IFUNAYA
I dusted my apron, took it off and folded it into my small tote bag. My hours at the restaurant were over and I couldn’t wait to get home and rest my tired, old bones.
They were not inherently old but you get the gist. I picked up my bag and headed to the door, walking past the counter.
It was past 10.
Grace, the registrar, was wiping the granite top with a clean cloth and humming a song. The customers at the table before me had just finished eating and were engaged in some intimate talk. He was holding her hand and caressing it lovingly. I peered at her hand, there was a ring on her third finger and she was grinning from ear to ear.
Good for her, I thought.
“You don dey go?’’ Grace asked as I approached the door. Frank, the security guard was already at it, opening the door to welcome a couple of skimpily clothed girls, one of them loudly chewing gum. She was wearing a red mini strapless dress and a gold arm bracelet.
“Yes oo,” I replied as I adjusted my bag. “See you tomorrow”.
“Oya na, reach house well.”
I smiled and headed out the door. Frank opened it with a wide grin on his face. I quietly and quickly slipped a wrapped piece of meat I’d salvaged from the kitchen into his hands.
“Thank you, Ify. Take care of yourself,” he said quietly and waved at me.
I exhaled as I stepped out of the restaurant and scanned my environment.
There were a couple of cars and keke passing by. My apartment was about 20 minutes’ walk from the restaurant, so it was almost useless boarding a keke or okada and being charged exorbitant prices.
My pay wasn’t even enough for my rent.
I turned down the corner, slipping an earphone into my ear. I did this every night while heading home, plug in calm soothing music that would help take my mind off a lot of things, maybe related to work because it still roamed over the place.
Once, I was listening to Arike by Kunmie while thinking about my rent money and I didn’t know when tears started coursing down my cheeks.
A woman selling roasted corn noticed and called out to me.
“Nne, are you okay?”
I quickly wiped it away and nodded with a forced smile but bless her heart, she was not having any of it. She made me sit next to her as she roasted the corn and I eventually opened up to her. She looked at me with this motherly look of pity and concern.
She didn’t ask any further about my family because that was another difficult topic.
I went home that night with two roasted corn and a coconut and a little prayer from her that God would remember me. That was my food that night and I never forgot her.
Today, the street was empty. It was a Wednesday night. Just a handful of people here and there
A streetlight was flickering above me as I walked past a bukka. I heard shouting as I rounded the corner.
A woman was picking up pieces of glass from the ground and a man was standing above her, yelling and screaming. Blood was trickling from her elbow but somehow no one saw that. Everyone around played dumb, going about their daily business.
I assessed the situation and walked on ahead, my heart throbbing with pain. I couldn’t step in; I’ve never been physically able as a person and it hurt seeing women always treated like slaves, slaves, yes, not even second-class citizens.
Why did survival teach me to look away and keep walking or look away and be grateful it wasn’t me. Why did they call us weak when it took all of them — their fists, their laws, their God, their silence, just to keep us small?
Why did I have to “sit well” at eight years old? Talk softly. Don’t play with boys. Lower your eyes. Never talk back to a man, even when he is wrong, even when you are bleeding.
Why did I have to scan every street before I turned a corner? Why did I have a pocket-knife in my bag like it was as normal as a lip balm? Why did I plug music into my ears just to feel less alone in the dark?
Why did we always have to be careful?
Why did we always have to be quiet, think, accept, conform, don’t anger the men, don’t wear what would attract sexual predators and animals who couldn’t keep their third member in check.
Just accept him, don’t ridicule him. A woman’s success is because of a man. Go to school, then get married, like a certificate was now a status update for marriage.
I frowned; these thoughts swirling in my head.
A memory flashed briefly in my head, there was a loud scuffle, then a loud bang, my mother’s blood curdling scream and my tiny arms wrapping around my little sister as she sobbed, startled by it all. I shook my head as though to physically throw it off.
Love and respect a deadbeat man or father they say. Protect an animal who’d use his strength on you not for you.
I adjusted my bag and walked past a small “batcher”. A man was smoking; I greeted him and walked past.
“Fine girl… come now.”
I increased my pace – just what I was talking about. Dumb people.
I heard footsteps behind me and I turned back. He’d followed me.
My heart skipped several beats.
“Nne, come now. Nawa for you and this una guy. Come let’s talk.”
There was no one around; it was all dark and I was a couple of blocks away from my house. I couldn’t let him trail me there.
It would be a dangerous decision. I decided to round the corner and walk to Angela’s, my closest friend. Maybe I’d shake him off and lose him on the way.
The footsteps continued getting closer and I glanced back to see that he was catching up to me. And I did every logical thing I could think of: Run.
He chased after me.
My heart raced as my brain thought up several ways I could die tonight. I could see the headlines forming: Raped and murdered in cold blood, found by locals, swept under the carpet. Or even worse, no headlines.
I could be like Gloria who went to visit her boyfriend, a man she trusted, who had her number saved as “my love,” and never returned. Or Ngozi who said no thank you and was found three days later.
Or Ifunaya, the girl who worked at a fast-food restaurant, who shouldn’t have been on her way home by 10pm because she lived in a country with men.
I always had a pocketknife in my bag, sometimes needing it to pry things open at work. Mid-run, I reached into my bag, my fingers searching for it.
I wrapped my hands around it and ran as fast as I could.
He was catching up and all I could think of at that moment was my mother making my braids and saying, “Men are protectors”.
My heart was filling up; with fear, hate, pain, disgust. Emotions that were not mine, emotions I couldn’t control.
His hand grabbed my arm and yanked me back. I turned around immediately, staggering.
“Let go of me! What is your problem?”
He frowned and I saw a flash of gold on his left hand. A ring.
I nearly laughed at the bitter irony of it.
“Shut up. This your shakara don dey too much. Come let’s talk or I go do wetin you no want.”
Chill ran down my spine. I almost gagged at the stench of cigarettes that his mouth emitted. I almost vomited at the thought of his scaly hands on mine.
I tried to yank my hand away from his, but he held on tight. We struggled for a while, he was starting to overpower me.
I wouldn’t get justice. Ify, if you died, you wouldn’t get justice. People would label you a slut, an ashawo who got unfortunate.
My heart was full, my head swimming with rage. My vision blinded temporarily, it was as though I wasn’t in control of my own body. I saw red.
I stabbed him in his chest. Thrice.
He fell to the ground with a loud groan, sputtering.
My hand froze midair, holding a bloody pocket knife. There was blood pooling all around him and he was gasping for air.
I turned away, still in a daze, picking up my bag that had fallen in the scuffle.
My hands shook and my heart pounded loudly. I broke into a run.
Mom, Mom I killed a man. I saw red.
About the Author:
Uchanma Kama is a Nigerian writer whose work explores identity, womanhood, and the politics of space and self. She writes poetry and prose that interrogate societal expectations, personal freedom, and the messy, beautiful realities of life. Her works “Circumference” and “The African Dream” have been published in Brittle Paper, and her flash fiction, “E for Intelligence”, placed in the Top 10 of Brilliant Flash Fiction’s January 2026 contest.
Photo by Tsuyoshi Kozu on Unsplash