*Then came Desmond.*

A 30-year-old apprentice mechanic who had suddenly grown too fond of Ifeoma.

“Ifee baby,” he would say, licking his lips, “leave this fish business na. I go take care of you. My oga go soon settle me.”

But Ifeoma wasn’t interested. She had dreams burîed deep under the smoke of her mother’s kitchen. She wanted to be someone. Not a girl living on the mercy of a man who can't even respect himself likewise not being able to afford what he could eat.

She declined him gently, but he didn’t take it well. “Na fish you wan use build house?” he scoffed one day when she ignored his catcall.

*Then came the tax men.*

Two of them arrived in their stall one thursday afternoon well dressed, one smelled of dry gin and authority.

“Una get permit to sell here?” he barked, looking around their smoky corner. Mama tried to explain, but he slãpped a faded paper on their table.

“Pay ₦55,000 or I lock this shop and seize everything. You don't know you're supposed to be remitting percentage every month? This your business is not even registered in compliance with the gov't."

Mama cried that night after the settlement just to to secure her small business. As a mother that wasn't quite educated, she had no choice.

Ifeoma noticed that the more she hawked, the more debt she collected. Her mother’s smile was becoming rarer. The kitchen felt colder even though the fire still burned. She knew she had made mistakes; trusting people too easily.

Then one evening, Mama asked her the hardest question.

“Ifeoma… who are you really helping? Me or them?”

Ifeoma couldn’t answer. She just stood there, her hands smelling of fish, eyes full of unshed tears.

That night, she quietly took out the small notebook where she listed names of debtors—some crossed, most not. Her Mom was bewildered. She was pained.

Suddenly, the Tekno phone rang. It was from a strange number.

Her mother asked her to pick and she picked.

A deep voice spoke.

“If you know what’s good for your mother, stop selling fish in this community.”

The call ended.

And that was when they both knew that something bigger was coming. Something darker than debt.

To Be Continuêd
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