Quarter Life Crisis.

It was exactly 2:08 a.m. when Mama made the first call to you. You were out on Tashi Street, your oiled, slender legs hidden in sultry red pantyhose, ready for the night’s catch. Typically, your eyes would caress the moon as you thought of your life. But that night it was missing, so your gaze caught the crescent of a machete, the only moon you could see that the Aboki used to slice meat for the line that would soon snake around the club.

When that first call came, it came pulsing on your shattered screen, releasing a catharsis of emotion. You wanted to pick up and ask Mama what she wanted. But things were not like they had been a couple of years back, when her petulant nature controlled your every step. So, you let it ring.

Like you expected, Mama left a voicemail. You kissed your teeth, slipped the phone into your purse, and sashayed to the soft melodies bouncing off the street toward the line of freshly arrived cars.

As your waist swayed, you cast a sly glance and settled on a black GLE, its taillight flashing. The occupant probably your first catch of the night.

“Good evening,” you said, smacking gum in your mouth. “Twenty-five kay till 4 a.m., five kay extra overnight,” you continued as your eyes flicked over the man across from you, his tinted mirrors halfway down.

“Where your second dey? The one-wey yellow,” the man asked in a gruff tone.

He was talking about Muna, your closest friend in this nighttime business. The one men always gravitated towards, while they treated your presence like it was stitched into the night. You gave him no answer. Instead, your steps carried you towards the toilet stalls, your hands trembling with anger and your phone buzzing through the purse tucked under your arm.

When you got to the stalls, it welcomed you with a concoction of cheap perfume and urine that made your nose frown. You locked yourself in one and brooded. Was your beauty suddenly withering? Were you not the same girl men once chased across campus, their invisible tails wagging? Would you make no money again tonight?

The thought lingered as you retrieved your phone. It was 2:55 a.m. now, and the missed call was from Mama with yet another voicemail. Trust her to invade your silent breakdown, trust her not to let you wallow in peace.

By the sink, you wiped the stalls’ smudged mirror, forcing your reflection to surface. The bags under your cat-shaped eyes were heavy, and your brows were incredibly thin. For the first time, you saw your folly and felt a flush of shame at the image staring back under the white, flickering fluorescent light. Your father had been right: that it would come to this. But you were too stubborn and he too slow to listen.

“Sister, abeg nah your family mirror?” a woman slouched against one of the toilet doors asked, her cheeks caked in blush, her eyes roving across your frame.

“No vex,” you responded flatly.

So in a hurry, you pushed up your buxom, refreshed the red on your lips, and hurried back into the bedlam of the night. You had moped enough, and there was money you desperately needed waiting in the street.

With a lightened heart, you took the thrumming street in. Men and women gallivanted toward the clubs, shiny cars prowled the curbs, and the smell of suya clung thick to the air. You felt alive, but as usual, the whisper of the breeze along your skin reminded you that you did not belong. That your scene was probably at the bank, like you always wanted.

At that moment, you wanted to call Mama back. To explain the jejune hollow life you now lived, to cry like a baby in desperate need of her mother’s arms. But you knew there was no point. She never understood that you had chosen the fast life, the fast money, for yourself, but most of all for Papa.

Moreover, Mama had never truly been on your side. It was always behind Papa’s shadow that she stood, most times blindly. And now, one month in, with Papa gone, you were certain Mama didn’t know how or where to stand.

“Sister, how far? I have been looking for you,” a voice screamed, pulling you from your reverie.

You turned, watching Muna catwalk toward you, her smile sharp and bright like a blinding flashlight.

You were about to answer, but your words caught in your throat as your phone buzzed again in your purse. You were sure it was Mama, though you were not sure you were willing to finally pick up. What exactly could be the problem, you wondered. Resigned, you accepted the call, mouthing to Muna that you’d be right back.

“Mama, Kedu, is everything alright? It’s quite late,” you said as you tried to find a quiet area.

“Odinma Nkechi, there is something moving in the kitchen,” Mama responded, her voice trembling.

“Something? In the kitchen? Is Uncle Timo there?” You asked, panicked.

“No. But I think it’s a rat, it must be,” Mama continued.

Instantly, you went speechless. You pulled the phone from your ear and stared at the bright screen bleeding into your eyes. It was a quarter to four, and this was the reason for the calls?

“Nkechi, are you there?” Mama asked.

But you stayed mute and only pressed the side button of your phone until the light bled out. The current of pain that glided through your frame, weakened your knees causing you to crouch. You reckoned this was one of the ways Mama was trying to bridge the gap between you, but you just did not care enough. Guilt danced all around you, but it was not entertaining enough, so pity came.

And as you got up and searched for Muna to continue with your night, you remembered Mama’s favorite saying that what life serves is like agbo, bitter but needed. You only hoped she would hold on to that saying herself now.