CHAPTER 1 — AMARA THE SLAY QUEEN
The first thing anyone noticed about Amara was that she 'looked expensive'.
Even when she was sitting on a rickety okada, or squeezing through Oshodi traffic, or stepping over the broken gutter in front of her mother’s cramped, fading two-room apartment—Amara glowed like someone who belonged elsewhere. Her lashes swept high like helicopter blades. Her wig was always laid. Her nails—long, glossy, coffin-shaped—clicked like tiny mirrors when she tapped her phone screen.
And she was only twenty-two.
Twenty-two, and already certain of one thing:
"She hated poverty".
Not “disliked.” Not “wished things were better.”
No—Amara "hated" poverty with her whole chest.
And poverty, unfortunately, was the one thing her family had plenty of.
---🏠
Their house in Ajegunle always smelled faintly of wet clothes and kerosene. The ceiling leaked when it rained. The neighbour’s generator rattled so loudly that nights felt like a battle for silence. Her mother, Mama Chi, worked two jobs—cleaner by morning, caterer’s assistant by evening—and yet they never had enough.
Amara’s seventeen-year-old brother, Chisom, carried resentment like a backpack. He rarely spoke to her these days, except when he muttered things like:
“So you can buy hair of seventy thousand, but you can’t even pay NEPA bill abi?”
Amara ignored him. Jealousy, she told herself. Small boys always envied big girls.
Besides, didn’t her mother say: “Amara, help me with whatever you can. Things are tight.”?
And help she did—just not in ways her family would approve of.
---🌅
Every morning, Amara woke up, touched up her makeup, snapped mirror selfies, and uploaded them with captions like:
“Securing the bag 💅✨”
“God no go shame us 😍💰”
Her followers—most of whom she didn’t know—filled her comment section with fire emojis and compliments. Some asked for her skincare routine. Others begged for her vendor list. A few dropped subtle DM hints, the kind of messages that made Amara smirk and type:
“Send your budget.”
On Instagram, she was not the broke daughter of a struggling single mother.
She was “Amara_SlayQueen”.
Soft life ambassador.
Walking luxury.
The girl every guy wanted and every girl wanted to be.
But offline?
Offline was a different story.
Offline, she had Daniel.
---🧍🏻
Daniel.
The only genuinely good thing in her life.
Tall, warm-hearted, soft-spoken Daniel.
Final-year student. Campus fellowship leader. Owner of exactly two pairs of shoes—and one of them had a tiny tear he refused to throw away because “it still has potential.”
Daniel loved God. Daniel loved peace.
And Daniel, unfortunately, loved "her".
He met her at a bus stop two years earlier when she dropped her phone, and he chased after the bus barefoot just to return it. That kind of love—the reckless, loyal, pure kind—was Daniel’s default setting.
Amara should have loved him back.
She tried, sometimes.
But love didn’t buy wigs.
Love didn’t sponsor girls’ trips.
Love didn’t pay for the iPhone she used to build her slay queen brand.
And Daniel… well, Daniel didn’t even have enough money to take Uber unless she insisted.
So, Amara did what she had to.
She did what “big girls” on Instagram did.
She got herself "sponsors".
---🪢
There was Mr. Henry—the so-called “businessman” with a potbelly and a wedding ring he claimed he was “in the process of removing.”
There was Bolaji—young, flashy, always driving different cars, and always asking her to come over at strange hours.
There was Dr. Kelechi—from whom she collected monthly “stipends” in exchange for “company.”
She told herself it wasn’t cheating.
Not really.
“These men don’t matter,” she’d whisper to her reflection. “They’re just stepping stones.”
But deep down, sometimes, late at night when she washed off her makeup and her face looked smaller, younger, more fragile… she wondered if she was losing pieces of herself to one sugar daddy at a time.
Still, the money was good. The lifestyle was better. And the attention?
Addictive.
So whenever Daniel asked, “Amara, are we okay?”
She smiled, kissed his cheek, and lied with the confidence of a seasoned actress.
“We’re perfect, baby.”
---👩❤️👨
That Saturday afternoon, Daniel came to visit.
He brought jollof rice in a takeaway plate—his fellowship sister had cooked extra and he thought Amara might like it.
Daniel always thought of her.
Amara sat on the edge of the bed scrolling through Instagram, pretending not to notice the disappointment on his face as his eyes travelled around her room—shopping bags on the floor, new designer slippers still in the box, a wig worth his semester fees sitting proudly on the table.
He inhaled slowly.
“Amara…” he began.
She didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“Where did you get money for all this?”
Her finger froze mid-scroll.
This again.
“Daniel,” she said sweetly, “must you act like my father?”
He swallowed. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just… concerned.”
“About?”
“Your lifestyle.”
He paused, searching for words that would not offend her. “You deserve good things, Amara. I know that. But the way you’re going about it—sometimes I fear you’re losing touch with who you really are.”
She forced a laugh that sounded sharper than she intended.
“Daniel, please. Not today.”
“Amara, listen. I love you. But the pressure you put on yourself… the pressure you put on your family… on me… it’s not healthy.”
Something flickered in her chest—annoyance or guilt, she couldn’t tell.
“Daniel, let me ask you one thing.” She finally met his gaze. “Do you want me to be suffering? Do you want me to be like my mother—struggling every day, wearing the same wrapper, begging for help? Is that what you want for me?”
Daniel’s face fell. “No. I just want you to choose wisely.”
She smiled dangerously.
A smile that meant: 'conversation over.'
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Everything will be fine.”
He reached for her hand. She pulled it away.
A tiny shadow crossed Daniel’s expression—something like fear, or sadness, or both.
But Amara didn’t notice.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from “Chief Williams.”
I’m outside. Ten minutes. Wear something nice.
Her heart skipped. Chief always meant money.
So, she stood, reapplied her lip gloss, grabbed her designer bag, and announced:
“Daniel, I’m stepping out.”
“At this time?” he asked.
“It’s urgent.”
“With who?”
“Don’t start,” she snapped.
And just like that, she walked past him—past his loyalty, past his love, past the simple life she was too hungry to appreciate.
Daniel watched her leave.
Silently.
Broken.
Helpless.
Amara didn’t look back.
Outside, a sleek black SUV rolled to a stop, engine purring like a beast.
Chief Williams smiled from the back seat.
“Amara darling,” he said, eyes dark with intentions she refused to acknowledge, “you look gorgeous.”
She slid in.
The door shut.
The SUV pulled away, leaving behind a dusty street, a devastated boyfriend, and a mother peeking through the window whispering a prayer she didn’t know Amara desperately needed.
Because while Amara believed she was stepping into the “soft life,”
a darker truth waited silently ahead.
Her story had just begun—
and so had "the price" she would one day pay.
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